AllFreeNovel
Share Us
I chuckled despite myself. “What am I, a bomb?”
“Yes. Don’t you hear yourself? Tick, tick, tick.”
I pushed Sam away from me. He stood with a sigh.
“I can’t make you talk, but I’ll tell you one thing: you need to do what it takes to get right with Gruber. Talk to him. Grovel. Get him a gift. I heard he likes whisky, that one with the Scottish name. The one, uh, La-frog.”
“You mean Laphroaig?” I rubbed at my temples. “Fine, I’ll send him a case.”
“See that you do, and get right in your head. Whatever that takes for you, no more outbursts on set.” Sam swept out of the room stiff-backed and prim, nose in the air like a cartoon butler. I flopped back on the bed and flung my arm over my eyes, fighting off the beginnings of a stress headache. This was for the best, saying goodbye to Lacey. The only way to spare both of us true heartbreak later.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. When I closed my tired eyes, I could still see her face, dewdrops of tears glistening on her pale lashes. I could still see the hurt in her pretty green eyes, the second her hopes all scattered like ashes.
If this was for the best, why did my head hurt? Why did my chest feel all cored-out and hollow? When I slept, I dreamed of her. I woke up and rolled toward her side of the bed.
“I’m sorry,” I said again. “Sorry I hurt you…”
If this wasn’t true heartbreak, then what else was it?
I’d fallen too far. Pulled back too late.
I should never have let myself near Lacey at all.
CHAPTER 22
LACEY
Eric was everywhere after I left Hawaii, his cologne on my collar when I slipped on my jacket. His voice on the TV telling me not to do drugs, that stupid PSA he’d shot to avoid being near me. His face on the cover of a men’s magazine, hanging half-out of somebody’s gym bag. I groaned at the sight of it and hopped off the treadmill. Even here at the gym, where I’d come to escape him, I couldn’t avoid his stupid, handsome face.
I found a free bike with its back turned to Eric, and I climbed on and started to pedal. The ride felt too easy, so I cranked the resistance. Sometimes in the depths of a punishing workout, I’d hit a state that felt almost Zen, no room in my head for anything but my body. I’d sink into my sinews and the ache in my muscles, one with the burn for as long as it lasted. Eric couldn’t reach me there, at least for a while.
Two women crossed behind me.
“Hey, is that Lacey Hall?”
“Huh? Nah, no way that’s her. And isn’t she Harper now?”
“Actors don’t change their names when they get married.”
I gripped the handlebars tighter and bumped the resistance some more. Six months from now, when our divorce became official, I’d have to go through all this again. The tabloids. The gossip. The stalkerazzi. I’d never be free of it, or free of Eric.
I stared at my reflection in the full-length wall mirror, hair dark with sweat and slicked to my forehead. My knuckles were white, my face mottled red. My knees pumped up and down, up and down, up and down. I could see that gym bag behind me and off to the side. Eric’s face, upside-down, on a magazine cover. I looked up instead, at the TV, some mindless game show playing on loop. The contestants were trying to guess each other’s crushes. I half-expected Eric to pop up there too —who’s your crush, Eric? What are you hiding?
I clenched my teeth and kept pumping the pedals. The game show blinked out and an ad came on.Ever feel stuck in life? Fenced in by problems? Ever find yourself asking, how do I move on? Moland Insurance is here to help. When life gives you burglars, firebugs, and bad drivers, Moland is here to offer solutions. Call Moland today, and move on. Move on!
I sputtered laughter. Move on, that simple? The guy to the left of me was pretty hot, pedaling his bike with dour concentration. He had one of those chin clefts and messy blond hair. A tanned, toned physique,Men’s Fitness-ready. I tried to picture myself saying “hey” to him, catching him at the juice bar after our workouts. Stiff, awkward flirting over kale smoothies, probing for red flags, hoping for green ones. Exchanging numbers. Waiting for his text. Praying he wouldn’t send me a dick pic.
I slumped over my handlebars, tired at the thought. Starting all over with somebody new, I wasn’t ready to move on likethat.Maybe work, though. I could move on with that. I hadn’t booked anything new yet, but I had auditions lined up. And my old improv group, didn’t they meet around here? The thought felt inviting, getting back to my roots. Back to laughing and getting laughs, and feeling good.
I slid off my bike and wiped down the seat, grabbed my own gym bag and hit the showers in a hurry. When I googled my improv group, I saw I was late — they did meet tonight, but they’d be halfway through. Through word prompts and warmups and deep into skits.
I went along anyway and stood in the hall, watching them through the big open doors. They were doing a skit about a bad breakup, where the ex kept popping up like a whack-a-mole… and getting whacked with various objects.
“A piano bench,” yelled someone.
The girlfriend mimed hoisting an unwieldy object, hitching it up, then trying to swing it. The boyfriend dodged her swing. She dropped it on his foot. He hopped away, groaning, then popped up behind her. She beat him with an umbrella, a shoelace, a blender. She mimed turning it on first, and he ran away screaming. I laughed out loud at that, and I was spotted.
“Holy shit, Lacey!”
