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I’d cried myself to sleep by the time he returned at 2:00 a.m. smelling like booze. I pretended to be asleep, but I don’t think he even noticed. Who knew what he’d been up to and with whom?
The next day, I’d flown home alone to be on set for a Monday morning filming of my show. He’d apologized before I left and said he’d make it up to me, suggesting a yacht where no one could find us.
Two days later, pictures of him with his costar had surfaced. They’d been taken before we’d gone to Mexico.
Refusing his calls, I cried every night for a week. My makeup girl was not pleased with how much repair she had to do to my puffy eyes. Finally, it got to the point that I had to talk to him. For one thing, I was living in a hotel, and all my stuff was at his place.
“It was nothing.” Those were his first words to me. And his last.
Strangely enough, I had kept my apartment in Venice even though I’d been basically living with Ben in his Malibu house. Had there been a part of me that knew he wasn’t the one for me? Or had it just been my basic mistrust of people?
Had Atticus seen the photo of me at the beach? Did he read the mean comments about my body and weight?
By the time we were home with our tree, Scout needed to go out, and we were both hungry. I offered to heat up some leftovers while he took her out for a potty break. He’d left the tree in the garage to dry a little before we brought it into his pristine house.
Soon, we sat down for dinner at the table in his kitchen.
“You’ve been kind of quiet,” Atticus said. “Are you bugged about the photographer?”
“A little.” I reached under the table to squeeze his knee. “Did you follow all the gossip about me? You know, before I came back?”
“I watched your work and tried to stay away from stupid stuff that I figured wasn’t true anyway. Although your engagement to Potter was hard to miss. That one appeared to be real.” His mouth twitched into a half smile, but his eyes hardened. “The eleven-year-old boy in me was jealous.”
“That’s over now. No reason to feel jealous.” My voice shook, and tears welled in my eyes.
He drew closer and pulled my hand up to brush his lips across my knuckles. “What’s up? You can talk to me about anything. Do you want to go home?”
“What? No, not that. In fact, I want to stay through the holidays. If you’ll have me?”
“You can stay for however long you want,” he said.
I pushed my plate away and took a deep breath. I had to just say it outright if I wanted to know the answer instead of fishing around. “There was a really embarrassing photo of me someone took in Mexico that went viral. Did you see that one?”
He shook his head. “No, I can’t say that I did.”
I sighed with relief. “That one was really embarrassing. They took photos of the backs of my legs and then zeroed in on them. That Mexico light is strong, and well, they weren’t the mostflattering. The comments online…were horrible to read.” My chest tightened just thinking about them.
Yikes. Do you see those cottage cheese legs?
Aren’t actresses supposed to be in shape?
They do a good job lighting her on film, obviously.
I can’t stand her or her fat butt.
Splotches of red stained his neck. “I can imagine them.” He touched his fingertips to his forehead. “I swear, I’d kill them if I could.”
I laughed without any true mirth. “Don’t say that. We don’t want you going to prison over some photos.”
“Whatever flaws you think you have or what any of those donkey’s behinds said, I can guarantee you I don’t see them that way. No human is without imperfection, but I think they’re what make us interesting. You, Annie Armstrong, are intoxicating.”
“Even with cellulite?”
“Surely you know, being in the business, that all the photos we see online and in magazines are airbrushed beyond belief? I’d love to see some of the trolls who made comments lined up in their bathing suits.”
“Could I make mean comments?” I asked.
“You could, but you wouldn’t. You’re too kind, despite what people have done to you.”
