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“Okay, Dr. Phil.”
“Actually, I got that one from a fortune cookie at Panda Express.”
With that, he swaggers out of the room. Christian hands me a fresh drink before sitting down.
“Back to the conversation at hand.” He smooths his tie. “I believe Arya already mentioned she doesn’t want you anywhere near the Ashcroft girl.”
“And I believe I aptly mentioned to her that I don’t take orders from people who don’t pay me a hefty percentage for my services.”
“Look.” He cuts to the chase. “Arya is not prone to dramatics. If she cares about someone, I’m inclined to believe they’re somewhat special. There are plenty of fish in the sea. If sex is what you’re after—”
“Sex is never about sex.” I stand up, buttoning my blazer. “It’s about power, pleasure, gratification, but never about just sex. Which means that no matter what I want from her—sex is not it.”
Not that it didn’t cross my mind to have Winnifred the night she stayed over. It did. A million times. But what would be the point? We’re going our separate ways in a few days, and there is no need to make things unnecessarily harder for her.
She is a good kid, even if a little too innocent and doe eyed for my taste.
She’s been through enough without throwing a salacious affair with another grade A bastard into the mix. “And I don’t owe you an explanation. What I do with Winnifred, to Winnifred, and for Winnifred is our business only. Not sure what authority you have to be the knight in shining armor. You almost ruined your wife’s life back when you two were ‘just having sex.’ Stay out of my lane, and I’ll stay out of yours.”
I make my way to the door, stopping only for a moment. “Oh, and send my regards to little Louie.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
WINNIE
Two days after my self-diagnosis, Chrissy shows up at my door. She is armed with an unholy number of brochures and articles. She flings them onto my coffee table in triumph, her version of hello.
“What’s all that?” I crane my neck from the kitchen.
“All kinds of useful information.” Chrissy perks up, throwing me her sunniest smile while sucking on her electronic cigarette. “Mainly about how people do get pregnant with endometriosis. I mean, it’s not impossible. There are ways, treatments, cures. A whole lotta options, actually.”
She arranges all the brochures in a line on my table. I’m starting to regret telling her about my suspicion. I know she means well, but I don’t like to poke at the subject. I put an old-school cube of sugar into each of our coffees and take the hot drinks to her. She takes a sip, closes her eyes, and moans.
“How do you make it taste so good?”
“Real sugar, chicory, and just a drop of sorghum. That’s how Memaw used to make it.”
I take a seat on the couch, and she is quick to follow and launches into talking shop.
“Spoke to Lucas yesterday. He said you guys are all sold out for the next three months. He thinks they might continue for a second year. How do you feel about that? I know we discussed Hollywood—”
“I’m not going to Hollywood.” I place my cup on the table. I hate to disappoint her, but giving her false hope would be worse. Chris’s mouth curls into a pout, but she doesn’t say anything.
I place my hand on her knee. “Thank you for the suggestion. I really appreciate it. But I don’t think I’m ready. In fact, I really wanna take it one day at a time after we finish The Seagull. I don’t think I fully allowed myself to recover after what happened.”
“You mean, you’re not sure if you’re going to sign for a second year with Calypso Hall either?” Chrissy frowns.
Nodding, I lick my lips. “I’m not saying yes or no right now. All I’m saying is that I’m done giving myself a deadline to ‘get better.’ I’ll do whatever is right for me mentally. Right now, I don’t know what that is. But I know going to Hollywood is not something I want to pursue. I don’t care about fame and glamour. I care about art.”
“Oh, Winnie.” Chrissy sighs, puts her coffee on a coaster, and scoots toward me. She wraps an arm around my shoulder. “How on earth did I manage to find the one actress in New York City who doesn’t care about all the gravy? You were always about the main dish, hon.”
I chuckle. “Maybe you chose wrong.”
“Oh, I chose the best.” She stands up, wiping at her eyes. She looks around herself, as if suddenly realizing where she is. “The place looks better. I don’t know how to explain it, but it does.”
Other than stuffing Paul’s running shoes in the shoe rack, I haven’t made any changes. But I think I know what she means. Even the furniture doesn’t look like it’s holding its breath waiting for my husband to come back.
