Denny shakes his head and looks over to me with a drawn brow. “Guess sending roses was a little too traditional?”
“No,” I whisper as emotion swells in my chest and my eyes water, choking a little on my reply, “too temporary.”
Mila
Seven weeks of wait have turned into ten. Then ten becomes twelve. And it has been days since I’ve heard from him. Four to be exact. Filming has gone over; over time, over budget and suddenly they are having issues with shooting permits a week before the film wraps. So basically, Lucas is being held hostage in Cairo until they can sort it all out. The first eight weeks he’d been diligent about calling me at least once a day, but as of late, it has dwindled. Understanding is wearing thin when we have modern technology. A text would do, any text.
Sitting in the middle of my newly planted rose garden on the cliffside of the house, I sip on a bottle of red and try my best not to be offended by his silence. The movie has taken a shit turn as far as production, and he is probably trying to help sort things out. Not to mention the fact he has to be exhausted. It’s the next sip of my wine that has me switching positions.
“Or he’s decided having a maybe girlfriend half a world away isn’t worth the trouble,” I mutter to the rose bushes he gave me to remember him by. Maybe the situation has lost its charm for him, and he is too much of a coward to make good on his promises. Either way, I am fading on breadcrumbs which has now left me at a dead end.
“Fuck this,” I say, heading into my house picturing him seducing some on-set Egyptian goddess with the same smile he gave me.
“I LIVE FOR NO MAN!” I declare as I stomp toward my door, empty wine bottle in hand. I’ve been nothing short of patient, and I don’t deserve silence. I shoot off a text just before I hit the door and head into my house.
It was fun. Take care of yourself.
Just to be a spiteful shit, I add.
Thank you.
He doesn’t like being thanked, says it’s too impersonal.
Thank you so much, Hollywood!
It’s then my wine buzz kicks into overdrive. After a scalding shower, I wipe the condensation from my mirror and drunkenly scold myself.
“You stupid woman, he’s a movie star. He doesn’t want to play house with you.” Ripping through my closet, I attempt to find something that may give me a little pride back. Picking the most form-fitting dress I own and fuck-me heels, I throw my shoulders back resigned to move on quickly. It’s the only way. “Make it painless. Rip off the band-aid,” I spur myself on, denying the dart of my eyes to check my phone to see if he responded over the last hour and a half I spent getting ready. Lips trembling, I paint my face carefully. “Who marries a movie star? Like what in the hell were you thinking?”
I crumble as I remember the way he lingered after kissing me. I loved that. “Dammit! I knew it!” I say, gripping the edge of the sink and glaring at myself. “You will never, ever tell your mother about this.”
I need friends. I make it a point to get out more, starting right now. I have no one to call. No one to tell me what to do when a movie star ghosts you.
“Shit, he did. He ghosted me.” I check my phone one last time and decide to let in the ache. I’ve purposefully prolonged leaving the house for three hours in case I was overreacting and to marginally sober up. Certain he’s seen my fuck off texts, I power down my phone and head toward the door determined to gain some gravity back. Dating a movie star has fucked with my head.
Opening my front door, I stop short when I see a breathless Nova coming toward me full speed with a phone to her ear. Taken aback by the expression on her face, I meet her halfway on the porch. Fear paralyzes me when I realize I might have been thinking along the wrong lines. A thousand scenarios cross my mind as I began to sink with dread.
“Thank God you’re home,” she says, stopping a few feet away from me.
I go to speak when she lifts her finger. “Yeah, I’ve got her.