“Maybe I’m a little dense here, sweetheart, but it’s just one stupid article. I don’t think it’s anything to get too worked up over. I’m sure we can find a way to fix this.”
She turns on her heel and looks at me in outright shock.
“It might be one article right now, but by the end of the day, it will be one of a thousand articles and social media posts and pretty much any media-related thing you can think of,” she retorts. “Don’t you get it? You’re Andrew Watson. The entire world is obsessed with your sex life.”
“And you’re Birdie Harris,” I add. “Pretty sure the whole world is obsessed with you too.”
“See, that’s where you’re wrong.” She barks out a laugh. “I’m clearly the woman in this scenario. You’re the man. And how it’s going to go down is that now, everything I ever do is going to be related to you and our little sex rendezvous that occurred while we were filming Grass Roots.”
“Our little sex rendezvous?” I question. “Is that all this was to you?”
“I’m pretty sure we both know that’s all this was to you,” she retorts, and I hate how deep those words slice into my chest. But the truth is, it hurts that even after everything we’ve shared together, she still thinks that little of me. That she is still judging me on my reputation.
“Sounds like you have it all worked out, then, huh?” I run a hand through my hair. “I mean, I’m the Hollywood player and you’re the woman who got stuck in my trap, and now everything is ruined for you.”
“That’s not what I meant—” she starts to respond, but I cut her off.
“It’s fine, Birdie. I get it. I know the score. I’m the guy who serves the purpose of fun. I’m not the guy you get into a relationship with. I’m just the guy you fuck around with for a little bit.”
She frowns. “Andrew.”
“No, it’s fine. I get it.”
“Wait…” She pauses, and her teeth worry into her bottom lip. “That’s not what I mean. I just… God, Andrew, I feel like everything is crashing down on me right now. My team’s phones are ringing off the hook because everyone wants a comment from me about those pictures, and I have a hundred notifications on my phone, and I just don’t know what to make of it all.”
“Why don’t you start by telling me what you want from me?”
My question takes her back a step. “What do you mean?”
“How did you think this was going to go?” I question. “I mean, it’s very apparent that you don’t want to be tied to me at all in the media. So, when filming ended, did you just plan on saying goodbye? On ending shit between us?”
“I don’t know what I planned,” she says, her voice slightly above a whisper. “I mean, I figured we would spend time together in LA, but I wasn’t sure how it would work when I was back in Nashville…”
Right now, in this moment, it all hits me so hard I actually have to focus on pulling air into my lungs.
I’m in love with this woman, but she’s completely uncertain about me.
That realization makes me feel like absolute shit.
I don’t know if I’ll ever get Birdie to see me as more than the Hollywood jerk with the infamous reputation. I don’t know if she’ll ever be able to let go of the things she’s heard about my past.
I don’t know if she’ll ever be able to love a guy like me.
And you have too much fucking pride to stand around and wait to find out.
“You know what, sweetheart?” I toss out, the question entirely rhetorical. “I’m going to make this really easy on you. You don’t have to waste your time trying to figure shit out. And you certainly don’t need to deal with the bullshit of being tied to someone like me in the media.”
“What are you saying right now?”
“I’m saying you don’t have worry about any of it,” I retort, my chest growing tighter by the second. “I’ll have my team put out a statement that the photos were from filming. And then you can be done with it all. No stress. No issues with your career. No, as you said before, playing second fiddle to my reputation.”
“Done with it all?” she asks, her voice rising in frustration. “Are you breaking up with me right now?”