waiting. I took the phone to the bathroom and slipped into the foamy heaven. Ah, bebita. This was the life. “Don’t worry,” I said, settling in, “we’ll make sure to keep a low profile.”
“Sounds good. I’ll let you know if Dima starts running his mouth. You need to get Dima to agree to release a statement. And you need to tell Bret as soon as possible.”
“Okay, okay.” I lifted a pile of bubbles on my palm. “I’ll catch you later. Love ya, kisses.”
“Yeah, love you, bye.”
I turned on the tap to let in more hot water then sank lower into the glorious warmth.
I blew the bubbles off my palm and watched the glistening cloud float to the water. Maybe after Blackpool, I could take a few months off and enjoy life. I would practically kill for a heaping plate of chorizo nachos with mounds of guacamole, sour cream, olives, and cheese, not to mention chicken mole verde and my mom’s fresh homemade pumpkin empanadas. My nana made the best empanadas ever. The meal-plan Dima had me on was horrible: egg whites, spinach, tofu, and veggies. That was it. At least the chef I had was great.
“And I chose that?” I muttered to my bubbles. “What an idiot.” Maybe Bret was right. How about a normal life? What would that be like? Falling in love and not worrying about choosing between him and my career. And starting a family. I would love to spend my days playing with my kids at the park.
Ooh, and drinking Starbucks Venti Caramel Frappuccinos with whipped cream, and eating plates and plates of Round Table’s King Arthur Supreme Pizza with shrimp and anchovies, and inhaling chocolate pecan pie a la mode and Pina Coladas without reporting to barre classes five minutes later. And letting my natural hair color grow out. That would be something. I hated being blonde. I was Latina—it wasn’t right. I could also stand not being a tanorexic. And how about saving the lives of the minks who had died for my fake eyelashes. And a vacation, what was that like?
I wanted to find out. I wanted to live my life my way.
I wanted a life off-camera, period.
I scooped up bubbles with both hands and lifted them to my face, staring into a billion sudsy prisms. I loved the glimpse into this world that Bret had. I wanted more.
Hell, I deserved more.
The bathroom light twinkled in the suds.
Yeah, I could stand this life.
I closed my eyes, made my wish, and blew hard.
Bret
We arrived back in Los Angeles three days before the first show. There was so much to do—Selena had begun the process of separating her businesses from Dima, as I was preparing for my time in the spotlight.
I pulled the truck in front of Selena’s house. I scanned the driveway—no Lamborghini in sight. Dima must’ve been hiding out somewhere.
“You sure you want to go in by yourself? I can stay with you, just in case Dima comes back.”
Selena gave me a warm kiss. “No, babe. It’s okay. I doubt Dima will show up. He’s probably auditioning his next partner. I’ll be fine.”
“Okay. But call me if Dima shows up. Or if you need anything. I’ll only be two hours away so I can come back if you need me to.”
Banjo licked Selena’s face, and, for once, she didn’t immediately wipe off his slobber. “I’ll miss you, too, Banjo. Call me later, Bret.”
I headed down the hills. I hadn’t been away from Selena for longer than a dog walk since we’d gotten back together. I needed some time to process everything that had happened.
I pulled to the side of the road and made a call.
Ray picked up on the first ring. “Hey, stranger. I thought you went UA. How’ve you been?”
“Good. You know there’s nothing unauthorized about this absence. Though I have considered taking off to Canada—to escape this show, not the Corps. But I’m back in southern California. What are you doing tonight? Can I buy you a beer?”
A baby cried in the background. “Man, Nia went to her sister’s house. I’m watching the kids. Tell you what, bring over some beer and pizza, and we’ll catch the UFC match.”
“Sounds like a plan. I’ll be over in about two hours.”
It sounded like the perfect night to me: my best friend, my dog, watching guys beat each other up, beer, pizza, and no cameras anywhere.
“Uncle Bret!” Ray’s three boys were waiting in the driveway when I parked.
“Is this your truck?” Jackson, Ray’s twelve-year-old,