Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 112961 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 377(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 112961 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 377(@300wpm)
There’s a shuffle behind me and I notice the crew start packing up gear. My heart feels like a mallet behind my sternum. Any second now one of the sweet PAs will call me in for my interview. I’ll recap the date, talk about what I liked, what didn’t feel right—even though I barely remember it, and I’m sure I’ll be a monotonic, yearning mess, but I don’t care, at least I’ll be near him. It was the only thing that made last week bearable, even though he made eye contact for approximately fifty milliseconds in the entire ten minutes. I’m going through withdrawals; I want to be alone with Connor so bad it feels like a vine of thorns wrapped around my heart.
It’s Brenna who comes over, eyes downward on her phone. “Looks like you’re free to go home!”
I shake my head. “I haven’t done my confessional yet.”
She recites from the text in front of her. “Connor says we’re skipping you tonight and covering both dates tomorrow.”
“Wait—why?” On my call sheet it had a confessional for each night this week.
She only shrugs. “It’s what he said.” She scrolls back through her messages. “Looks like he’s already left.”
* * *
Sleep is a fickle mistress. It probably doesn’t help that I spend most of Monday night cheating on her with a neurosis named One Thousand Things I Did to Fuck Things Up. I forget to set an alarm, so it’s a good thing I fall asleep with my phone under my pillow (in case Connor calls me in the middle of the night because he changed his mind and loves me, too) and that it starts vibrating beneath me.
It’s Jess. I answer with whatever sound it makes when my mouth is pressed directly on the receiver.
“Well, good morning,” she says back.
“Time is it?”
“Just after eight.”
I push to sit up in my too-bright room. I hadn’t bothered to close the curtains last night, and sunlight streams in like there’s something to celebrate. “Shit.”
“What time do you have to be on set today?”
I squint at the wall, thinking. “Ten, I think.”
“You have plenty of time.”
“I know.” I reach up, rubbing my face. “I meant Shit, I have to pretend to be fine again today.”
“You’re forgetting something.”
“What’s that?”
Jess whisper-squeals through the phone: “Who’s joining you for today’s date with Evan?”
With a relieved groan I collapse back onto the bed. “Ohthankgod, that’s right.” Despite the dark cloud following me everywhere, I giggle. The date with Evan was originally supposed to be with my brother and his new wife, before we realized during scheduling that they’d be on their honeymoon. My sister was the second obvious choice, but has been shifted from “taking it easy” to official bed rest. I have a pool of about a zillion aunties I could choose from, but that would honestly be a circus, and even with all of this self-loathing, I don’t hate myself that much.
“How’s River feeling about being on TV again?”
“Grouchy, but stoically resigned.”
“My favorite version of him.”
She laughs. “I’ll see you soon. Go get ’em, tiger.”
I give my most pathetic roar.
* * *
Of course, the first thing that happens when I go from the bright sunshine outside to the dim elegance of the restaurant is I collide directly with a wall of Connor. It is not unlike running face-first into brick—physically, emotionally, spiritually.
We do one of those terrible bursting, overlapping apology dances before abruptly turning in opposite directions: me, to hair and makeup in the back, and him to the row of cameras setting up for the day of shooting.
The restaurant is quiet; I’m the first to arrive. Up front, it is just Connor and Rory huddled around the cameras. I swear I hear every rumbling murmur of his voice, feel it like a vibration down my spine. Liz has to keep reminding me to tilt my chin up and turn my face to her, because I keep unintentionally turning my head toward the front of the restaurant, drawn to him in these unconscious, aching ways.
My entire life I’ve felt grounded in who I am and what I want, but lately… lately it feels like I have no identity anymore. I’m not a writer, I’m not a wild date, I’m not even a pesky best friend or bawdy aunt. And in all this quiet in my mind, the who am I really? shouts the loudest. One of my favorite things about Connor was that he didn’t need me to be anything. I could be silly and loud or thoughtful and contemplative and it was all just… me. He told me that I was more than my playful, sexy, adventurous author persona. He said I had thoughtful depth and sensitive layers. It felt like he had a pocket Fizzy Decoder (and I am not just talking about his dick).