I close my eyes and silently curse. The man really does know me too well. "You know, I really don't."
"Whatever he did, I'm betting he's not quite the asshole you think he is."
"Probably not," I admit, "but right now it doesn't feel that way."
"Well, do me a favor, and don't celebrate your birthday alone. Go out with your LA friends. Drink. Dance. Go to the beach. But don't sit in your house and work. More important, don't sit in your house and mope about Dallas."
"I won't," I promise, but even as I say the words, I remember the concert. Dallas and I were already planning on flying to LA tomorrow for the Dominion Gate concert and my birthday celebration. Now, it looks like I'm going all on my own.
And you know what? That's just fine by me.
At least, that's what I tell myself. And as I toss a few things into a suitcase, I try to convince myself that I actually believe it.
I don't have much to pack since I have a house out there already stocked with clothes and toiletries. And that's a good thing since I really can't focus and feel like I'm moving through sludge. On the drive to the airport, I try to concentrate on the meeting tomorrow. About questions Tarpin might ask and how I can answer both honestly and in a way that will really entice him to sign on to the project.
I try, but I don't succeed. Instead, all that goes through my mind is Dallas.
No--actually, that's not all that goes through my mind. What really goes through my mind is the thought of Dallas and Adele. Talking. Touching. Laughing. Fucking.
Over and over again like one of those goddamn Nickelodeon movies that just go round and round and round on some endless loop. All through the drive and all through the flight, and even when I try to sleep, they infiltrate my dreams, so jarring that I'm yanked back to wakefulness by the thought of the man I love fucking my pseudo-stepmother.
Why?
And why the hell didn't he tell me?
And how the fuck long did it go on, and how long has it been over? Or is it over? Has he been with her since he and I got together?
Oh. Dear. God.
And now that the thought's in my head, I can't get it out, and all I can do is tell myself no. No. Dallas may have neglected to tell me that he and Adele romped between the sheets, but there is no way--no way in hell--that he would actually cheat on me with her.
Of that much, at least, I'm sure.
The brutal truth of that revelation calms me. It doesn't make me happy--he still fucked Adele, and what the hell is that about--but it calms me enough that I can sleep for the last hour of the flight. It's not enough, and I'm groggy when we land, but at least I won't be a total zombie at the meeting.
I've arranged for a car to meet me, and I sit in the back and watch the city go by as the driver whisks me to my house where I take a shower, eat a quick bite so I won't snarf food like a pig at The Ivy, and then jump in my car to battle traffic as I head over the hill to the meeting in Beverly Hills.
As predicted, traffic is snarled, but at least that gives me time to think about the meeting that I didn't think about on the plane, so that when I do arrive, I at least seem prepared. Joel is his enthusiastic, Hollywood self, and Tarpin is the real deal, an actor with both looks and genuine talent. And considering the scope and depth of his questions, he's not only intelligent, but he cares about the material. We get along great, and by the time the meeting ends, I'm not only confident that he'll sign on to the project, but also certain that I'll be disappointed if he backs out, because I can't imagine anyone better for the role.
And the best part? I realize as I tip the valet and slide into my car that I've spent two full hours without thinking about Dallas.
Frankly, that might be a personal best.
As I navigate my way to Coldwater Canyon and back up the hill to my house just off Mulholland Drive, I try to keep my mind from wandering in a Dallas sort of direction. Maybe I'll even go for a run when I get home. It's my least favorite physical activity, but I like the way it makes me feel after the fact. Like I've not only conquered something, but that I've made myself just a little bit stronger.
Alternatively, I can sit on my deck, look at the stunning view from my place just a block off Mulholland Drive, and conquer a bottle of wine. Which doesn't have quite the same psychological impact, but still sounds pretty damn appealing.
I'm still debating between good health and good wine when I pull into the driveway and see Dallas sitting on the front porch.
I freeze. My hand is on the gear shift and my foot is on the brake, and it would be so, so easy to just shift back into reverse and leave.
I don't. Because only part of me wants to run away. The other part wants to run into his arms.
In the end, I do neither.
Instead, I shut off the car, walk calmly toward my front door, and ask him what the hell he's doing here.
"Apologizing," he says, rising. "Groveling. Whatever it takes."