Then Gabe married Jacinda Lockwood almost immediately after the article was released and I had to watch him dip her in the exact same way on the big screen in the opening sequence for his first Bond movie.
The tension in the car has gone wire taut, and I know that Gabe remembers this song. I know he’s thinking about what happened at the club.
“About that night,” he says.
I cross my arms.
“That whole weekend,” he amends. “I’m sorry.”
“You already apologized,” I say.
I don’t want him to be sorry. Sorry is confirmation that he’d been faking it the whole time. From getting my phone number to bringing me to the premiere and then inviting me to his party.
“It’s fine,” I say. “We were both young and stupid. I should have known better.”
There’s a long pause.
“What about now?” he asks.
“I should know better now too, but…” I gesture at the car, at him. “I guess I haven’t learned anything.”
I lean my head back against the seat and look out the window. It’s then that I realize we’re not going to LAX.
Since I’m fairly certain Gabe isn’t kidnapping me, I don’t say anything until we arrive at a small private airport in the Valley. When we drive onto the tarmac to where a plane is waiting, that’s when I turn to Gabe, incredulous.
“A private jet?” I ask.
Gabe, at least, has the good sense to look sheepish.
“It’s not my plane,” he says. “And it wasn’t my idea.”
I give him a look, but he raises his hands.
“This is ridiculous,” I say, trying to be as annoyed as possible, but the truth is I’m a little impressed.
And annoyed at myself for being impressed.
I’m supposed to be above all this. Supposed to be immune to his charms. Immune to the siren call of Hollywood stars and all the fancy trappings that come with them.
It’s disappointing to discover I’m just as easily taken as Jeremy always thought I was.
“You love celebrity,” he used to say. “You want to be famous.”
He’d say it as if it was the most disgusting thing a person could want. As if wanting it meant that I deserved what happened. That I deserved people assuming that my success was a direct result of fucking a celebrity.
Not that Jeremy was exempt from wanting that kind of attention. He refused to admit it out loud, but I knew the truth. He wanted people to talk about him. Wanted people to know him.
He’d get down on his knees for a private jet.
I’m pretty sure, at least.
At least I know I’m not willing to do that. Not for a private jet.
I also know that I’m still mad about the whole dance thing, which I know technically isn’t really Gabe’s fault and when it comes down to it, I’m really angrier at myself than anything, but right now it’s easier to be annoyed about a private jet.
“It’s not mine,” Gabe says again as we get out of the car. “And he insisted.”
I’m confused until a familiar face appears at the top of the ramp. He strikes a pose.
“Darling!” Ollie says, arms akimbo. “It’s been ages.”
I can’t help it, I’m thrilled to see him. And grateful that I don’t have to spend an entire private plane ride to Montana with just Gabe. The car ride was tense enough.
Gabe helps the driver unload our bags as Ollie skips down the stairs and pulls me into a hug that lifts me off my feet.
“When I heard that you two crazy kids were re-creating your famous interview, I begged Gabe to let me crash,” Ollie says, once I’m back on the ground.
“I refused,” Gabe says.
“He refused,” Ollie confirms.
His hands are on my arms and he’s leaning back, looking at me like a proud parent whose daughter just returned from her first year at college.
“He wanted you all to himself,” Ollie says sotto voce.
“I did,” Gabe says, walking past us with our bags.
Even though I’m still a little irritated at him, I flush. It’s hard not to feel overwhelmed and befuddled by all this attention.
“A private jet, huh?” I ask, looking up at the beautiful, shining plane.
“It’s ridiculous, I know,” Ollie says. “Terrible for the environment. Very, very extravagant.” He gives me a wink. “But I told you I’d do it.”
It’s true. He did tell me. I feel a strange rush of pride on his behalf. He really has accomplished exactly what he hoped to accomplish. But with that pride, there’s some jealousy too. I swallow it down.
“I’m happy for you,” I say.
He wraps an arm around me and squeezes.
“Let’s get you two crazy kids to Montana.”
THE JAM—NEWSLETTER
THE ZEN OF PUZZLING
I’ve been puzzling for a long time.
It allows me a distraction from my own brain. To help me deal with occasional bouts of depression, of loneliness, isolation.
It gives me something to do that doesn’t require my full attention.
My perfect puzzling situation is this: Put on a movie after dinner, pop an edible, and puzzle until it kicks in. That usually happens when I can’t figure out what’s happening in the movie anymore and I’m staring at the puzzle board with my empty hand hovering above the pieces.
I like to start with the edges.
I want to create boundaries—context—for whatever I’m making. I want to know where it will end. This is not the most fun way to start a puzzle—or a project—and sometimes the edges can be a nightmare, but it’s the only way I know.
You never know if a puzzle is going to be good until you get into it.
The fun part starts when I know my limits. When I know what I’m working with. That’s when I begin sorting through my pieces, grouping them in order of color or pattern. I don’t put them down on the board—not yet—but I build piles of them outside the edges. Not quite ready to piece them together.
Until I am.
There’s no logic to it. There’s no reasoning. It’s instinct.
And there’s something deeply satisfying about finishing a puzzle. About placing that last piece, that satisfyingly soft snap of it fitting together perfectly.
That’s not my favorite part, though.
My favorite part is after I spread my hands over the smooth, assembled surface, marveling in the work I’ve completed, I then undo it all.
xoChani
Chapter
16
“You know”—Ollie leans back in his seat, one finger against his chin—“divorce suits you.”