He and I were just having sex last week. He was just telling me how much he loved me, how much he wanted me to be his one and only.
I honestly had no idea he was married when he first asked me out. I didn’t realize it until his wife stopped by the set one day and randomly struck up a conversation with me. When I questioned him about it, he assured me that they were “separated,” drafting out the final terms of their divorce, and only putting up a “front” for their children’s sake.
I believed him because he called me every day, because he texted me all night, because whenever I asked him to come over, he was at my doorstep within minutes.
He was the one who said “I love you” first, sliding a diamond promise ring on my finger as he said it. He was the one who said he would always be there for me, that he would always care.
He promised—swore on a stack of Bibles, that he was in the process of divorcing her.
He promised…
I called Katy. “Katy, can you please book me for an appearance on “E News”? I want to set the record straight.”
“That’ll only make things worse,” she sighed. “Have you actually seen Us Weekly?”
“No. Samantha’s taking her precious time getting it to me.”
“Well, they didn’t give us all the photos. There are some other ones they’ve printed and they’re not explainable. At all. Please go home while I clean this up.”
“I need to de-stress,” I wiped away a tear. “Do you think it would be okay for me to go to Rihanna’s party tonight?”
“No.”
“What am I supposed to tell Rihanna? This is the third time I’ve—”
“Go home Selena!” she screamed.
“Did you hang up on me? Hello?”
Going home was not an option for me. I wanted to put it off for as long as possible, preferably never. The last memory I had of home was not a pretty one.
Four years ago, I was a sophomore at the University of Arkansas, double majoring in drama and fashion. In between starring in local commercials and helping out at my mom’s bakery, I was submitting countless applications to modeling and acting contests—hopelessly wishing for a call back.
The same day my cherry bourbon pie won top honors at the county fair, I received a call from Cover Girl cosmetics. They told me I was a finalist in their modeling competition and offered to fly me and my mother to New York City for a week long audition.
I was ecstatic, thrilled. I knew I was one step closer to becoming the star I’d always wanted to be. I pictured the judges falling in love with me on the spot, the casting agents luring me away to Hollywood, and the critics declaring me the next Reese Witherspoon, Julia Roberts, or Sandra Bullock.
My mother and I shopped for days—endlessly chatting about how we thought my audition would go, but the day we were supposed to fly out, she changed her mind.
“I can’t go honey,” she said as she handed me her plane ticket.
“Mom, the flight is in five hours! You promised!”
“The waitress I left in charge of the bakery called and said she has a family emergency so—”
“So what? Sweet Seasons can’t close for one week?”
“It’s my only source of income, sweetheart. You know that new Starbucks has cost me a lot of sales recently…I would love to go there with you but—”
“But your bakery is more important than your daughter?”
“Stop being so dramatic,” she kissed my forehead.
She continued talking about that bakery, how it was slowly starting to become profitable again, but I only caught tidbits here or there.
I was too livid, too hurt, to focus on anything she was saying. This was my moment, my potential big break, and she was more concerned with cookies and pies—biscuits and coffee.
What’s more was that this wasn’t the first time she’d done this to me: She’d missed all my performances at the university’s theater, all my commercial promo shoots, and all my modeling auditions for the past two years because of Sweet Seasons—because she “was the only one who could run the place right.”
She also had a horrible habit of telling me that she wouldn’t be able to come at the very last minute. Yet for some reason, I always got my hopes up; always thought that the next time would be the time she would actually make it, that the next time would be the time she wouldn’t let me down.
“I want you to call me as soon as you get there,” she smiled. “I want you to take pictures and tell me everything because I know you’re going to win. Okay?”
She stepped forward and reached for a hug, but I stepped back.
“No. No, it’s not okay,” I held back tears. “Once again, you break your promise and you wait until the very last minute to tell me. This is—”
“Selena, the waitress called two minutes ago! There’s no way I can—”
“I don’t want to hear it,” I picked up my suitcase and headed for the door. “I’ll see you when I come back, if I come back.”