Tears sprang to my eyes again, and I kept my head down as I walked past Figaro, a French restaurant with outdoor seating. I could hear people laughing and talking. And I could feel the heat lamps, radiating the fake warmth over the entire scene.
I stopped near the empty hostess stand. I was determined to make it all the way up to James’s house, but my teeth were chattering, and I needed a moment to get warm again. I stared into the traffic on the bustling street, trying to compose the perfect note that would fix everything with James, a note that:
1. Would not be creepy.
2. Would not move James to take out a restraining order against me. And
3. Would make James want to take me back.
Did the words that could fit all three of those criteria actually exist? I wondered. Was there any such thing or was it like a Molly Ringwald Ending—a complete myth?
“Excuse me! We need some more sparkling water.”
I froze. I recognized the voice immediately, could still remember it yelling over her condo’s intercom that it could and would call the police if I ever showed up at her building again.
“Excuse me,” she repeated. “Did you hear me? We need more water.”
I turned around. God, I thought. If you love me, love me in any way whatsoever, please do not let James be sitting with this little girl at that table.
God did not love me.
“Davie?” James said, when I turned around. “You work here?”
“No,” I said. My voice felt tremulous and very far away, like it was coming from somewhere else completely. “I don’t work here. I was just standing here, trying to get warm.”
They both stared at me, and even I could see how bad, how stalkerish it looked for me to just happen to show up at the same place where they were having dinner, especially since I didn’t actually live in this neighborhood.
Erica cut her eyes toward James. “We should go . . .”
She hadn’t fully taken my advice, I realized, because though she had promised to be honest with him, she obviously hadn’t told him about me arranging for her to be at the premiere and counseling her on handling James.
Her eyes were darting from me to James like she was scared, which was frustrating because I’m sure she was actually more frightened of me telling James what I had done for her than of me going crazy on them. But it was coming off to James like she was scared of me, because I was a psycho stalker.
I hadn’t expected—or gotten—a thank-you note from Erica, but I also hadn’t expected her to deliberately mislead James about my role in their reunion.
James pulled out his wallet. “We have a movie to catch,” he said.
He was careful not to say which movie, I noticed. Was he scared that I’d follow them there, too? This was a fucking nightmare.
The note that I had been trying to compose slipped away like a daydream on a cloud of what-ifs.
“James, I’m not stalking you . . .” I cleared my throat. “ . . . again. You won’t see me until the rehearsal dinner, I promise. I mean unless we run into each other at the ArcLight. I always run into people at the ArcLight.” I stopped myself before my babbling went too far. “The point is that you don’t have to worry about me bothering you.”
James unstiffened, but just a little. “I get it, Davie. It’s okay. We have to get used to seeing each other. Occasionally.”
“Because of Veronica and Nicky.”
He relaxed a little more and shook his head. “I never saw that one coming, huh?”
I laughed. “Me either. But now it kind of makes sense. They’re really happy together.”
He nodded in agreement. “Yeah, I’ve never seen Ronnie this happy. They’re lucky they found each other.”
Erica took ahold of his arm. “We have to go, or we’re going to miss the previews.”
James looked like he was caught between politeness and duty. He might have lost his accent, but he was still a Southern gentleman through and through. He always, I realized, had been a very nice boy.
“Go,” I said. “The previews are the best part.”
He gave me a grateful half smile. Then he tossed a few bills on the table and started to walk away with Erica.