“I’ll do it.” Who said that? Me?
“Oh, my gosh!” the coordinator squeals. “Wow, thank you, Ms. O’Neill. Thank you so much for agreeing. You’ve really made my week.” I’m betting this coordinator gets a bonus if she can fulfill her “mandate”.
“Please just make sure security is tight,” I caution, feeling my stomach flutter with unsettled anxiety. “I may bring my own bodyguard with me. Hire someone for the event myself. I know that may seem like overkill, but—”
“You have my guarantee,” she promises. “And I completely understand.”
I check the August date in my calendar. It’s a little less than two months from today. I wonder if Michael would like to go? I could introduce him firsthand to the crazed fans of About the House. The weirdness of the subculture, of long-limbed tall girls masquerading in blonde wigs as five-foot-two-inch tiny me. Of people auctioning off scarves or sweaters for a thousand bucks all because I happened to wear one of them in a single episode. Michael needs to know about this facet of my life, I think, and make a note to mention the event.
The phone calls keep coming all morning long, and I’m about to dart out for a quick bite at the commissary when Trev steps into my office, his face ashen. “Line two,” he says, closing the door behind him. He leans there, slightly breathless and disconcerted. “It’s Jake. He absolutely insisted that I put him through. That’s bloody wrong, don’t you think?”
Jake hasn’t relented, not since the calls began; I think he’s left a total of eight messages in the past month. “I’ll talk to him.” I’m perversely calm at the prospect of speaking to my ex-boyfriend after all this time. Three whole years. “It’s really no big deal.” I shoo Trevor out of my office, and although Jake can’t see me, I freshen my lipstick, blotting my lips together before I pick up the phone.
“Hello, Jake Slater.” I manage to sound sexy and composed, thanks to Michael. A few months ago, and his call would have meant the world to me. Even a month ago, right before I met Michael. Now I’m only looking for some closure on a bad chapter in my life.
“Rebecca. Hey.” He sounds marginally stunned, like he didn’t believe I’d actually answer. “How are you?”
“Oh, you know, Jake,” I laugh, sipping my coffee. “Just peachy. Things are going great for me.”
“That’s what I hear. You’ve got a load of heat, Rebecca.” He’s still got that sleepy-sounding, stayed-out-until-four-doing-coke kind of voice. “The Kingsley deal is buzzing all over town.”
“Good timing, that’s all it takes.” I’m thinking of how off his timing has been ever since the show was cancelled. The time-cop pilot, the spate of poor choices. The gossip that he’s still coking around way too much.
“I want to see you, Rebecca. It’s why I’ve been calling.” He doesn’t sound so sleepy-voiced now—he sounds focused and direct.
I count out five seconds of distinct silence, then say, “Jake, that’s nice. But the thing is? I don’t want to see you.”
“You’re not still pissed, are you?” How petty of me, being angry with him for such a trivial thing as abandoning me after I nearly died.
“No, Jake, I am not pissed, but I have a boyfriend, someone pretty steady and serious—”
“God, Rebecca, I only meant as friends!”
“Oh really, Jake?” I ask blithely. “Because I heard Darcy dumped you, so naturally I assumed you were sniffing your way back to home port.”
“All I want is to check up on an old friend,” he replies, tittering softly, and I think he’s amused to even talk about being dumped. “Figured you’d dig that. Shooting the shit together, like the old days. Get a couple of glasses of wine, you know.”
Intentionally, I call out to Trevor through the door, instructing him to phone CAA to talk about deal points on a contract. Then, counting in my head I allow ten seconds of silence to pass. “Jake?”
“Uh, huh.”
“I don’t want to get together, okay?” I answer, smiling to myself. Feeling healthy and whole and triumphant, even if I’m gloating a tad.
“Just a thought,” he says. “Just a thought.”
“Not ever, Jake. I’m over you, and besides, I’d rather spend that time with people I actually like.”
And without so much as saying goodbye, I hit the disconnect button on my phone.
That’s when I realize he’s probably going to be at that same dang fan gathering I just committed to attending, and I bury my face in my hands with a groan. Except, I’ll have Michael at my side. Strapping, gorgeous Michael, of the deep voice and the towering six-foot-three-inch frame. That should be enough to intimidate Jake, who at five foot eight has a serious short guy’s complex. Grabbing my purse, I head out for a quick lunch, and decide that a walk past Michael’s workplace isn’t actually out of my way.