“Don’t worry,” she says, pausing only for a second as she steps past me towards the street, “I won’t tell Kyle. God! My brother was right, I really do have terrible taste in men.”
I reach out to grasp her hand and pull her back but she’s already gone, striding away into the street on her long legs, fast and determined, as if a second longer with me would kill her. I watch her, and with every step she seems to grow more confident that she’s right, that she deserves better than what I could ever give her.
And the truth is, I agree.
18
Nate
I’m no stranger to conflict, to being the villain. Working in the entertainment industry, you learn to develop a thick skin and a cool head. You develop the ability to keep on going even when you get screwed over, and you figure out how to bounce back even stronger.
But it’s been a week since Jessie walked out on me, and the feeling that I’ve just fucked things up doesn’t seem to be going anyway. If anything, it feels even more like I might have made a huge mistake. I guess that’s what they mean when they talk about hindsight being twenty-twenty.
I get to work and try to throw myself into the stack of projects on my desk, pulling out a script that I was supposed to choose a lead for, but the words on the page look like bricks in an impenetrable wall, blank and imposing. Within seconds I’ve spun my chair around to look out the window and wonder why the fuck Jessie hasn’t called or even texted me yet, even just to yell. I think about where I’ll go after work, tell myself that all I need is an amazing blonde and something a little kinky to blow the cobwebs off, to clear my head. The second I start thinking about it, however, the blonde transforms into Jessie, and the kinkiness into the soft warmth of waking up beside her. I shake the idea out of my head like a wet dog.
I take out my phone and check it, even though I’m sure Jessie still hasn’t messaged me. Somehow it makes me smile, a brief remembrance of how stubborn she is that makes me feel close to her for a split second. Then again, I’m just as stubborn. This isn’t so much a waiting game, where both of us hope for the other to break first – we both know we aren’t going to change our minds. There’s no chance at reconciling this.
I log into my Bad Boy e-mail account and my phone starts blowing up with messages. I’ve gone on another unintentional hiatus and haven’t posted a video for over a week now, so the fans are restless. I skim through the messages: Requests for certain topics, words of encouragement, people wondering if they’ve met me in real life, death threats from jealous boyfriends and girlfriends. It’s the same old thing, just more of it.
It’s a cheap kick though, a pathetic kind of satisfaction. Nonetheless, I grasp it, desperate for any kind of positivity or fulfilment to distract me from Jessie. I spend a few minutes reading messages and soon find myself feeling the pull of making a new vlog. It’s a strange kind of desire, almost like sex, a build-up of tension, the desire for some sense of release, and then the sense of contented relief that comes after.
I open the video camera app and point the lens at myself. Just my shirt, tie, and the well-cut lapels of my suit in frame, my office window glaring bright light behind me – it’s less sexy than wearing nothing but my boxers, but it still says enough.
“Sometimes you wanna go back…sometimes a one-night stand was so good that it sticks in your mind, your body still reacting to it. Sometimes it feels half-finished, like you only tasted the edge of what that person could give you. And you just don’t want to go out and find someone new, ’cause you know you’ll compare them, and you know they won’t stack up to what you had. So the question of the day is: Do you – should you ever go back?”
There’s a loud knock on the door and I immediately drop my phone as I spin towards it. There’s only one person who knocks that loud, and it’s the one person who I can’t be mad at for entering without permission.
“Nate!” Robinson booms as he strides across the office, his creased slacks flapping around his long legs. “We need to talk.”
“Uh…yeah,” I say, stumbling off my chair to find where I dropped my phone. I eventually grab it from under the chair leg and wave it at Robinson as explanation, then pull myself back up to my seat. “Sorry. Go ahead.”
Robinson lowers his head and glares at me with what, to him, probably feels like fatherly caution, but in reality looks more like he’s about to beat you to death with his pipe.
“You haven’t forgotten, have you?” he says menacingly. “The Carra—”
“The Carragher list!” I say, slapping my forehead. “Shit! Sorry. I…I know. I was supposed to get the list of actresses to her days ago.”