Once I finally get the words out, they hang between us like a slowly deflating balloon.
It’s strange. I thought I’d be relieved when I finally told someone—told Ian—my biggest fear. Or at least, I thought I’d feel something. Horrified, maybe. Or humiliated. Devastated, even.
But I don’t. I don’t feel any of those things. I don’t feel anything, and somehow that’s so much worse than any of the emotions I’ve gone through in the last twenty-four hours, and in the months since the movie wrapped. Any of those emotions—or even all of them—have to be better than this terrible numbness that currently has me in its grip.
It’s funny how these things work, though. I’ve spent so much of my life trying to be numb, trying not to feel, that now that it’s finally happened, you’d think I’d be glad to have what I’ve always wanted. Turns out, all I want is the pain back. At least then I know what to expect.
Being weak is humiliating, but being numb is absolutely terrifying.
It’d be so much easier if I still believed that Ian might have been behind everything that had happened. Because if he had brought the brooch here, if he had somehow gotten my phone number and credit card and hired the gardener while I was practically passed out in his room from the best sex of my life, then I could go back to pretending that I’m okay. Or even better, I could go back to a time when I wasn’t letting a role get inside my head, when I wasn’t letting it make me lose time…and maybe even my mind.
But Ian didn’t do this, didn’t do any of it. I know that now. He was astonished by my freak-out—even in the middle of my panic attack I could see that much. And then he helped me—not just with the breathing but by keeping me from running through the streets of L.A. all but nude.
God, I can’t even begin to imagine what would have happened if he hadn’t stopped me. If I’d somehow managed to actually get free and make it to the main road? I’m worried about people thinking I’m crazy now. If someone had actually gotten a picture of me hyperventilating in nothing but my underwear, the whole world would know in a matter of hours that Veronica Romero had gone completely around the bend.
It’s just more proof that Ian isn’t responsible for what’s happening to me. Why go to all the trouble of driving me crazy only to bring me back down before he could reap any of the rewards? Plus, he was almost as shaken as I was. He could have been faking that, but in my considerable experience, no one is that good of an actor.
If I were him, I’d be out that door like a shot, trying to put as much distance between the two of us as possible. It’s definitely the smart thing to do, especially after what I just put him through.
But here’s the thing. He doesn’t leave. He doesn’t even look like he thinks about leaving. Instead, he closes the door he’d just opened and turns around to stare at me, his eyes dark and probing and inescapable. I squirm a little under the scrutiny—I hate being on display unless I choose to put myself there—but even I’m self-aware enough to know that I need to give this guy a fucking break. God knows, he’s already given me one. Otherwise, the men in the little white coats would already be here to take me away.
When the silence continues to stretch on—so much tenser and more threatening than the quiet that was between us earlier—I turn and start down the hall toward the kitchen. “I need a drink if I’m going to talk about this.”
He gives a short sigh even as he follows me. “I can only imagine. You can pour me one, too, if you don’t mind.”
I shoot him a look that tells him not to be an idiot right before I enter the bar area between my kitchen and dining room. “What are you having?” I ask as I open up the main liquor cabinet and stare inside at the array of fancy bottles. To be honest, I’m at a loss as to what to pour—I’m too tired and too numb to figure out what the situation calls for. Especially since I wasn’t joking earlier when I said champagne is pretty much always my drink of choice.
Ian watches me for several long seconds, his hands shoved into his back pockets and a look of concern on his too pretty face that he doesn’t even try to hide. I want to tell him that it’s okay, that I’m fine now, but I’m standing here still in my underwear with trembling hands and watery eyes. I’m pretty sure he won’t believe me.
“Take out the brandy,” he says after it becomes apparent that I’m more likely to stare at these bottles all night rather than choose. “Pour two glasses and let’s go sit down somewhere we can talk about what’s going on.”