Finally, I broke our pose and turned to Avery. “I need to talk with Kai. Be right back.”
Avery nodded, busy signing a postcard for a plump woman wearing a denim jumper who was yammering on about her own idea for a cookbook.
I pushed through the gawkers but had an awful time reaching the front of the store. One man wanted to ask me about how I broke into show business. Another woman stopped me to tell me her daughter was a waitress at the Hard Rock Café in Orlando and would I be willing to chat with her about how to move up in the restaurant business? By the time I reached Kai, I felt manhandled.
“This is a lovely surprise,” I said, going in for a hug. “What are you doing here?”
I tensed. He wasn’t hugging me back.
I backed out of my one-sided embrace.
He stared at the crowd for a moment, his jaw tensing.
“I’m sorry to have this conversation here, but I can’t wait for a time when we’re both awake and alone.”
I felt my heart start to gallop. “What conversation?”
He brandished his phone and pointed the screen at me. “Remember when I said Dahlia was trying to get a hold of me? How she’d been texting and calling all morning yesterday?”
“Yes,” I said, struggling to square the intensity of his stare with such a benign question.
“This,” he said, “is why she was in such a hurry.”
I squinted at the photo on the screen, and when my eyes focused, I gasped. “Oh, no,” I said. The image was a bit grainy, but anyone could easily make out two figures in front of the fireplace at Thrill, their bodies close, their heads tilted in a heated kiss.
“Kai, this does not tell the whole story,” I said. My defenses flared into a quick burn, and the blood started to pound in my head.
“Really?” Kai’s tone was incredulous, angry. “You are honestly going to tell me this is some sort of misunderstanding?”
“Keep your voice down,” I hissed, noting the sudden quiet in the room.
He shook his head. “No. I can’t. This is too important, Charlie. I need you to hear me loud and clear.”
I swallowed and wished I were anywhere else. “Kai, I can explain what happened.”
He shook his head, unwilling. “Here’s the thing, Char. I understand your life is crazy right now. I get crazy. I get long nights and deadlines. I get working like a dog to take hold of your dream. Believe me. I get all that.” He took a deep breath and appeared to be grasping for some self-control. “I even get nondisclosure contracts and working with people you used to date. But even with all that, Charlie?”
He paused. I realized I was holding my breath.
“I need to know who you are. And I thought I did.” He looked at his phone. The people who were standing around us had gone silent, hanging on every syllable of our conversation. He shook his head. “I do not know who you are. And maybe you don’t, either.”
“Kai.” My voice broke.
“I’m sorry, Char.” He backed up, toward the door. “I can’t do this. I need clean, direct, honest. I need all of you. And I’m not even close.”
He turned and walked out the door. The little bell above the glass chimed a gentle reminder of his exit for seconds afterward. I felt unable to move and likely would not have were it not for the sudden realization that there was a line of phones pointed in my direction.
I turned abruptly, anger climbing over the pile of hurt in my body and gut. “Stop filming,” I said. The phone people wouldn’t even meet my gaze; they were so intent on watching the scene unfold on their screens.
“I said stop filming! This is real life, not some script!” My words sounded strangled. I backed up and knocked over a display of cake pans and rolling pins. Vic called to me, and I heard Avery say he would follow me, but he didn’t. I walked out the door and away from the crowd, away from the confused driver who offered me a ride, and away from the place where I had been the star of my own, unraveling life.
23
BALLET flats are not engineered for long-distance walking, but I put mine to work that afternoon. I turned back in the direction of downtown, the restaurant, my apartment, but really I had no clue where I was. I certainly saw unfamiliar neighborhoods, streets, and restaurants, but I couldn’t muster enough interest to get worried. At first, I used all my energy to call Kai’s cell and try to repair what I had broken. I left eight voicemails, my words first tilting toward hysterical and repentant, and gradually landing firmly on just depressed and repentant. I tried texting, too. That line of attack wasn’t any more effective or dignified, particularly when I resorted to this:
Me: Kai?
Me: Kai?
Me: Kai?