Mrs. Robinson
“Jane—”
“No.” I hold up my hand, my palm itching to slap him.
“Dammit, Jane, just listen to me.”
“Honestly, Dallas, I’m really not in the mood.” There’s a cab moving slowly down the street, and I flag it. “You take the car. Enjoy the drive. Hell, maybe Adele needs a lift.”
I almost regret saying the last when I see the hurt on his face. Then I remember that he hurt me first. I slam the cab door shut and tell the driver to take me to the Upper West Side.
On the way, my phone rings five times, each call from Dallas.
I send each one to voicemail. And then, for good measure, I delete the voicemails.
Jerk.
I mean, what the hell? He’s more than willing to tell me he’s slept with a zillion vapid women and yet he never thought to mention that he was fucking my stepmother?
Granted, she wasn’t technically my stepmother, but that little fact didn’t lessen the hurt.
I’m still pissed when I get home and my phone rings again. I’m about to just turn off the damn phone altogether when I realize the call isn’t from Dallas but from the guy in LA who’s producing the movie.
“Joel, I’m here.”
“Janie, Janie, sweetheart, Tarpin’s over the moon. Loves the material. Loves you. Everyone at the studio’s excited about him. He’s ready to sign on.”
“Seriously? I was just talking about him and the movie tonight. That’s so incredible.”
“Just one little thing. He wants to meet you first.”
“Me?”
“Since the screenplay’s not done, he wants to chat a bit. Make sure he’s confident in the direction of the story.”
“And the book’s not enough for him?”
Joel chuckles. “Baby, this is Hollywood. Just meet us at The Ivy at ten tomorrow for breakfast and all will be good.”
I start to tell him that I’m in New York, but what the hell. It’s not like I really want to be here at the moment anyway. And if I set up the flight right now, I can nap on the plane and still have time to go to my LA house, shower, then change before the meeting.
“Fine,” I say. “I’ll see you at ten.”
I hang up and immediately call Brody. “Hey,” I say when he answers, “I have to go to LA tonight so I can meet an actor for a breakfast meeting.”
“Tonight? It’s already past ten. You’ll never get a flight.”
“One of the perks of my family name,” I remind him. “Nice, comfy private jet. Anyway, I just wanted you to know because I think I’m going to stay out there awhile and work on the screenplay and the new book.”
There is a very loud pause from his side of the phone line.
“You want to talk about it?”
I close my eyes and silently curse. The man really does know me too well. “You know, I really don’t.”
“Whatever he did, I’m betting he’s not quite the asshole you think he is.”
“Probably not,” I admit, “but right now it doesn’t feel that way.”
“Well, do me a favor, and don’t celebrate your birthday alone. Go out with your LA friends. Drink. Dance. Go to the beach. But don’t sit in your house and work. More important, don’t sit in your house and mope about Dallas.”
“I won’t,” I promise, but even as I say the words, I remember the concert. Dallas and I were already planning on flying to LA tomorrow for the Dominion Gate concert and my birthday celebration. Now, it looks like I’m going all on my own.
And you know what? That’s just fine by me.
At least, that’s what I tell myself. And as I toss a few things into a suitcase, I try to convince myself that I actually believe it.
I don’t have much to pack since I have a house out there already stocked with clothes and toiletries. And that’s a good thing since I really can’t focus and feel like I’m moving through sludge. On the drive to the airport, I try to concentrate on the meeting tomorrow. About questions Tarpin might ask and how I can answer both honestly and in a way that will really entice him to sign on to the project.
I try, but I don’t succeed. Instead, all that goes through my mind is Dallas.
No—actually, that’s not all that goes through my mind. What really goes through my mind is the thought of Dallas and Adele. Talking. Touching. Laughing. Fucking.
Over and over again like one of those goddamn Nickelodeon movies that just go round and round and round on some endless loop. All through the drive and all through the flight, and even when I try to sleep, they infiltrate my dreams, so jarring that I’m yanked back to wakefulness by the thought of the man I love fucking my pseudo-stepmother.
Why?
And why the hell didn’t he tell me?
And how the fuck long did it go on, and how long has it been over? Or is it over? Has he been with her since he and I got together?
Oh. Dear. God.
And now that the thought’s in my head, I can’t get it out, and all I can do is tell myself no. No. Dallas may have neglected to tell me that he and Adele romped between the sheets, but there is no way—no way in hell—that he would actually cheat on me with her.
Of that much, at least, I’m sure.
The brutal truth of that revelation calms me. It doesn’t make me happy—he still fucked Adele, and what the hell is that about—but it calms me enough that I can sleep for the last hour of the flight. It’s not enough, and I’m groggy when we land, but at least I won’t be a total zombie at the meeting.
I’ve arranged for a car to meet me, and I sit in the back and watch the city go by as the driver whisks me to my house where I take a shower, eat a quick bite so I won’t snarf food like a pig at The Ivy, and then jump in my car to battle traffic as I head over the hill to the meeting in Beverly Hills.
As predicted, traffic is snarled, but at least that gives me time to think about the meeting that I didn’t think about on the plane, so that when I do arrive, I at least seem prepared. Joel is his enthusiastic, Hollywood self, and Tarpin is the real deal, an actor with both looks and genuine talent. And considering the scope and depth of his questions, he’s not only intelligent, but he cares about the material. We get along great, and by the time the meeting ends, I’m not only confident that he’ll sign on to the project, but also certain that I’ll be disappointed if he backs out, because I can’t imagine anyone better for the role.
And the best part? I realize as I tip the valet and slide into my car that I’ve spent two full hours without thinking about Dallas.
Frankly, that might be a personal best.
As I navigate my way to Coldwater Canyon and back up the hill to my house just off Mulholland Drive, I try to keep my mind from wandering in a Dallas sort of direction. Maybe I’ll even go for a run when I get home. It’s my least favorite physical activity, but I like the way it makes me feel after the fact. Like I’ve not only conquered something, but that I’ve made myself just a little bit stronger.
Alternatively, I can sit on my deck, look at the stunning view from my place just a block off Mulholland Drive, and conquer a bottle of wine. Which doesn’t have quite the same psychological impact, but still sounds pretty damn appealing.
I’m still debating between good health and good wine when I pull into the driveway and see Dallas sitting on the front porch.
I freeze. My hand is on the gear shift and my foot is on the brake, and it would be so, so easy to just shift back into reverse and leave.
I don’t. Because only part of me wants to run away. The other part wants to run into his arms.
In the end, I do neither.
Instead, I shut off the car, walk calmly toward my front door, and ask him what the hell he’s doing here.
“Apologizing,” he says, rising. “Groveling. Whatever it takes.”
“How the hell did you find me so fast? I mean, what? You just assumed I’d run off to LA?” A horrible thought occurs to me. “Deliverance? Electronic surveillance? That is completely warped, Dallas. Intrusive. Invasive. Not to mention rude and just plain icky. How the hell can you justify—”
“Brody,” he says.
“What?”
“I called Brody. He told me where you went.”
“Oh.” I make a note to sic a hundred telemarketers on Brody.
“Don’t be too mad at him. I more or less suggested that I couldn’t survive without you.”
I grimace. “Brody has too soft a heart.”
“I also told him that I still have the tickets to the Dominion Gate concert tomorrow night.”
I cock my head. “What makes you think I still want to go with you?”
He reaches into his jacket pocket and holds out a small envelope. “They’re your present. Your tickets—both of them. Go by yourself. Take a friend. Don’t go at all.” He meets my eyes. “It’s completely up to you.”
I keep my mouth closed, forcing myself to say nothing. Instead, I run my tongue over my teeth, then reach out and snag the envelope. I tuck it into my purse, then walk around him to get to my door. The porch is small, and he doesn’t move, so I brush up against him as I pull out my keys. Immediately, I feel that shock of awareness, and it seems all the more powerful because I don’t want to feel it. I don’t want to want him. Not right now, when I’m feeling so raw.
“Jane.” His voice is as gentle as the hand he places on my shoulder.
I shrug it off and open the door. I go inside, but I leave the door open. He can follow or not.
It’s after noon, and I feel completely justified in having a glass of wine. I find one of my favorite Napa cabernets and pour a very full glass.
Dallas is standing on the other side of my kitchen pass-through. “A glass of that would be very welcome right about now.”
I frown. “I’m trying to decide if I’m even letting you stay.”
“Jane. Please. Let me—”
“What?” Fresh anger bubbles through me. “Change the past? Take it all back?”
“Explain. Just let me explain.”
“Explain why you fucked her—yeah, I know you didn’t actually. But for you, you did.”
“Explain why I didn’t tell you.” He looks so lost. So sad. “And, yes, why I was with her. I just want—”
“What?”
He shakes his head, looking not at me but somewhere over my shoulder. “Never mind. I’ll give you time.”
He starts to head toward the door and suddenly the thought of him leaving seems to cut through me, slicing me to ribbons. “Wait!”
He stops, his back to me. I see the tension in his shoulders, the tightness in his back. And when he turns to face me, I see the hope on his face.
I look down at the ground. I want to hold on to my anger, but it’s starting to diffuse. Still there, but now so hard to grasp.
I clear my throat. “If you go, I’ll end up drinking the whole damn bottle by myself.” I pour him a glass and set it on the pass-through. I nod at it. “You can stay for that long.”
“All right, then.” He takes a tiny sip. “I’ll drink slow.”
I almost laugh, but I manage to hold it in.
I stay in the kitchen and he stays on the other side of the bar. I like it that way because the longer he’s here, the more I want him to hold me. I’m hurting—and even though it’s Dallas who hurt me, he’s still the one I crave to give me comfort. Whose arms I want around me while I close my eyes and draw strength.
I’m not sure what that says—am I that screwed up? Or am I just in love?
I take another sip of my wine and busy myself with wiping down my already clean counter. “So go ahead,” I say. “You have an explanation. Tell me.”
“It’s fucked up,” he says, and this time I have to laugh. Because honestly, where he and I are concerned, when isn’t it?
“When I met her not long after she and Colin got married, I was feeling so empty. You were out of my life, forever I thought. I was raw. And I was attracted to her.”
I wince, and he sees it.
“I screwed up by not telling you the truth before. I’m not going to pull my punches now.”
“No,” I say. “I don’t want you to. I just—she was married.”
“Nothing happened. But we both felt it.”
“Well, something happened eventually.”
He nods. “After they broke up. We—well, yeah. I slept with her.”
I feel my insides twist. Because this isn’t like Fiona or Christine or any of the others. With Adele, there was more. And I’m jealous. I’m so incredibly jealous.
“I thought you only did one- or two-night stands.”
His smile is thin, and I know he can hear the jealousy in my voice.
“Adele was an odd exception, that’s for sure. She—oh, hell, Jane. She knows about us.”
My eyes grow wide. “You told her?”
He shakes his head. “No. But she’s a therapist, remember? She heard the way I talked about you. And because of Colin she knew that we’d both been kidnapped. She figured it out. She knew I was still in love with you. And she—she was edgy.”
“In bed,” I say. “She—”
“Understood what I needed, probably even more than I did.”
My mouth is dry, and I’m not sure if I feel sick or if I feel relieved that he had someone when he couldn’t—wouldn’t—have me.
“Did you love her?”
He looks at me as if I’ve completely missed the point. “Love her? Oh, god, Jane, no. She was the only one I could be honest with. The only one who knew my core truth. There was sex, yes. But sex with Adele was never about her.”
His eyes lock on mine. “Don’t you get it? Sex with Adele was always about you.”