Chapter Twenty-Six
I stare at the phone in complete shock. Confusion swirls within me. No, I think, my mind racing. It can’t be.
It doesn’t make sense, but there’s no mistaking the name on my screen.
Tom.
After all this time, he’s calling me. There was a time after the show when I prayed for this. I was desperate to get the so-called love of my life back, for him to say he made a mistake and should have picked me.
But now?
I see his name and feel nothing but confusion as to why he’s reappeared in my life.
“I don’t understand why Wanker Tom is calling me,” I say aloud. “I should have deleted his number from my contacts. I’m not taking it.”
“Maybe you should. There’s got to be a reason why he’s calling after so long,” Maxime says.
I nod. Maybe there is some bizarre reason he’s calling. I answer the call but put him on speaker.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Skye, this is Tom. Tom Broaden,” he says, and I swear I detect anxiousness in his familiar voice. “I bet you never expected to hear from me again, did you?”
“No,” I say simply. “I did not. Which begs the question, why are you calling me?”
“Can you take me off speaker?”
I feel Maxime’s hand flinch next to mine. I give it a reassuring squeeze and stare straight at him while I talk to Tom.
“No. I’m sitting here with my boyfriend, Maxime, and anything you can say to me you can say to him.”
Silence.
“Um. Okay. Well, um, this isn’t how I wanted to talk to you.”
“I don’t care how you wanted to talk to me, Tom. You talk to me with Maxime here or not at all.”
More silence.
Tom clears his throat. “All right. I, uh, just wanted to give you a heads-up on something.”
I furrow my brow. This doesn’t sound good.
“On what?”
“I, uh, did an exclusive with Dishing Weekly,” Tom says slowly.
I feel the air deflate from my lungs. I can’t breathe, and I can’t respond.
Panic takes over.
“It’s my look back on what happened on the show,” Tom says, filling the silence. “There are, um, some bombshells in it.”
I want to cry. Why now? I’m working hard to overcome this part of my life, and now he’s bringing it front and center for the world all over again.
“What kind of bombshells?” I ask, my voice shaking.
Maxime puts his arm around my shoulder, and I think of what a good man he is to put up with this shit when he can easily have a woman with zero baggage.
“Oh, I think you’ll be surprised, but we’ll need to talk after you see it. The cover should go up Thursday on their website. Online subscribers will be able to read the story then, and the magazine hits newsstands on Friday.”
“What kind of bombshells, Tom? I need to know,” I snap, anger filling me. “You owe me this much.”
“I can’t talk about that now, but I will talk to you next week.”
“No, you will not,” I say, my voice shaking with rage. “I will never talk to you again.”
“Spoken like a woman who still has feelings. If you felt nothing, you wouldn’t be so upset,” Tom says, a knowing, smug tone entering his voice.
I hate him. I really hate him.
“No, spoken like a woman who doesn’t want you to interfere in my life.”
“You might change your mind when you read the article.”
“What?” I gasp, confused. “What are you talking about?”
Maxime releases me, and for a moment, I’m terrified he’s about to walk away. What if he thinks my reaction is because I have feelings for Tom? When, in reality, I’m worried about what this will do to Maxime.
To my surprise, Maxime takes my phone. “You’re done playing games with her,” he says, his deep voice low with anger. “Do not call her. Skye deserves better than this, especially considering how gracefully she handled what a jerk you were to her during the show with the media. So, either tell her what is said or get off the damn phone.”
The phone goes silent, and Tom ends the call.
I burst into tears.
“Why?” I ask, sobbing. “Why now?”
Maxime’s face blurs in front of my eyes, and all I can think is that this bombshell will be the final straw for him. It will drive him away. It’s going to be awful; I can feel it with every fiber of my being.
Maxime is silent. He buries his head in his hands.
“Do … do you still have feelings for him?” he asks, not looking at me.
“What?” I cry. “No, no, absolutely not!”
I drop down to the floor in front of him, pulling his hands away from his fear-ridden face.
Fear that Tom’s reappearance has jumbled up everything in my heart.
I wrap my hands around his and squeeze them tightly. I want to tell him I love him. I’m desperate to say those words, but if I do, he’ll think it’s a reaction to Tom instead of something that has already been in my heart.
“I’m upset because of what this will do to you,” I say, tears streaming down my face. “I don’t want to embarrass you, Maxime.”
“Is that why you’re crying?” he asks, searching my eyes as if he’s afraid it’s a cover for what I’m truly feeling.
“You’re the only one who matters,” I say. “I don’t want to lose you over this. I can’t bear the thought of that.”
I drop my head on his knees and bawl, my tears falling onto his jeans and my shoulders shaking.
“Skye, stop, please stop,” Maxime says, lifting me back up. He frames my face in his strong hands. “That is not going to happen, do you hear me? I lost the chance to meet you in Brussels. I found you again in Denver and didn’t do anything. I finally got it right the third time, and no matter what that article says, I’m not letting you go.”
I see fire in his eyes, along with a determined look, and gratitude for this man overwhelms me.
“Okay,” I say, the tears subsiding.
Maxime draws me up, and I sit down on his lap, feeling secure as his strong arms wrap around me.
“I’m sorry I come with all this baggage,” I whisper as I bury my face in his neck.
“Don’t say that. We all come with baggage,” he says.
I wince, because I know that’s not true. My baggage is all over the place, for all his family and friends to unpack on social media and the internet. Worse, they can pick what bags to open and discard the rest. They could easily never read things I’ve written on my blog or said on TV, choosing to read the gossipy, untrue things instead, and never seek out a counterpoint.
Maxime brushes his lips against the top of my head. I swallow hard, desperate to believe him.
Regardless of what side is right, there is nothing I can do now.
Except wait for the bomb to be dropped on Thursday night.
***
Celebrate Life with Sprinkles—The Blog
Dealing with Things You Can’t Control
“Skye, please eat something,” JoJo implores. “I can’t bear to watch you push around your food.”
I put my fork down. It’s Thursday night, and Dishing Weekly will be dropping tomorrow’s cover any minute now. I’m with Sierra and JoJo at a wine bar, grabbing a bite to eat before heading over to the arena to watch the Mountain Lions play Miami. We’re getting down to the last few games of the season, and Denver is in a fight with Seattle for the remaining playoff spot in the Western Conference. Every game matters, and Maxime has been focused this week because of it.
Or maybe he’s waiting to see what bomb is going to go off in his face thanks to me, and wondering if I’m worth living in this circus.
“I can’t,” I say, fighting back tears. “I can’t think about anything else but Dishing Weekly.”
I’ve had emergency group conversations with Sierra and JoJo this week. We talked at Tuesday’s game, and they have tried their best to get me to put this aside, but that has proved impossible. A sense of dread has hung over me like a dark, dangerous cloud. Each day brings me closer to the storm that has the potential to sweep away everything I hold dear. It’s taken everything inside me to act bright and cheerful on camera and engage in fun banter when inside, I am living with a gnawing fear that grows worse with each day.
What if the people on Boulder Live decide I’m not the image they want for their show after this article breaks? Aly could convince them of that if Tom says awful stuff that gets a lot of publicity. The publishing company would probably demand a juicy tell-all rather than the personal development story I’m penning now.
I reach for my hair and twist the ends. Losing my career growth would be a disaster. It would nearly destroy me, but I could survive it.
But Dishing Weekly could take away the thing that matters most to me.
I could lose Maxime.
Sierra puts her hand on my arm. “Don’t give them this power over you. Do not. It doesn’t matter what Tom says. You are you, and a lot of people love you for who you are, including Maxime.”
I reach for my water and take another sip. I’m barely eating, so I can’t even think about having a cocktail with my friends like I normally do.
“What if this article is too much for him?” I say, as my brain refuses to let go of my deepest fear.
“It won’t be,” JoJo says firmly. “Maxime is exactly where he wants to be, and that’s with you. No tabloid bombshell, no matter what it is, will change that.”
A shaky breath escapes my lips. I pick up my fork and twirl some of the house-made tagliatelle with black truffle cream sauce around my fork and make myself take a bite.
“Okay, now we’re getting somewhere,” JoJo says, smiling triumphantly. “No one should ever waste fresh pasta.”
“Says the Italian,” Sierra teases as she takes a sip of her chardonnay.
“Nonna says that is a sin,” JoJo declares as she cuts into her lobster ravioli and takes a bite. “Oh my, another sin is this brandy cream sauce. Worth every. Single. Calorie.”
“You can burn those off with Cade later,” Sierra teases, raising her eyebrows at JoJo.
“Cheers to that!” JoJo laughs.
I manage to eat a few bites of my decadent pasta, but the knot in my stomach makes anything more than that impossible.
I try to keep focused on the conversation, and my friends continually engage me as a distraction. I appreciate their efforts and remind myself of the many positives in my life, like good friends.
As the server brings the check, my phone buzzes on the table.
I watch as it vibrates, and my heart falls into my stomach.
It’s usually around this time that Dishing Weekly releases their cover and the online magazine.
My chest squeezes tight as I pick it up.
Sierra and JoJo fall silent as I flip it over.
There is a notification from Dishing Weekly:
IS IT LOVE? NO! ENGAGEMENT OFF AS TOM DUMPS MILEY BECAUSE HE STILL LOVES SKYE! Tom Broaden gives exclusive interview to Dishing Weekly: “I want her back!” he proclaims.
We have the details straight from Tom, with the following bombshells:
*The producers suggested Miley was a better fit even though he loved Skye.
*Tom reveals how a heartbroken Skye told him she would “always love him” and “prayed he would change his mind” when the cameras were off.
*Is Skye truly happy with Maxime Laurent, the sexy Belgian hockey star? Insiders say the romance is not love and on the rocks!
Below that headline, there’s a picture of me walking alone in Boulder, looking exhausted and thin, with dark circles under my eyes. Nobody knows that was from working too hard. It looks like I’m brokenhearted again!
A chill runs through me as I realize how this appears.
It sounds like I’m not over Tom.
I drop my phone, sending it crashing onto the tabletop. I fight for air. I can’t bring myself to read the article. I’ll fall apart in public if I try.
I take a quick glance around to see if anyone is filming me. So far the coast is clear, but I need to pull it together fast.
“Skye? Skye?” Sierra says, her face blurring through my tears.
The headlines tell me this article is going to be full of my past, waved in Maxime’s face as if he doesn’t exist. It will also claim to know my life with Maxime, which is crap. Who are these inside sources, anyway? Aly? Made up people? Or people who claim they know me but don’t?
It will be hurtful garbage, a hack job of Tom’s version of reality, not mine.
A blurred reality, I think with anguish.
Except for my pathetic begging for Tom to take me back, which is all too painfully real. Tom will no doubt explain my heartbroken spiel word-for-word in the article.
I try to blink my tears away. Maxime is already fragile as far as Tom is concerned; he revealed his vulnerability to me this week. What will this article do to him? Will he believe that I’m over Tom? Will he decide he doesn’t need to be a part of this circus anymore?
I remind myself to breathe. I’ll go to the WAGS lounge and read the article. I need to get to Maxime after the game, to talk about this, to tell him this doesn’t change anything between us. I don’t want Tom, no matter what he says. I’ll apologize for the media that will no doubt intensify, during the most critical time of the season.
The last distraction Maxime needs, when he’s already carrying this team on his back for Gavin, is the press following him and shouting questions at him, trying to illicit a reaction. No, no, this is not the life he wanted.
But this is the life I’ll give him, if he stays with me.
If.
I must pour out my heart to Maxime, and hope the feelings in his heart are strong enough to get past this.
I pray it is.
Because I don’t want to know a life without him.