It was time to get answers.
I stare at the computer, fighting back the excessive blinking from the strain of the flickering screen.
My vision is blurred; a rainbow of colors and shapes that make no sense at all. The palm of my hand is covered in sweat, nervously twitching on top of the mouse. My chest tightens, my heart beating erratically like a crazed lunatic trapped inside an asylum.
The clock on the wall is loud. Every sound in the room is amplified.
Or perhaps—I’ve officially gone insane.
The tips of my fingers move on their own accord, typing so slowly that each key echoes inside our barely furnished apartment.
His name sits within the search engine. All I needed to do is hit search. Simple, right? There would be no turning back. No erasing of information that would find a home inside my reactive brain and just remain there forever because it had this stupid way of retaining information I didn’t need.
Like the time I accidentally read a love letter from my dad to my mom. It started off like a romance novel then quickly progressed to X-rated porn. And the time I walked in on my brother helping himself to a copy of Hustler perched on his bedside table. Information I retained yet was desperate to erase.
Click.
My eyes wander hastily across the screen. Millions of findings and an overload of information that seemed too much to handle. Where do I start? How, and why, would there be so much information on one human being?
The second finding from the top is a popular website. I figure it would be the most trustworthy resource, and within seconds—his profile appears.
There’s a picture of him on the top right corner. Dazzling smile with hair styled like a movie star, dressed in a black tuxedo and matching bow tie. He looks nothing like the man I know. Facial hair non-existent and skin that looks flawless. There’s no dark circles around his eyes and more notably, the scar that scrapes the bottom of his jawline can’t be seen.
Okay, breathe. Just read the bits you want to read and forget the rest.
Wesley Wade Richland (born September 3, 1987), known professionally as Wesley Rich, is an American actor. Rich became famous on reality television as one of the leading stars in Generation Next.
He most recently starred in the controversial movie Riding the High playing a troubled man Dexter Dickson who was born to an addict mother and shows how it impacted his life. Critics praised Rich on his ability to portray such a disturbed character and many believed that the fictional story was not so far from the truth.
In 2013, Rich was scouted to appear on an upcoming reality show that followed the lives of young adults and their generation. It was during the first season that viewers watched Rich fall in love with co-star Emerson Chase. Their relationship became a media frenzy with Forbes dubbing them the next power couple. It was estimated that their combined fortune was over $80 million after negotiations for a third season leaked and the two stars were reportedly earning $1 million per episode.
At the beginning of Season 3, Rich proposed to Chase in Paris and soon after, the cracks appeared each episode. Rich had been caught in a drug scandal which prompted his breakup with Chase. Fans took to social media blaming him for his addiction and infidelity that led to the split. Rich admitted on a reunion show that he struggled being in the limelight and spent time in rehab after the season aired.
Rich’s personal life made headlines again, including reports of alcohol abuse and allegations of domestic violence against former co-star Farrah Beaumont which resulted in her miscarrying a baby. He was arrested for DUI in Miami on New Years’ Day; the accident he was involved in caused an elderly man to be in critical condition. Rich was sentenced to jail for 12 months but the judge released him on probation after two months.
Gina Geller, Rich’s mother, publicly came out that her son had been abused as a child by her former husband and billionaire tycoon Harold Green. Rich responded to her claims on social media calling her a ‘pathetic excuse for a mother’ and leaking information about her four previous marriages. During this heated family feud that played out publicly, Rich was accused of being an accomplice in the Malibu drownings which saw two ladies’ bodies washed up on shore. The judge ruled out foul play and Rich was acquitted on all counts but his longtime friend, Max Kane, was charged for sexual assault.
I push my chair back as far away from the computer as possible. The heat inside the room is at boiling point. I run to the window in a frenzy to open it and breathe in fresh air. The outside noise and hustle of the neighborhood surround me yet I’m tone deaf. Words after words repeating in my head and taunting me over, and over, again.
This man—in my eyes—deserved so much more than a slap on the wrist and a stint in rehab.
He is also my boss’s ex-fiancé.
He is dangerous.
Danger had a way of finding me, or maybe—I was the dangerous one.
My cell flashes on my bed; a stream of messages from the man himself.
Bad Boy Rich.
I fall onto my bed; the duvet welcoming my fall as I stare blankly at the ceiling. I’ve stared at this ceiling numerous times. It has almost become a friend—a long-lost pal that opened its arms and let me pour my heart out until I was all cried out.
It allowed me to stare at it the first night here, the night I struggled to sleep with my impending interview the next day. When I missed Mom, and everyone back home, it would silently watch me as their voices filled my head and the memories became music to my ears.
We had this bond—me and the ceiling. Perhaps we were kindred spirits, or maybe—I’ve officially lost my marbles.
My cell lights up the room. The vibration is loud and obnoxious with its demanding presence. I guessed it was him. The man that decided to up and leave with no explanation.
The man that had so much baggage that the term ‘excess baggage’ would be a complete understatement.
He was carrying a cargo liner of baggage. Destination: Wherever you shouldn’t follow him.
But my curiosity got to me. My hand reaches over, and as I roll to my side, nestling my face into my pillow—I read the texts that flood my cell.
I keep fucking up.
Milana, answer me.
My head, I’m just…not in a good place. Fuck. I’m sorry.
I should have responded. It would have been the noble thing to do. Instead, I leave him hanging. I wasn’t his shrink; I would help him as much as I could but I had my own problems. Emerson was right, Peggy was right. The Internet painted a disturbing picture of him.
I had sense.
I am intelligent.
I WILL stay away because that’s what good girls do.