“What would you say is your greatest fear?”
Emerson is sitting with her legs crossed in front of Entertainment News ruthless reporter, Kitty Seinfeld.
“I find that my answer continues to change as I grow older. What I once feared I no longer do. I guess, it would be having my daughter learn some lessons the hard way I did.”
Kitty is quick to fire off another question. “What if your daughter was to choose your same path? If we’re being candid here, you’ve made some questionable choices in your personal life and it has attracted drama.”
Kitty is a machine—a machine of drama. She is a typical blond-haired, blue-eyed, beautiful woman. The face that screams cheerleader back in high school. I often thought that women, or girls, like this had it easy. Never had to defend their ethnicity or explain why they don’t look white, nor look full Asian. Fits into a size 2 and hasn’t dealt with trying to find foundation that matched your skin tone because your skin is this weird pale-looking color that is not considered as normalcy.
Breathe. Nonsense rambling is not helping calm your agitated mood.
Truth: I didn’t like the way she dragged Wesley’s name through the mud. Though he probably deserved it.
She wasn’t the only interviewer that asked about him. Frankly—I was sick of it. No matter where we went, people were desperate to know about him. How he was doing, if Emerson and Wesley still remained friends, who he was dating. It surprised me how little they focused on Logan given he was her partner, not Wesley.
The interview carries on for another thirty minutes. Question, after question, and despite Kitty’s forwardness—Emerson was a pro. Emerson dominated the room and it was clear that it put Kitty in a foul mood. By the end, her questions were just stupid.
“Thank you.” Kitty extends her hand to Emerson; a fake smile in tow. It’s brief, and the moment she pulls away, she shouts for her assistant and demands that she gets out of this rat hole.
I purposely make it my mission to block the exit in order to say a few words.
“You know, Kitty, it sounds like you have an obsession with Wesley.”
Kitty lifts her head with a confused expression; quickly belting out a laugh shortly after. “Me? An obsession with Wesley Rich? Oh honey, been there, slept with that.”
My fists clench unexpectedly inside the pockets of my pants. With difficulty, I keep my eyes still, refusing to give away the jealousy that makes my blood boil especially since the image of Wesley fucking this woman is all I can now think of.
“Classy,” I respond. “I better not keep you waiting. I’m sure your vagina is looking for its next victim.”
“Excuse me?” Kitty folds her arms in distaste the same time her assistant yells that the driver is parked out front.
I lift my head, back straight, and walk away. When I hear her heels click away from the room, I’m quick to yell, “I hope you get crabs!”
Those that heard me, turn around in bewilderment. Not wanting to draw any more attention and make a further spectacle of myself, I focus on doing what I am paid to do—assist.
Georgia—Emerson’s makeup artist—touches her up with some foundation before her next interview.
“Do you need anything?” I ask, rather quickly.
“I’m fine, Milana. Go get yourself a coffee, you look beat and that crabs comment…Gold,” she chuckles lightly.
“I’m sorry, she just…irked me.”
“It’s fine. But you really need to let these things go. I’m used to it and the questions they throw at me—same, same.”
I smile, weakly, and make my way to the small kitchen that is adjacent to the room. I was utterly exhausted. Time zones are a bitch. Coffee had never smelled so good percolating in the small room. I pour myself a cup, bringing it to my lips to inhale the heavenly aroma.
My emotions were running high. I read, once, that sleep deprivation was the number one reason why people were emotional messes. That outburst towards Kitty was driven by my lack of control over mine and Wesley’s relationship. I knew he had baggage as do we all. I just didn’t expect the baggage to be following me around wherever I went.
I wish I was like Emerson. Confident and in control of her life. The question that Emerson was just asked, replays in my head.
What is your greatest fear?
Emerson had answered that question so easily. Comfortable in telling the world exactly what she feared. I could barely admit the truth to myself. My greatest fear involved Mom and every time I thought about it for a split second—that sick feeling would crawl into my stomach and force me to heave from panic.
And running a very close second is Wesley’s need to forward our relationship.
He was the bad boy. The one not supposed to get attached or even think about the future. It’s not like I didn’t want to move forward, but many times in the past week, he threw in quips about marriage and babies. A joke in his eyes yet nevertheless—it made me extremely uncomfortable given that we had technically been together for weeks. We hadn’t even hit that one-month anniversary.
We left on unusual terms. After the night I stayed at his place and witnessed what I believe was an exchange of narcotics, I distanced myself as much as I could allow. I came up with many excuses; Emerson needed me to work on some things, I had my period, and trivial things like I was going shopping for New York.
Anything to create some space between us and gain some perspective.
At first, he was unforgiving. Fought with me and demanded I drop everything for him. By day two, he was more understanding though came to visit and while Flynn stepped out with some friends—he fucked me three times and left for the night.
It was a rollercoaster of emotions. Feeling the need for space but when he touched me—I didn’t want him to ever stop. The confusion was overwhelming. I felt used and cheap after he left but appreciative at the same time because I just wanted to be alone.
He left for Vegas the next day—some business he needed to take care of—told me he’d see me when I came back from NYC.
I didn’t ask another detail.
About the impromptu “business” or if he had a drug problem.
I didn’t know how to help him.
The truth was—Wesley frightened me. There was always something about him, this aura of untamed madness that summed up the world he lived in. I got it, I really did. He had a not-so-perfect childhood and a mother who put her husbands before her son.
But the drugs were unknown territory for me. I was raised to turn a blind eye to drugs and Mom instilled into me after my brief usage of pot, how damaging it could be to my body. I listened, I allowed the fear to be instilled into me, and now—I was living it.
I was partly grateful that it had been non-stop chaos from the second we landed. New York City was one of those places that you either dreamt about visiting for your entire life or a place you avoided for the fear of crowds and dirty streets. It was like nothing I had expected. Compared to back home, it was loud, overpopulated and noisy. Cabs honking their horns for no apparent reason, driving like maniacs and almost crashing a dozen times.
I didn’t care for that unorganized nonsense. What I loved was the culture. The beautiful buildings with so much history behind them. The art galleries that people said were a must-do if visiting the city. Granted, we had been here only two days and most of it was spent indoors, though if I was to get a spare moment—I was hoping for the chance to explore.
The caffeine begins its journey into the depth of my brain and gives me a much-needed boost of energy. With two more interviews scheduled for the day, we dart between locations and battle the nasty storm that buckets outside, out of nowhere.
My cell is pinging repeatedly—notifications of weather warnings and emails from Charlie. Nothing from Wesley.
It’s odd behavior coming from him. I had sent him a simple text yesterday when we landed telling him we were here and explained that the day would be chaotic so I wouldn’t get a chance to chat much.
He simply responded with a K.
Infuriating but what did I expect? I wanted space and space is what I’m getting.
And how wrong was I to assume.
After Emerson’s final interview, she made her way back to the hotel and I decided to explore. With some free time, I had made my way to the Guggenheim Museum. I absolutely loved it, immersing myself in art. I didn’t expect to find art so…entertaining, fulfilling—smiling to myself as I walked around for hours. Losing track of time, I pull out my cell to call Mom as soon as I exit the building.
8 missed calls.
3 text messages.
All from Bad Boy Rich.
Why do you keep doing this?
Milana, please answer your phone.
Do you want me to call Em and tell her to put you on the phone?
I didn’t appreciate the threat and knew he was capable of doing exactly that. I dreaded this conversation, but knew I had to ease his worried mind.
“You’re alive.” I can hear the drag in his voice, the sound of a puff echoes through the receiver.
“I told you I would be busy. This is my work. You can’t expect me to drop everything for you.”
“Funny you should use the term work. Is that what you’re doing now?”
“I was at a museum.”
“Interesting. I thought you would have no time to chat since ‘work’ was so busy.” His maddening laughter annoys me deeper than I care to admit. “Common decency…heard of it?”
The heat in my cheeks begin to rise, the air around me stifling hot as the anger consumes me.
“I could say the same for you,” I grit, feeling suffocated by this conversation. “I told you I needed space, you refuse to give it to me. Let me process the fact that I saw you doing some drug deal outside your place in the middle of the night.”
Silence falls on his end.
“Exactly, I didn’t think you would have a response to that.” I shake my head, disappointed in him. “I have to go.”
I’m about to hang up since he chose to keep quiet, and just before I do, he calls my name one more time before admitting he was using right now.
Standing, alone, on this busy street in New York—I just wanted to break down. My short-lived happiness of visiting the museum and wanting to share it with Mom is once again overshadowed by Wesley.
“I don’t know what to say. Or how to feel. Look,” I switch my tone to more sympathetic, “I’m here until tomorrow afternoon then off to Vancouver. I need to clear my head, I think this will be good for us.”
“If you say so.”
“I believe so. Bye, Wesley.”
I wait for him to say goodbye, but it doesn’t happen, forcing me to end the call.
With a heavy heart, I battle the fierce wind that makes it difficult to walk and hail a cab back to the hotel.
Emerson and I were sharing the penthouse suite. Back at the suite, I find Emerson laying on the sofa FaceTiming Logan. She ends the call with her ‘I love you’ and turns to face me.
“You okay? You’ve been quiet today,” she says, stabbing her fork into a salad bowl she’s balancing on her lap.
“Full schedule. Just tired.”
“I’ve been meaning to ask you, how’s Liam?”
“We broke up,” I admit, quick to add a smile and derail the topic. “You looked so natural today with that mommy-blogger group this morning.”
“I’m passionate about being a mommy,” she beams, showing me some photos that Logan had sent her of Lola. “It’s hard being away. Really hard. I never expected to form such an attachment, you know? I always thought I’d be one of those moms that happily would hand off baby. Now I know why my mom cried when me and my brother left home.”
I understood, partially. Being away from your mother is tough. Though Emerson’s maternal instincts were something I just didn’t have. Motherhood, babies, a woman’s yearn to procreate—it wasn’t for me.
Liam had tried to convince me, but it only ended up in us arguing. Even Phoebe would try to persuade me by showing me hot men carrying babies. I protected myself when I had sex, I even researched tying my tubes. It wasn’t a phase and unlike other women, I welcomed my periods each month.
I wasn’t lying when I told Wesley I was getting them. I could have easily skipped the white pills and avoid them, but didn’t want to risk anything. My cramps were a dead giveaway that I would get them in the next two days and totally explained my mood.
“What do you say to you and me going out tonight? Have some fun, just us girls?”
“Sounds like fun.” I grin, happily. “In fact, I would love to. I think that’s just what I need…a girls’ night out.”
Aurora had rescued me from an almost fashion disaster. I didn’t expect to go out to some fancy club, bringing mainly work attire and a pair of jeans in case. It was late, and after today’s dramas, I could have easily gone to bed and called it a night almost regretting my earlier enthusiasm.
Emerson was raring to go, clearing it with Logan and ensuring we had two bodyguards on top. She planned for us to go to a low-key club that played Spanish music in a quieter part of the city. An older crowd frequented, though the tapas and sangria were apparently to die for.
Emerson looked gorgeous wearing a long-sleeved black dress and strappy heels that came almost to her knee. She complained about her hair being in terrible condition, asking Aurora to style it into a side wave.
I couldn’t fault Aurora on the dress she found for me. Ivory lace that sat on the tops of my shoulders, though slightly shorter than I normally wore; the hemline stopping mid-thigh. Aurora was vocal in telling me how much she loved my hair, styling it into waves that fell down my back.
“Argh…I love your hair so much. I really should stop cutting mine,” Emerson complains.
“I’ve always worn it long. Mom has long hair too. It’s just been our thing.”
“You never speak much about your mom, or back home for that matter.”
I smile. “How about we get to the club. A few drinks and I’m happy to talk about me.”
We got there a little after nine and still managed to get a table. It was in a great position, right in front of the dancefloor. The lighting was dim, creating a somber mood and exactly what Emerson wanted. No one in the club seemed to have recognized her and she told me it was nice to relax unnoticed.
We ate, delicious tapas and a seafood paella that was amazing. The dancers showed us their moves, while we laughed, drank sangria and enjoyed ourselves.
“We should find you a man,” Emerson giggles on her second sangria. “A man that can move his hips like that is bound to be good in the bedroom.”
“I can find my own man, thank you very much,” I laugh, my head spinning slightly from the sweet booze. “Besides, I don’t think there is anyone here under the age of fifty.”
Emerson sways to the music, glass in hand. “What’s wrong with a mature aged man? Maturity means experience. They know how to please a woman.”
I laugh. “Logan would kill you for saying that. Isn’t he your age?”
She dismisses my comment, finishing her drink and eating the fruit at the bottom of the glass.
“Yeah…I’ve always been with guys my age. But older men…something mysterious. Now, c’mon…how about that guy over there?”
I glance over, and see an older gentleman with silver-colored hair and he’s wearing a kravat.
“He’s old enough to be my grandpa.”
“What? No he isn’t. Maybe just one dance. Look at him.” We both turn, making it obvious that we were staring at him. “That hip replacement must really be working out for him.”
We laugh, loosely and almost in tears, feeding off our relaxed state from the sangria.
“I need a man that gets me. You know, someone that just makes me crazy in the bedroom and is wild. But also loves me and understands what I want,” I moan.
Emerson nods her head, pointing her stick at me and almost stabbing my face.
“I can find you a man like that. You’re beautiful, like seriously. I must have someone I know that would be your perfect match.”
“I like this guy,” I admit, followed by a loud hiccup. “But that’s it.”
“Do you have a dick pic?”
“Emerson!” I yell, throwing a peanut at her face. “I don’t, but even if I did, I wouldn’t show you.”
No shit. How awkward would that be? Boyfriend sends me dick pic and I show his ex. I’m pretty sure his dick is one of a kind and she would spot it straight away. I need to stop saying dick…it’s making me miss him.
“Boo…” she giggles. “Logan would soooo kill me anyway.”
“You guys are great together. You just mesh well. Like, he just gets you, and you get him. And when you argue, you make up and no one loses.”
Emerson lifts the jug, her hand unsteady as she pours some into her glass—spilling a little bit on the white tablecloth.
“That’s why I love the guy. When I was with Wesley, it was so toxic. He was toxic. Seriously, what a waste of time.”
My stomach caves, either the sangria or Emerson’s opinion of Wesley is making me want to throw up. I take a deep breath, swallowing then finishing the rest of my drink which momentarily takes all the pain away.
“You guys must have had good times. He’s kinda hot,” I admit, rather foolishly.
Emerson raises her brow at me; my cheeks reddening from my brazen comment. I drink harder, forcing myself to forget I had even said anything.
But I was desperate.
I wanted to talk to someone.
Tell them that I was falling for him and didn’t want to admit it.
That it had been such a short time and impossible to feel this about someone but I did. And I hated it. I hated the anxiety of being in love with someone that didn’t feel the same way about me.
“Wesley is Wesley. When things were good between us, they were good. When they were bad, his true colors showed.” Emerson relaxes her shoulders, smiling softly. “I always worry about him, despite him being a dickhead half the time. I don’t know…he has a troubled past and I wish he could just move on, you know?”
I knew. I wanted the exact same thing.
“From what I’ve heard, it’s just a giant mess. What about that Farrah girl?”
Emerson shakes her head, rolling her eyes with disgust. “Ignore her. She thrives off attention. If you ever meet her, you’ll know what I mean. She will make a move on any man…she’s even tried to hit on Logan.”
“What about these claims that Wesley got her pregnant?”
“I don’t know…he told me it wasn’t his. I kinda believe him. Wesley’s not a kid person. I don’t see him wanting a family. He didn’t take to mine and he hated being around small kids.”
I smile, widely and with a bout of happiness. Those words, simple yet comforted me in ways I didn’t expect to feel at this moment. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe, all along, I was focusing on what I expected he would want rather than what he actually wanted.
I grab my cell, open up a text and send without any hesitation.
I love you.
I probably should have regretted it. But I didn’t. I bask in this euphoric state, allowing myself to live—if only for this moment—and follow what my heart and head were so desperately in sync with.
And moments later, in the middle of Emerson’s drunken cha cha with some old lady, my cell lights up on the table and his name is there, in bold.
About time. I love you too, baby.