“What you’ve experienced is called a panic attack.”
The doctor—summoned to our hotel by a worried Emerson—explains how stress is a huge element and my first, yet short, panic attack—was induced by everything going on in my life that overwhelmed me and snowballed into one intense moment.
She spoke in great depth about well-being, the measures I needed to take in order to reduce, if not stop, this from happening again. She called them triggers. Something, a warning sign, that would prompt me to find a coping mechanism before I reached that point again.
I understood, but so much of what she said seemed far-fetched and unreasonable. So I had some personal problems. I wasn’t a kid, I could face these problems and move on. I didn’t need help from professionals nor did I need to schedule an appointment with some overly expensive doctor, who would listen to me talk for an hour and charge me a fortune.
Doctor Peterson prescribed some medication and recommended I spend the day resting. That piece of advice—I welcomed with open arms.
Emerson listens attentively, asking questions on my behalf while I continue to lay here like a vegetable. I was exhausted. My limbs felt like jelly; my eyelids barely able to remain open and acknowledge that Doctor Peterson was leaving.
The whole ordeal had been one giant blur. I couldn’t even remember how I got here. What I do remember is listening to my voicemails, hearing Mom’s voice and feeling overwhelmed by fear as she mentioned my Grandpapa.
Then—there was the issue of the media finding out about mine and Wesley’s relationship. The paparazzi were relentless, and if my memory serves me correct—a few were stationed outside this hotel. I don’t recall their faces, nor their questions, but their invasive behavior annoyed our security guards. Thankfully, Emerson was a pro at avoiding them, dragging me with her and covering our faces with immensely large sunglasses she had in her purse.
Sitting on the edge of my bed dressed in her sweats, a sad smile shadows Emerson’s normally positive aura. Letting out a deep sigh, she places her hand on top of mine and rubs it gently.
“I’m here, if you need to talk. I won’t judge, and I’m sorry I judged you earlier. It took me by surprise…I’m sorry.”
She loses herself for a moment, deep in thought before continuing. Much like myself, she had dark circles under her eyes from the grueling trip and our big night out. Though, she still was beautiful. Natural, and flawless, in her own right.
“When I first signed up to Generation Next, the reality show, I had no clue what it was like to be in the spotlight. My brother Ash, and Logan, had just been scouted. They were famous for their abilities, lived and breathed soccer. Me…I was on TV and didn’t expect the level of fame that came with it. I also didn’t expect the intrusion.”
I listen, resting my head against the pillow and pulling the blanket up closer to my chin, keeping my body warm.
“I guess it’s why Wesley and I were right for each other at the time. He was going through the same thing, and we both felt trapped. If our lives would play out on TV, wouldn’t it be easier to be with someone that was experiencing the same thing?”
“Tell me,” I ask, softly, “about you and Wesley. I want to know it through your words, not the tabloids.”
She shuffles her legs onto the bed, crossing them beneath each other.
“He was gorgeous. Every time I was around him, we had this flirtatious thing we would do and I loved it. I wasn’t stupid, women wanted him and I guess, if I’m being honest, I wanted to be the one that had him—not them.”
I smile, without the bitter attachment, because I understood exactly what she meant. This possessive hold over a man unattainable is a force to be reckoned with. I had never felt something so powerful.
“He’s charming.” She grins, adding a small laugh. “When he’s in a good place he is so creative and driven. Do you know, part of our dry-fit technology concept was because of him?”
“I thought he had nothing to do with it?”
“He came up with the basic concept, then we passed it on to a technical team to move forward with the rest. I just wish he didn’t mix with the wrong crowd. Like I said, when he’s on, he’s on. But when he’s in that dark place…it’s hard to pull him out.”
“And his mother, what did you think of her?”
Emerson’s laugh is short but full of contempt. “She’s determined, that’s for sure. Unfortunately, I don’t trust her. She’s so hung up on wealth that she doesn’t realize she has a son that needs attention.”
Gina struck me as exactly that—gold and fame digger.
“But I don’t think Wesley wants her attention.”
“I think you’re right, to a certain extent. You can’t erase the past and she’s done her damage. But I guess, being an optimist, it doesn’t have to be that way in the future. She needs to find her way and Wesley needs to find his without her constantly bringing him down.”
I bite my lip, holding back my fears but at the same time, desperate to unleash what my heart so eagerly wants to communicate. And if anyone would understand what it’s like to walk a mile in my shoes—it would be Emerson Chase.
“It hurts me to see him that way, I could never imagine living a life without a supportive mother. I just…I just don’t know how to help him. I know he wants more from me, but I can’t give it, Emerson. All I have to give is to my mom. She needs me, not him.”
The sobs remained trapped in my chest; my tears unwillingly fall silently against the white pillow as I remember the voicemail from Mom. I couldn’t bear to see this happening; the woman I love and looked up to deteriorating at this slow and agonizing rate.
“I miss my mom, every day and it hurts.” I wipe my tears against my sleeve. “God, I know I look stupid. I’m too old to feel this way.”
Emerson pats my leg, comforting me and listening.
“No you’re not. I miss my mom too. We talk almost every day on the phone. When I leave her, I cry too. It’s hard being away from your family, but on the bright side, one day—you’ll have a family of your own and your kids will feel the same way.”
Slow and steady, I open my heart and tell Emerson what I have never admitted to anyone else. Not Mom, not Phoebe, and maybe—not even myself.
“I don’t want kids. I’m terrified that I’ll have the same disease as Mom. And you know, I just couldn’t do it to another human being. It’s not fair to have to worry all the time whether or not they’ll remember you tomorrow.”
Emerson keeps her judgment at bay, nodding her head and understanding my fear to procreate. A huge part of me felt relieved—a weight off my shoulders.
“I understand how fear plays a huge part in the decisions we make. But if for some reason you meet that guy you want to be with for the rest of your life, don’t shy away from creating a family. Blessings can come in all forms.”
My gaze wanders to the window, watching the sun set in the horizon. It’s stunning and perfect in so many ways.
“I love him. I don’t know why. But I do.”
The bed moves slightly. Emerson is sitting by my side with her arm around my shoulder. I bury myself into her chest, grateful for her support in this moment.
“I shouldn’t, nor have the right, to question why someone loves someone else. But Milana, I will tell you this. Be careful, please. As much as I love Wesley for what we once had that was good, he also has a side to him that isn’t. And I don’t wish that on you. Just follow your instincts. In the end, what happens, happens.”
I could have gotten angry at her for throwing him into the negative bin again, but I knew the truth behind her words because if there was no truth—I wouldn’t be feeling this way. I would be on the phone to him, happy and telling him how much I loved him.
Instead, I was here—confiding in his ex-fiancée.
Emerson’s cell vibrates in her lap, and it’s Logan, FaceTiming her.
“You should get that. Tell him I’m sorry, please.”
She stands up, pursing her lips and smiling only just. “I will deal with him. You deal with your own worries, okay?”
Emerson leaves the room the same time I hear Logan shouting over the speaker. Quickly climbing out of bed, I hover towards the door and listen to the conversation as Logan is yelling at Emerson.
“I fucking told you to end this! You never fucking listen to me. You always want to do your own thing and defend him. I swear Emerson, you need to fucking choose once and for all because I am DONE with him being in our life.”
“You’re angry, but this is not my fault. I can’t control people’s feelings,” she says, raising her voice in frustration.
“You know what? I asked Milana to deal with Wesley. I didn’t want him around you anymore. But hey, I didn’t expect her to spread her legs and fuck him.”
“You’re being an asshole right now. I will talk to you when you calm down, you understand me? And you can kiss having another baby goodbye!”
She ends the call; letting out a loud groan and stomping her feet with anger.
It was all my fault.
If anything should happen to Emerson and Logan—I could only blame myself. The same feeling I had with Mom. I shouldn’t have left home. If I didn’t, she wouldn’t have been this way. She would have remembered that Grandpapa died years ago. Everything would have just continued on.
I drag myself back to the bed, thinking about what Logan said. He made me sound like a whore. I contemplated calling him directly but change my mind quickly.
Beside my bed is a nightstand with a fancy lamp. My cell, sitting on top—has nothing from Wesley. I wasn’t sure if I should be relieved or worried.
I scroll through my contacts, in a clouded and frazzled state, and dial the number.
“It’s me.” I cry softly into the speaker. “Are you there? Say something.”
There’s a long pause. Each second that passes—hurts more and more.
“I’m here. Milly, what is going on with you?”
Phoebe’s concern is comforting and exactly what I needed. A piece of home, even if it was just a phone call. I missed everything about her, and hearing her voice brought back so much of myself that felt incomplete since the moment we stopped talking.
“I don’t know, Phoebs. I just fell…like hard and I’m scared. I’m losing everyone but I can’t pull myself out of this alone. Then there’s Mom…she’s getting worse.”
“Breathe…one, two, three.” Phoebe breathes into the speaker like she’s giving birth, making me laugh through my tears. “When you’re ready—spill.”
I poured my entire heart out to her. Everything from the moment I met Wesley to this evening. Phoebe listened quietly though my stupid phone kept buzzing from call waiting. I ignored it, wanting to hear her voice and nothing else.
“Jesus, Milly, it’s like a soap opera. What has Hollywood done to you?”
“Not Hollywood—Wesley.”
“You’re in love. This is scaring you because you’re in love with him. You’re in love with a movie star!” Phoebe screams, loud.
“What?!”
“You’re in love with a movie star who is also your boss’s ex-fiancé. This is everything in life you’re against. Movie stars and shitting where you eat.”
I sigh loudly, turning the lamp on as the night falls and the darkness creeps in.
“I don’t think that expression applies to this situation and it’s gross.”
“Milly, I’ve known you forever. This isn’t you. He isn’t what you’re about.”
She had known me forever and stated the truth. Wesley was not what I was about…if I was about anything. But what if that was no longer me, scared, timid Milana—who would run any time anything changed? Here I was now, the complete opposite.
“I miss home.”
“I know you do. We miss you.”
“We?”
“Me and Liam. He asked about you again, for like the hundredth time. He still cares. It’s not too late, you know.”
“That boat has sailed, Phoebs. Liam and I are just Liam and I.”
“And you and Wesley are…”
“Wesley is crazy. I am…in love,” I finally admit, openly, to her.
“And that, my friend—is the answer to your problem.”
I think about what she is saying, and stupidly I question: Why should love be a problem? Isn’t love supposed to be the greatest thing to happen to you? The world becomes full of rainbows, unicorns frolicking around, and all you can see is crisp clean air and hear the sounds of a beating heart that bursts every day with joy.
Love is not—crying each day. Love is not questioning whether you should pick up the phone and call him because you fear his mood swings and erratic behavior. Love is not asking for space.
And if love is not self-inflicting pain and falling back into his arms because in a twisted way, it comforts you—then what is it I’m feeling?
The exhaustion hits me; the yawns coming hard and fast while I barely say goodbye—my phone face-planting me several times. Phoebe reminds me to call her later, something about catching me up on who is dating who in town, and the latest controversy with her neighbor’s teen pregnancy.
I doze off, only to wake to a commotion, unknown voices and some yelling. The doors to my suite swing open, forceful and slamming against the wall, with Wesley standing between them, wild and monstrous. He appeared larger than usual; built physique, wearing a black hooded jumper and grey sweats. His beard, normally well-kept, is over-grown and covering his lower face.
Emerson is quick at his heels, pulling him back which he ignores, shaking her grip off him which only frustrates her more. His gaze is steadfast, hard against me, and his breathing is abnormally noisy—the only sound echoing in the room.
“Wesley, stop. Calm down will you,” Emerson commands, her tone rigid.
“Leave us, please,” he grits, nostrils flaring with a piercing stare.
“No. You’re crazy. Are you on something?”
“It’s okay,” I tell her, rubbing my eyes and sitting up. “You can leave us.”
“Are you sure?” Emerson glances at Wesley, staring him down with worry. “I’ll be right outside dealing with security and a fiancé that will no doubt tear me to shreds.”
She leaves the room, closing the door behind us. Wesley paces back and forth, head bowed with a heavy step, clenching then unclenching his hands.
I’m not surprised to see him here. He has a way of finding me, wherever I may be. I’m still tired though I had slept, my anger controlled, perhaps from my exhaustion. And despite his clear anguish, I missed him.
But I wasn’t going to tell him that.
I needed to talk to him.
Set it straight—once and for all.
“Well, you’re obviously here for a reason.”
“What part of a relationship don’t you understand?”
“Here we go again,” I say, defeated, throwing my hands in the air. “I leave for two minutes and you’re acting like a caveman. Give me a fucking break! Do you know what it’s like to have cameras point in your face demanding you tell them if you’re fucking Wesley Rich?”
“No…YOU GIVE ME A BREAK!”
His hands nervously run through his hair. I could see now, at closer range, his bloodshot eyes that Emerson must have noticed. He must be on something. The deal, the other night, he was high or whatever happens when you’ve taken something. He needed help, I couldn’t do this. This was beyond me.
“I can’t fucking think straight, Milana. You think it’s fun not calling me, playing these useless mind games to fuck with me? I know you read my texts, I know that you go out and have fun, dancing or whatever the fuck with other men. You think I just sit around and not think about you? I can’t fucking breathe. All. The. Time.”
“And do you think it’s easy for me? This life—your life—is not what I know. I don’t know what it’s like to have every move watched. What happened yesterday terrified me. On top of that, I had broken an important relationship because of us.”
“What? Your fucking ex back home?”
“No. Emerson.”
He remains quiet, lifting his head and biting his lip. I knew he craved a drag; same thing he did every time.
“You always do this. Smother me when I ask for space.”
“You didn’t ask for space,” he reminds me, bitterly. “You said you can’t do this.”
He is right. I gave up, ran, threw everything into the too-hard basket. If I loved him—which I openly admitted—why did I give up so easily?
“I have no clue how to be in love. This is…overwhelming. I just want time to process. I have so much going on and I just don’t know what to do, what to say, everything is getting to me. Your life, in the spotlight, I don’t know how to cope.”
“You have no clue how to be in love?” he repeats, a rough smile playing on his lips. “You love me. Yet you said you wanted out…”
“Yes.” I can’t look at him, but then, I listen to this crazy heart of mine, raising my cards to meet his, checkmate—baby. “Just like you’re in love with me.”
The emotions, raw and exposed between us in the flesh, exert their power while we stand here in the same room though what feels like miles apart.
“Well, why didn’t you say so? Could have saved me an expensive plane ticket and a possible violation with Canadian law.”
He moves closer to me, leaning over the side of the bed and bending as his hand
grazes my cheek. The surface of his skin, soft yet manly, is all I needed. I close my eyes, at peace—basking in his touch and allowing myself to feel it rain all over me. How easily the simplest of gestures wash away the pain.
“You want to process. Then process.”
“You mean it?”
“You love me.” He breathes with a weightless gaze. “That’s all there is to it. Process, be merry, I’ll be waiting back in the States.”
With a slow burn, he bridges the gap between us, purposely hovering his lips above mine. I wanted to taste him on me. It felt like forever since we had been intimate.
I smile, releasing a satisfied sigh. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, but you know, I came all the way over here, you tell me you love me, and I love you. I think it warrants that we make love…if that’s what love is.”
I laugh, softly and tired. “It’s kinda that time of the month.”
“I don’t care.”
He hovers over me, using his arms for support. The veins in his neck bulge as he leans in, sucking my bottom lip achingly slow. My hands find their way to his cheeks, caressing his face and guiding his mouth onto mine each time he pulls away. That fluttering feeling inside my stomach amplifies with the hammering beats of my heart.
“Okay, well I don’t have it now.” My voice is muffled in between our heated kisses. “But I’m cramping so it’s coming and it would be kinda awkward if the hotel staff had to clean up a mess…”
“Shhh… I don’t care.”
“Wesley.”
“Milana.”
He slides his hands into my shirt, touching my nipples softly and causing me to melt between his touch. I craved him, I wanted all of him, and maybe this is what it felt like to be in love. This moment, forever, just the two of us. Nothing could break this.
“I love you,” I whisper again, his eyes on top of mine and with a need for validation.
“I know,” he whispers, rubbing his thumb along my lip. “It’s just us, okay. You and me.”
“You promise?”
He kisses me softly, replacing the sexual element with an urge of love. “I promise.”