I’m not happy about going back to the scene of the cheating crime, but I’ll do it for Tommy. Even though it’s really for Dex. I swallow my pain, blaming myself for getting involved with him in the first place, and go inside with a huff.

His house is quiet, the house manager only coming twice a week while he’s on tour to check on things, organize mail, and dust. I help pay the bills while the guys are gone, so I know all of this. I know too much these days. I shut the door behind me and stand there, smacked by the conversation I was caught in the last time I stood in this spot. The disappointment that he could give us up so easily, that he could move on so fast, weighs my feet to the spot, hesitant to go further. I steel myself and head upstairs not wanting to waste any more time than necessary here.

His bed is made this time. I’m sure with fresh sheets, but the memory still remains. My senses tormented by the memory. Firenza taints that same bed that I once had sex with him in. My stomach rolls, so I take a deep breath, gripping my arms around me and focus on the job at hand. I direct my gaze to his nightstand where his charger sits, no phone attached, and I wonder if I should pack it. I walk over, reaching behind the stand to unplug it, knowing the answer already. The corner of a photo tucked under a leather book catches my eye.

I reach for it and pull, sliding it out from under its hiding spot. My breath doesn’t catch, it stops altogether as I stare down at a photo of me.

I don’t remember when or where it was taken. There’s a light reflecting in my eyes, the area around me has a red glow, maybe an after party from eight or nine years ago judging by my hairstyle. Two corners are bent and finger prints cover the glossy surface. I don’t know why Dex has it, but all that strength I gathered to get through this task suddenly evaporates. I sit on the edge of the bed and stare down at it. It’s a smile I don’t recognize as one I usually have, not posed for the camera, exposing an inner happiness, one not manufactured for others but instead by others.

Tucking it back under the well-worn leather book, I’m tempted to open the book. It looks like a journal though so I don’t. My thoughts are still on why Dex has this picture of me and it raises questions. Too many to work through right now.

“Ms. Floros, hello?”

I turn around and see his house manager. “Hi, Marguerite. Um…” Suddenly I feel the need to explain why I’m here as she looks at me curiously. “Dex needs clothes overnighted to him. He was running late, so Tommy asked me to come here and pack a case.”

“I can help you. I know where everything is.”

Relieved, I say, “That would be great.”

She goes to his closet and pulls down a duffle bag and has an arm full of T-shirts when she walks back out. “These are his favorites. I keep them together. That way he can find them easily. Maybe three pairs of jeans?” She sets the stuff down on the bed.

“Yes, that will work.” I start to put the shirts in the bag as she goes back to the closet for more clothes. Peeking over at her, I say, “I saw a picture on his nightstand.”

She stills, her hands stopping on a stack of jeans. She recovers quickly though and says, “Yes,” and nothing else.

“It’s of me.”

“Yes,” she replies when she returns. She sets the jeans down, her eyes lowered as well, almost seeming to avoid my questioning ones.

Wanting to pursue it more, I ask, “Can you tell me about it?”

“I’m not sure.”

“You clean his room. So you know it’s there. Has he ever mentioned it?”

“Ms. Floros—”

“Please call me Rochelle.”

Her kind smile reappears. “Rochelle, I’ve only ever had instructions, not explanations.”

“That sounds like Dex. He’s not the best at explaining his actions.” A dig I should have probably saved for him.

Walking to the dresser, she shuffles around and I continue packing the bag. She looks over at me and says, “It’s to remain there.”

I stop what I’m doing, and ask, “What is? The photo?”

“Yes, those are my instructions. He wants it there, except when he knows he’s going to be having company. Then I’m supposed to put it in the drawer.”

“Those are pretty specific instructions.”

With a small smile, she says, “Yes, they are.”

She doesn’t need to explain anymore, the drift is caught in her expression. After adding his boxer briefs into the bag, she puts two handfuls of socks, then disappears into the bathroom. She’s not gone long, but long enough for me to slip over to the nightstand and grab the picture. I tuck it into the bag, hidden from view just as she returns with a toiletry case and sets it inside the bag. It’s zipped closed. She grabs a little lock from the closet and fastens it. “Women steal his clothes. They all want a piece of him,” she says, protectively.

Grabbing it off the bed, I turn and head out of the bedroom. “I’ll ship it from the office address so they won’t know it’s his.”

Following me down the stairs, she says, “He cares about you.”

I stop with three steps to go and look over my shoulder. She seems like she might want to say more, but I don’t. “Thanks for helping me pack, Marguerite.”

“You’re welcome.”

Outside, I toss the bag in the back of my SUV and drive away feeling more confused than when I arrived, as if that was even possible. After I ship the duffle bag, I call the makers of his preferred drums. Cost is not a factor so they’ll hit the road themselves and have them delivered and setup for the show tomorrow. He’ll be happy. Tommy will be happy. And I can go back to dealing with my work.

Dear Cory,

I don’t want to talk to anyone else about this, so I hope you don’t mind my nonsense. I should be working. Should being the operative part of that sentence. But I have so much on my mind. I was just thinking the problem with plans, like working, is that your mind and heart don’t care about the day-to-day routines. They care about things that affect them and make them work harder, beat faster.

Today I had a fascinating conversation with Marguerite, Dex’s housekeeper. The conversation has played on repeat all afternoon and pretty much the entire next day.

I found this photo he had… I sigh. You know, I shouldn’t bother you with silly stuff like this. I miss you.

XO

I close the journal and think on the photo. A photo of me that he keeps on his nightstand only adds to the bewilderment I have over this whole situation. What Marguerite said about the photo makes me think that maybe there is something more to this story. But my more logical side cannot come to any solid conclusion to why he would lie to me. So I am stuck—do I believe what Marguerite said or do I believe what I saw?

* * *

I arrive at the café a few minutes early, but I’m impressed that Chad Spears has arrived even earlier. “Hello,” I say, approaching the table.

“Hi.” He stands and comes around to pull my chair out for me. We greet each other Hollywood style—a faux-kiss to the cheek. “You look beautiful,” he says.

“Thank you.” I sit down as he takes his seat across the small table from me. “Have you been waiting long?”

“No, less than five minutes.” The waiter approaches and Chad asks, “Champagne, Rochelle?”

“Are we celebrating?”

“Yes.”

“Champagne will be great then.”

The waiter walks away in a hurry, eager to please. I’m sure everyone is eager to please Chad since he’s famous.

Chad leans his elbows on the table and says, “I’m glad you met me.”

“You mean met you as a person or here today? Ha!” I joke.

“Both.” He smiles. Holding the menu, he asks, “Have you been here before? It’s early, but I’m hungry. Are you?”

“I haven’t been here.” Looking around, I add, “I like it. And I can always eat.”

The bottle of champagne arrives and our glasses are filled as menus are set down in front of us and specials announced. When we’re alone, I lift my glass and ask, “So what are we celebrating?”

“Us. To us and finally cashing in that raincheck.” He’s a charmer all right. Our glasses tap together and we drink. As I’m setting mine down, he asks, “How have you been?”

“Good. Busy with life. You know how it is.”

“Yeah, I head out next week—”

The waiter appears and asks, “Do you know what you’d like to order?”

Chad turns to him, but with a glance to me, he asks, “Rochelle?”

“I’ll have the Waldorf salad, light on the dressing.”

Chad orders plain grilled chicken and steamed veggies before turning his full attention back to me. “So as I was saying, I head out next week to start a project in Toronto.”

“Oh,” I remark, picking up my glass. I drink and listen as he talks about this movie for some indie director that he thinks could lead to an Oscar nomination for him. My mind wanders, remembering this is why I always got along with musicians better—they are less talk and more action.

My hand is grabbed and I look up at him. He says, “Okay?”

“What?” I ask, surprised. Busted for not listening. Oops.

His brow is furrowed as he pleads, “When she gets here, pretend to be my girlfriend. Okay?”

I realize I had not heard whatever led up to this question and thinking he realizes it too because he says, “This chick, she’s all over me all the time. She’ll come over here in a minute. Pretend to be my girlfriend. I’ve been trying to shake her for months.”

I feel bad for not paying attention and readily agree. “Oh. Sure. Okay.”

When he looks over my shoulder, he says, “She’s coming.” I start to look back, but he stops me. “Don’t look! Keep your eyes on me.”

“Chad, darling,” I hear over my right shoulder. “I didn’t know you were still in town. I would have called.”

Looking up, I recognize her as a popular LA socialite who lives to make tabloid headlines and not much else. He stands to greet her, effectively pulling me up with him. They European kiss—one on each cheek. She lingers and he tugs me closer. As she backs up, he wraps his arm around my waist and kisses me on the cheek. “Have you met Rochelle Floros?”

His arm snuggling me close doesn’t seem to faze her. Like Dex, maybe he just has a whole slew of fuck buddies. She replies, “I don’t believe I have, but I’ve spent a lot of time in New York and Miami recently. I’m Dotty Greensberg.”

Dotty Greensberg? I stifle a laugh and offer a hand instead. “Nice to meet you.”

“Rochelle is my girlfriend,” Chad states confidently.

I remain quiet, trying to channel the fake girlfriend role I’ve been asked to play.

“Girlfriend?” she asks as if the word is foreign to her, a glare directed at him. “So this is a new relationship?”

“Yes,” he replies. “Well, it was good to see you, Dotty.”

The waiter walks up with our plates.

She gives her best smile trying to hide her heartbreak. It’s obvious she likes him, but I’ve learned that it takes two or someone always gets screwed. “Yes, I should go. I’m meeting my agent at the bar.”

Chad releases me and I sit down, the charade almost over. They polite kiss each other goodbye and he sits down smiling. Putting his napkin back in his lap, he says, “I think that went well.”

“Yeah, seemed like she believed you.” Believe. Believe. Charades… Dex. I drop my fork.

Chad asks, “What is it? Your salad?”

Was I set up? Dex wants me to believe he slept with Firenza. Maybe he didn’t… or maybe he did. If he didn’t, why would he want me to believe a lie? He tried to say something, but I cut him off.

“Rochelle?”

I look back up at Chad.

He says, “You keep disappearing. Am I that boring?”

“No,” I say, shaking my head. “I just have a lot on my mind. I’m sorry.” Trying to keep my mind from reeling in conspiracy theories, I attempt to keep my attention on Chad.

“No problem. So how’s the band business?”

We fall into light conversation, easier than I expected it to be with him. But after spending time with him one-on-one, I have a feeling he doesn’t do deep conversation. He loves to talk fashion and gossip. I listen most of the time, not able to add too much to either of those topics. After we eat, I call it a day wanting to go home and think about things.

While waiting for our cars at the valet out front, I say, “Thank you for the meal and drinks.”

“Thank you for joining me. So I mentioned I’m leaving soon, next week in fact, but I have this party to go to on Sunday. Would you like to go with me?”

“Oh… like on a date?”

“Yeah,” he says, smiling. “Kind of like what we just went on.”

My head goes back. “Was this a date?”

“Was it not?”

My embarrassment is felt through the heat of my cheeks. “I’m sorry. Yes, of course. I just thought of it as more friends hanging out when you asked me.”

“I know you have a lot going on with the band and you know, your other things—”

“My kids?” I fill in the ‘other things’ for him.

“Yeah, your kids. But I like you—”

“But you like me? You mean in spite of my kids?”

“You’ll have to give me time. I’ve not dated anyone with kids before.”

I try to end his failed attempt to explain things as the hole he’s digging gets deeper. “Chad, I think we both can see there’s no romantic chemistry between us. I know about your history with Dex and I don’t know if that played into why you asked me here today, but let’s just stay friends. I had fun. We don’t need to ruin it with starting something that’s obviously not gonna work for either of us.”

He’s not sad. He’s not relieved. But he’s grateful. “I would have slept with you, you know.”

I laugh. “Geez, I appreciate it, but I’m all good in that department.”

My car arrives first. “Thank you again.” I smile as I walk away. “Break a leg on that new project.”

With a nod, he says, “Thanks.”

And that was the beginning and end of my relationship with Chad Spears. As soon as Dex came to mind, the date was already over in my mind. So now I need to figure out what the deal is with him and why I’m holding on so tight to the possibility. He’s only caused me heartache, but deep down, way deep down, he might be worth the pain.