B009R9RGU2 EBOK (21 page)

“Do you want to tell me about it?”

“Do I have much of a choice?” I ask resignedly, peering up at my mom, whose tortoiseshell reading glasses hang from her neck.

“You’re here,” she says perceptively, moving aside the little tower of books I pulled and joining me on the carpet tiles. “I’d love to imagine you dropped by just to say hi and support an independent bookseller, but I sense you could use a shoulder.”

She’s right, even if my unannounced visit is as much a shock to me as to her. I got in the car after my disastrous dinner with Jacob, but instead of driving home, I found myself headed in this direction. The bookstore’s warm glow against the surrounding night was nearly magnetic. I wanted the comforting smell of books, the relative hush of evening browsers, the melodic jingle each time someone entered.

I wanted my mom. There, I said it.

“Oh honey, what’s wrong?” she asks, placing my head on her shoulder, a reassuring gesture from long ago that still feels instantly natural.

“What
isn’t
?” I tell her everything. Well, almost everything—she’s still my mom. My troubles with Jacob. The PG-13 trouble of Billy. My affected job. Tonight’s fight and the end of a relationship. Remarkably, the only interruption is when she has to excuse herself to ring up or help an occasional customer. By the time I’m done unloading, the front door is locked, closed sign turned, and it’s just the two of us plus Libro, who slowly crawls out of my lap, stretches, and then returns to his window-seat bed. A rough life that one keeps.
I’ll trade lives. I could use eight more shots at this
.

“
Do you
have a drinking problem?” my mom finally asks, as neutral as one can.

“No. It’s more a
thinking
problem, though too much alcohol doesn’t help.” And that’s the truth. I won’t blame booze for my problems. Yes, I’ve overindulged lately. But take it away and everything won’t be better. It’s the symptom of a bigger problem. An escape. I accept responsibility.

There’s something I have to ask. “Do
you
think I made a mistake?”

“Who’s to say? In matters of the heart, no one has all the answers. To be fickle is to be human. We have to embrace—and learn from—some trial and error. Your father and I just want you to be happy.”

“How did someone so wise as you end up with a daughter like me?”

“Switched at birth?”

“Mom! That was a rhetorical question.”

“Oh sweetheart, I’m kidding.” She kisses the top of my head. “You know, we two Atwaters are more alike than you imagine. Certainly more than you give yourself credit for. It’s why we sometimes butt heads.”

I look at her skeptically.

“For instance, you inherited my stubborn gene—though I suppose you got some help there from your father too. And you’ve got the drive, which is a wonderful thing… but it can be blinding if you’re not careful.”

“Oh, I’ve got plenty of time to ride it out right now,” I say, the thought of sitting at home insufferable. Now that I’m not buried in work, I don’t know what to do with myself. It must show on my face.

“Tell you what. Let’s surprise your father. Come home for dessert. Or dinner if you’re still hungry. We’ll take you any day of the week.”

I did barely manage to eat earlier. And the alternative is mentally replaying my conversation with Jacob in a despairing loop. Choice made.

“We’re on,” I say. “What’s for dinner?”

A very welcoming Lizzie
waits with me on the den’s couch, head resting in my lap, as my parents confer in the kitchen. Technically they’re discussing dinner options, but I know my mom is bringing the other half of the household up to speed on my developments.

I’m a grown woman but the enduring child in me irrationally fears she’s about to be grounded.

After a few minutes my dad sits down next to me, takes the remote from my hand, and mutes the TV I was only half-watching.

“How you doing, kiddo?” he asks in his straightforward way.

I know he’s not comfortable with lengthy discussions on feelings, but he’s never been one to back down from a challenge. And as I contemplate his question, I realize I’m okay. I mean… not really. I got suspended from a job I love; I’m heartbroken over losing my boyfriend. But actually, I’m okay.

We’ve been silent for a while and he’s still waiting for an answer.

“I’ll survive,” I end up saying. Not because I can’t talk to him about my problems, but mostly because it’s true. Right now, I’m just figuring out that I will survive. Not in a Gloria Gaynor way. Not yet. But I’m getting there.

“Okay, hon. Okay.” My dad is not the one who will push me to open up, or force me to discuss and rehash stuff to death. As a teenager I thought he was being obtuse or borderline neglectful because I wanted him to drag stuff out of me. I didn’t want to just answer the question. I wanted him to work for it. Now I see that he doesn’t miss a beat, my dad. He’s reading between the lines, and he knows me so well that if I have a serious problem, something I really need to get out… he’s let me know he’s available. And it’s up to me to take the next step. He can’t do that for me. So he’ll accept a vague answer, knowing that it’s either true and we can move on, or he’ll be hearing
more about it when I’m ready. Have I mentioned that I love my dad? I do.

“Sophie?” my mom calls from the kitchen. “I could use your help in here.”

That’s doubtful, as my mom is anything but deficient in the kitchen. But tonight I welcome the gracious invite, the opportunity to hang at her side. And true to her word, she puts me to work. Watching me butcher garden tomatoes for the salad, she silently takes the paring knife away and hands me the serrated bread knife. The simple switch takes the task from bruised and messy to perfect and painless. What did she say earlier? Trial and error. I get it now. In her own way, that’s my mom; leading by example, leading through love.

There’s no quick fix for my heart. The visit doesn’t erase the pain. But it does feel a teeny bit more manageable.

Hours later, I return home with a full belly and a doggie bag of optimism.

Little do I know how soon my resolve will be tested.

It’s Billy who breaks the new protocol. Four “work”
days into my Bennett/Peters exile, I wake up to find his text message:

Yes, I should have immediately deleted it, per Elle’s decree. Going directly against her wishes isn’t exactly the surefire path to restoring faith. Let Priscilla handle it. Walk away.

But…

I am going stir-crazy in my condo. The place has never been neater, and I’m up on all the
Real Housewives
and cupcake competition shows. I’m not under house arrest, but minus the structure of my old life, I’m too listless to take real advantage of the unaccustomed freedom. And what if a peer or client spots non-exhausted me? Staying in is my form of denial—as if the office is temporarily closed for fumigation.

I’ve been dodging Izzy’s calls for days.

But even I have my limits.

The request for my “expertise” stokes dormant publicist pride.

I’m curious. I’m bored.

Besides, Billy already knows the truth of my “exhaustion.”

And as Jacob made very clear—I’m single.

I make the call.

As it turns out, Billy’s message is a request for my “trusted female opinion” on potential wardrobe for an upcoming audition. I’m flattered that—of all people—he thought of me. Certainly I know enough about wardrobe—I work side by side with stylists for photo shoots and red carpet events to make sure my clients look exactly right in each appearance. I agree to help him out—and me in turn—appreciating the excuse to look presentable and get out of the condo.

It’s not a romantic rendezvous, I remind myself.

“So I was thinking you could come over to my place,” Billy suggests over the phone. “I never got to show you the back deck, pool, and hot tub. It’s perfect. We can hang out after maybe. And you can relax. Short of a helicopter ambush, the fence and landscaping keep it paparazzi-proof.”

Maybe
I’m
not the one who needs reminding.

In truth, this wasn’t our first communication since last week’s disaster. From my personal account, I’d immediately emailed Billy with the bad news before Elle or Wanda could initiate damage control. And I let him know I felt it’s not going to work between us. To his credit, he was understanding and, after a marathon text-messaging session, reluctantly agreed that we should try being friends. Once Billy discovered just
how much our budding “relationship” had cost me, he honestly felt awful. I barely dissuaded him from talking to Elle, figuring it would only make things worse. I knew better and need to accept responsibility.

It’s not that I’m not into him. But after realizing too late that Jacob was “the one” for me, I need a romantic time-out, a solid step back to determine my next move. Joining Billy at his Hollywood Hills home is a bad idea. His pheromones alone are intoxicating; I don’t need an entire house of possibilities. And if we’re spotted together, there has to be at least a shred of plausible deniability. Otherwise I may as well kiss my job 100 percent good-bye.

But I’m tempted in spite of myself.

“Maybe we can we meet somewhere… a little less intimate?” I say. “If Elle learned I was at your place…”

“Say no more. You’re helping me out. The last thing I want is to get you in trouble. Or
any more
trouble. Hey, I’ve got an idea. You know Clutch on Melrose?”

I do. It’s a stylish boutique à la DASH, owned by Missy Tyler, a former child actor turned reality TV star, who successfully spun her fame into retail versus rehab.

“Missy and I are old friends,” Billy says. “Well, old for this town at least. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind us taking over the VIP lounge a half hour or so before they close. If anyone spies us, you’re just out shopping. As you said when we met—stick as close to the truth as possible. Easier to remember.” Even across town, I can instantly picture his disarming smile.

Everyone wants to be famous, but as I’ve witnessed from the sidelines, the end of anonymity is no joke. We’re told, “Stars—they’re
just like us,” but it’s not like Billy can offer to meet up undisturbed at the local Starbucks or Coffee Bean. So compared to the literal hotbed of his reclusive mansion, a visit to Clutch sounds ideal. Maybe I’ll even score a discount.

“I’m in,” I say.

“Great. Let me give Missy the heads-up and I’ll text you the details.”

I’m about to disconnect and start pulling myself together, when he continues.

“And Sophie?”

“Yeah?”

“It’s good to hear your voice,” he says. “And for the record, I’m sorry about, well, everything.”

Me too.

A quick peek
at Clutch’s tucked price tags reminds me why the chic spot is not my go-to. But the covetable collection of clothing and accessories is incredibly well curated and meticulously displayed. It’s a richer girl’s candy store of fashion. The vibe is pure Hollywood Regency glamour, with antique mirrored storage, a bold sixties-inspired graphic rug underfoot, tailored white wingback chairs for lounging, and a cascading crystal chandelier. Imagine the love child of Kelly Wearstler and Rachel Zoe. The space smells divinely of fresh grapefruit and mint. Ella Fitzgerald is singing “Love for Sale.” Just try to resist.

There’s a small but gorgeous selection of men’s clothes toward the back. Any of them would fit perfectly into Billy’s versatile good looks.

At this hour there are only a few other shoppers present. I’m leaning against an ample table covered in perfectly folded tops in a range of gemstone colors.

There might have been less temptation at Billy’s.

“Sophie?”

I turn to a waify salesgirl with an enviable blowout. “Yes?”

“Your friend is already waiting in the lounge. Please follow me.”

Very discreet. I’m impressed. Thank you, Missy.

I follow my guide through a curtain and down a short carpeted hall separated from the other changing areas. She gestures to a closed door, nods, and leaves me.

Am I supposed to knock? I don’t want to barge in unannounced if Billy’s in there changing. I’m about to knock when the door suddenly opens and once again I’m face-to-face with the delectable Billy Fox.

“There you are,” he says, flashing his megawatt smile. “I thought I heard footsteps outside. Come in. I was worried you got lost.”

He looks good (surprise surprise) dressed casually in a white V-neck tee, Diesel jeans, and black motorcycle boots. A less tortured James Dean, with a tan. We embrace—or rather I stand there in the doorway, a little self-conscious in my teal DVF wrap dress and heels, as he hugs me, planting a brief kiss on my cheek, and draws me into the chamber.

I wasn’t sure how I’d feel seeing Billy again. On the ride over, I promised myself nothing had changed. My choice of Jacob arrived too late, but the rationale stands. I just need a
distraction. And if it’s a gorgeous slab of blue-eyed demigod, who’s to argue? But now more than ever, around him, I’m a whirlpool of emotions. It’s like my insides are a frozen yogurt swirl of lust, guilt, regret, and curiosity.