Broken Promises (12 page)

Derrick walks in as if on cue and glances to the corner where we usually sit. “Hey, babe.” He waves at the maître d' as he strides toward me, kissing me on the cheek before sitting down at our little table.

“Hi.” My voice doesn’t come out right.

Derrick sits across from me and his dark bushy eyebrows meet. “What’s the matter? Are you okay?”

Before I can reply, the waiter comes over. “The usual?” We eat here at least twice a week. I’m in love with their ravioli and manicotti.

I nod and Derrick answers for us. “Yes, that’d be great.”

The waiter takes the menus and disappears into the back. The restaurant has a few people here, but it’s not bursting at the seams. My gaze wanders to the park and into the trees. The wind ruffles the canopy of leaves and a few drift to the ground.

“Mari, what’s going on? You look beat.” Derrick picks up the glass of wine I ordered before he arrived and takes a swig. He’s not a sipper.

“I need to tell you something possibly unpleasant.”

His lips curl up, and he laughs. “I’m sure it’s nothing.”

I hate it when he does that. “It’s not nothing.”

“Unless you had a random hookup last night, I’m sure it’s nothing. You always think every little thing is going to break us up, Mari. Have some faith in me. Now, come on and tell Derrick what’s wrong.” As he speaks, he picks up a piece of bread, dipping it in the oil and spices on the white plate between us.

Band-aid. Rip this sucker off in one yank. I don’t like that Derrick thinks it's nothing, that he’s not braced for it, but his ego is too big to accept that some things may faze him.

I clear my throat and glance out the window. “A long time ago, I dated someone. Last night he was in a car wreck and visited the emergency room.”

“Was the asshole drinking? I know how much you hate that.” He smirks, as if this is funny, dips the rest of his bread and shoves it in his mouth.

“Derrick, please let me finish.” He holds up his hand and leans back into his chair. I glance around at the other couples enjoying their lunches. I’ve done this before and with some guys it doesn’t matter that we are in a public place—they still flip out. No one wants to be compared to Trystan Scott. It creates an ego issue the size of the Titanic.

“Tell me, babe.” He prods when I’ve been quiet for too long.

I take a deep breath and dive in. “You know I’ve known Katie and Seth since high school, right? Well, I’ve known this guy that long, too. We were all friends a long time ago. Anyway, when I left the ER I discovered my car had been towed, so this guy gave me a ride. I was going to go home, but it became obvious he didn’t know about Seth, so I decided to wait for the confirmation with him.”

Derrick's smile slowly falls off his face as I list the events of the night. His arms fold across his chest, becoming tighter and tighter. It’s obvious by now I’m intentionally not saying this guy’s name. Derrick isn’t a total ass, so he asks about Katie and Seth. “Is he all right? Seth, I mean? I know Katie will be devastated if something happens to him.”

I glance away blinking rapidly and feeling tears spring into my eyes. “He didn’t make it.”

“Oh, God. Babe, I’m so sorry.”

I nod and keep going. “Thanks, but that’s not the end of the story. I stayed with the guy until we heard from Katie. I left early this morning and ran into some cameras. They took my picture, and it’s only a matter of time until they figure out my identity. I wanted to tell you before now, but from experience, guys act weird when they realize my ex is famous.”

His arms drop and he leans forward as he says, “Famous? You dated a celebrity?” He scoots closer, laughing, not taking this seriously. I’m sure he thinks that the guy is a micro star, someone he can ridicule and tease me about later. This reaction always leads to a yelling mess I can’t fix.

“It was a long a time ago before he was famous. We were kids.” I shrug and glance to the side when I see the waiter coming with our food.

He serves me first and then Derrick. Each plate is beautifully pristine and smells wonderful, but I’m suddenly not hungry. Derrick makes small talk, complimenting the dishes, and when our waiter leaves, he leans in and teases, “Well, spit it out. Tell me the name of this long lost lover I should be so worried about.” Derrick cuts his steak and shoves a piece in his mouth.

“No, you’re right,” I’m taking this in a different direction. I refuse to let this blow out of proportion and at the rate I’m going, we aren’t going to be able to come back here. “He’s not important.” Or he wasn’t important to me until last night. Or maybe before that. I have no idea. I stare at the ravioli thinking they look like little pillows and wish I could put my head down on the table.

“Then spill, Mari. If the guy doesn’t matter, tell me. Unless you’re ashamed you did one of those Hollywood pussies. If that’s the case, it’s okay. We all did stupid things when we were younger.” He winks at me and bites off another piece of steak.

The belittling comments piss me off, but I knew he’d be like this, so I tread carefully. “How’s your steak?”

“Excellent, as always. Come on, tell me his name. That’s why you wanted to come here, right? You thought I’d go batshit crazy when I heard you had some Hollywood asshole as a boyfriend five years ago?”

“It’s more like ten years ago. Almost.”

His smile drops. “Almost?”

“Yeah, it was nine years ago, ten in the summer.”

“You keep track?”

“Not really. It’s just bookmarked in my brain because I changed my major to pre-med after we broke up.”

He puts his fork and knife down, and then reaches for my hand. “This is obviously important to you. I’m all ears.”

“I don’t want you to be mad. I didn’t tell you in the beginning because I didn’t know how this would turn out, and—”

“Mari, you don’t have to sugarcoat it for me. Just tell me.” He sounds so open, so sincere that I let the name slip off my tongue.

“Trystan. Trystan Scott.”

His fingers slip from mine, and he gets that look in his eyes. His head tips to the side as his jaw drops the tiniest bit. That’s the look—the verbal ball-kick. Shit. He’s going to come out swinging.

Derrick picks up his glass of wine, swallows the rest of it, and places it back on the table. He licks his lips, and one eye goes squinty as he tries to fathom this. “You dated Trystan Scott, the musician? As in the guy Forbes claimed earned 600 million dollars this year? That guy? That’s your ex?”

Crap, crap, crap. “Derrick, he wasn't making big money while we dated.”

“You dated him when he had nothing, so you’re like thick as thieves, right?” he shakes his head like I betrayed him. “And Katie knew? She never said anything, and she knew. Unbelievable.”

“Katie dropped hints the size of the Hindenburg on a daily basis, and even if she should have said something to you, now isn't the time to remind her.” I’m suddenly playing defense for Katie.

Anger ignites across Derrick's face. “So, what then? Should I have guessed you dated the biggest pussy-hunter around? That asshole is a player and always has been. How the hell did you fall into his bed?”

His words feel like a slap in my face. “What, because Trystan Scott couldn’t possibly want someone like me? What the fuck, Derrick? Is that really what you’re leading with?”

“Yeah, Mari, that’s what the guy who’s been with you for months says when you drop a shit-bomb the size of a nuke on him. I thought we were serious. I thought we weren’t keeping secrets like this, and you know what? The worst part is this.” He pulls something out of his pocket and slams it on the table so hard that it bounces. I hear a clink as it falls to the floor and skids under a table. “I never saw it coming.”

He shakes his head, muttering to himself, drops a hundred dollar bill on the table and walks out.

The waiters watch in horror, as do the other customers. I’ve sat through this enough times that I no longer hide under the table afterward. I just gather my things and get ready to go. That’s when the manager comes over and picks up whatever Derrick threw at me. He walks over, looking like he wishes he were anywhere else.

“Signorina, I believe this was meant for you.” He places a ring on the white tablecloth and backs away.

It feels like someone is stepping on my throat when I lift the ring. It’s a platinum band with a satin finish. There’s a single stone—a princess-cut diamond—in the center.

Derrick was going to ask me to marry him.

CHAPTER 20

TRYSTAN

^“
Y 
our story is fucked up,” Jonathan Ferro says from the end of my couch. He's slouched against the pillows with his hands tucked behind his head. Jon’s been my best friend for years and stayed that way. As a Ferro family member, Jon understands what it’s like to be in the limelight, to have the world constantly judging you. It's been an easy friendship, especially before Bryan Ferro died. The three of us would tear up the town clubbing or hop on a jet and hit Vegas—you name it, the three of us were together. It's been harder to enjoy life since Bryan died, but his death has only solidified my friendship with Jon.

I’m at the bar grabbing a drink, but now that the scotch is in my hand I don’t want it anymore. I stare at the glass, swirling the amber liquid around for a moment, then abandon it. Sitting down across from Jon on a wood and leather chair, I nod and slouch back into the cushion. "Tell me something I don't know.”

“Do you know that you're completely and totally—beyond a shadow of a doubt—utterly pussy-whipped? Because I don’t think you took that into consideration at all.”

“Fuck off, Jon. Now's not the time.”

“When will be the right time? Five years ago, you did this thing for days where you stared at that shitty old phone wondering if you should call her.”

“I didn’t call her.”

“I know. You nailed my brother's girlfriend instead. Great choice, by the way. That made him love you even more—because you know how much Sean likes you already.”

“Sean can go fuck himself.” Why are we hashing out the past? Jon has this way of making his words fake a left followed by a right before he sucker-punches you in the gut. I brace for impact.

“He probably has, several times, but that’s beside the point. The thing that has your junk in a bunch is this girl. She's the same fucking chick from ten years ago! You nailed her. Move on!”

“It was nine years ago.” I realize I shouldn’t have corrected him after I say it.

Jon smirks and sits up, leaning forward to the edge of the couch, and slapping his hands down on the table. “That’s my point. You’re marking the days and pining over some bitch you can’t have. Get over it already!”

“I can’t. You don’t know what she does to me.”

“She’s not fucking here! Trystan, you have everything you ever wanted, and you drive your fucking car into a tree? That was for her, right? Damn man, you’re messed up. Get some Prozac or something before you do something more stupid.”

“Jon, it's not like that.”

“Then what’s it like, Trystan? From here you look fucking nuts.”

I lean forward in the chair and run my hands through my hair. I press my lips together hard, take a steadying breath and smile. I lift my hands and speak as calmly as possible. “Mari is the girl that got away, but I made her leave. I pushed her away. I burned any bridge between us and I did it on purpose.”

“What the hell for?” His voice raises an octave as he speaks. He can tell how much Mari means to me, so my actions make no sense.

“Because, I couldn’t be there for her. When she needed me most, I couldn’t be with her without bringing the fucking press along. How am I supposed to have a life with her like this? I thought one day it would die down, and everyone would forget about me.”

“You’re not a one-hit wonder, dude.” Jon laughs and sits back into the cushions on the sofa. We sit silently for a moment, both staring out the window before he shifts his gaze back to me. “So that’s why you stabbed her in the back? You didn’t know how to handle the press?”

I nod and hold my head in my hands, staring at the floor. “It was right before my first concert when her mom died. It was the only way I knew how to deal with it—what was I supposed to do? Show up at the funeral with paparazzi? That’s wrong on so many levels.”

“Trystan, this is part of your life. It might die down from time to time, but it’ll never go away completely. There will always be someone who wants to see the human side of you, and you’re right—they would have crashed her funeral and fucked it up. But that doesn't mean you should have left her.”

I put my hands on my knees and push up. I pace the floor in front of the terrace. “I can’t keep talking about this. I made the decision a long time ago, and I can’t undo it.”

“But you wish you could?”

“I don’t know. The same shit will go down at Seth’s funeral. I can’t do that to Katie.”

“But you can explain it to her and let her decide. You didn't give Marie that chance.” Jon stands up and walks over to the bar. He pulls a bottle of Coke out of the mini fridge under the bar and pops the top.

“You’re saying her name wrong. It’s Mar-ee, not Marie.”

Jon is chugging the soda. When he comes up for air, he apologizes. “Sorry, before today you've never even said her name. The point here is that Mari never had the chance because you never gave it to her. If you care about Katie, talk to her.”

“Of course I do. I told Seth I’d watch out for her if anything happened to him.”

“Good,” he says as if I'd just had a profound understanding of something.

“What’s good about any of this?” Jon is usually pretty straightforward, literal, and loyal. He’d give you the shirt off his back without a second thought.

“You may have lost one friend, but this situation gives you another chance—a chance you blew the first time that won’t come by again. You don’t make promises lightly, Trystan. I know that. Everyone knows that. But you can’t stop living your life because the press is on your ass. They're part of life for guys like us, and if I know anything about it, it’s that you need to let the people who love you decide shit like this. You belong to the public—you make your money because they like you. For them to like you, they have to have access to your life and all the shit that entails. I can tell the press to fuck off. You can't.”