Lovestruck in Los Angeles (24 page)

I nodded, still not looking up. It was all well and good to say that when she wasn’t sitting on my side of the table.

Bill returned a moment later, and Ellen stood. I followed her lead, on autopilot, and reached for my wallet when Bill picked up the leather folio with the bill from lunch. “Don’t be silly,” he said, chuckling. “Our treat.”

“Lizzie, it was wonderful to see you again,” Ellen said, reaching for me. She gave me a brief hug and a kiss on each cheek, the way she had last time. I remembered being so tickled by that action, how literary it had felt to me at the time. Now I just felt sick.

Bill took my hand in both of his. “It was lovely to meet you, Lizzie. I really hope we’re able to work together.”

I nodded, hoping the fake smile was still plastered to my face. “I’ll be in touch,” Ellen said. “Drive safely.”

“Thank you for lunch.” It was strange, the way my voice sounded almost normal. “I really appreciate it.”

Finally I was free to walk away from the table, free to turn my back on my mortification, free to climb into my car, finally alone, where I could close my eyes in the quiet and let the tears fall.

Chapter Nineteen

I had promised to call Callie, but I couldn’t bear it. My mother, too, had called shortly after the meeting, leaving a message to let me know she was wondering how it had gone. “I’ve been praying for you all morning, Mija,” she said. “I’m so proud.”

Proud. I snorted into my wine glass, pulling my knees up to my chest. So much to be proud of.

The weather had unexpectedly turned ugly during my drive back from Brentwood. I sat on the deck, a bottle of red wine on the table in front of me, watching as the storm moved across the ocean. The clouds were dark and rolling, and the wind whipped my hair lose from it’s carefully polished bun. And still I didn’t move to go inside.

They hadn’t cared about my book at all. Sure, they said the right things about enjoying it and how they saw it being successful, but that wasn’t why they wanted to sign me. It had nothing to do with me at all.

There had been pictures in all the papers that weekend of Thomas and me at Disneyland. They’d gotten some really good shots of the two of us, laughing our heads off on the spinning teacups.
People
magazine had even picked them up.
A fairytale romance at fairytale central
, one caption had said. Funny how Ellen had called me only days later.

The disappointment was nearly as strong as the embarrassment. What was I going to tell people? I’d been so stupid, so excited to tell my mom and my cousin, Imogen and Callie. I’d even called Meghan back in London, asking for her interview tips. And now what?
False alarm, guys. They were just interested because of who I’m sleeping with.

I closed my eyes, the mortification washing over me all over again. I couldn’t believe I’d been so hopelessly naive.

“Lizzie?” Thomas called from inside, and I jumped. What time was it? How long had I been sitting out here?

I heard the sliding door open behind me over the wind. “Lizzie?” he called again. “What are you doing out here?”

When I didn’t respond, he came around to stand beside my chair. “Love? What’s wrong?”

I looked up at him, this man I loved so much, and felt sure I was going to burst into tears again. Instead, I just shook my head, returning my attention to the stormy ocean.

“Lizzy, you’re freaking me out.” He knelt beside my chair and took my hand. “You didn’t call after lunch. I’ve been thinking about you all day.” He paused, looking into my face. “How did it go?”

“Not so hot,” I said, my voice flat. “I don’t really want to talk about it.”

He shifted so he was in front of my chair. I couldn’t avoid his face unless I fully turned my head away. “Hey, look at me,” he said. “What happened?”

I looked into those familiar green eyes and felt a jolt. There was something in their depths I didn’t quite like. Almost like he wasn’t all that surprised.

“Did you know?” I asked.

The pause before he spoke was all I needed to hear. “Know what?”

I pulled my hand back, stung. “Thomas.”

He sighed, running his hands through his hair. “Jonathan mentioned something to me this morning. Apparently the studio is in talks with the same publishing house to do some ghost written autobiography of Jenner Collins. The publisher mentioned they were meeting with you, and how nice it would be if the book could act as some cross promotion—”

“My book is not cross promotion for your movie!” I cried, feeling like someone had just punched me in the gut.

“That’s what I told him!” Thomas said quickly. “I told him it had nothing to do with me, or the movie, that it was just a really great book—”

“And I’m sure that’s why they wanted to meet me.” I put my head into my hands, wishing the entire day had never happened.

“Lizzie, I’m sorry.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I whispered. The first drops of rain finally began to fall, two lonely drops splashing down onto my bare feet.

“He just mentioned it this morning, Lizzie. I couldn’t very well call you before you left to meet them.”

My head snapped up. “Of course you could have!”

“Love—”

“Don’t you think that would have been better, to have some warning? Instead of sitting there and hearing them gush about my book, only to find out that they…that they…” I was starting to cry now, my breath coming in choppy gulps. “That they wanted me to change my hero to someone in the entertainment industry.” Thomas winced. “Do you know how that felt? To realize, all in one fell swoop, that they had only shown interest because of who I was dating? To realize that they never really gave a shit about my book—”

“I’m sure that’s not true.”

“Of course it is. The only reason they called me is because of you. And I made an absolute fool of myself, telling everyone who would listen about my exciting publishing meeting.”

“You did not make a fool of yourself. You had every right to be excited about that meeting.”

“It doesn’t matter.” I closed my eyes, feeling more rain drops join the others on my feet. “I just want to forget this whole thing ever happened. I’m so humiliated right now.”

“You can’t let yourself feel like that.” He clutched my hands, refusing to release them when I pulled back. “Listen to me. Creative fields are incredibly tough to break into. You have to take every opportunity you can get, there’s just no way around it. So this one didn’t come about quite like you thought it did—that doesn’t mean you just give up.”

I stared at him. “Are you suggesting I go along with this? That I sign with them and change my book to…to cash in on this?” I gestured between the two of us.

“Of course not.” He shook his head. “I’m suggesting you hold your ground, stick up for your book. Leverage this meeting into getting an agent, then start setting up meetings with other editors. Use this to your advantage.”

Another tear slid down my face. “But it will never be real. You don’t think other editors will have the same idea?”

“Your agent will be working for
you
, Lizzie. To find the best place to publish your book.”

I shook my head. “But it will always be fake.”

“What do you mean? Fake how?”

I couldn’t explain the feeling that was rising in my chest. The fear and disappointment. “If I do what you suggest, if I start agent hunting on the basis of having gotten this meeting, it will still mean I only got anywhere because I’m dating you. No matter what, those agents and editors will only be interested in me because of you.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is! Everyone else can see it, that I’m living this whole fabulous, fairytale life through no contribution of my own.” I waved my hands around at the increasingly rain-stained deck. “I get to move to L.A., live in this fancy house, go to parties with celebrities. Maybe even get a fucking book deal. And it’s all just because I’m dating a celebrity.”

His face tightened, and he released my hand. “I didn’t know you felt so negatively about our situation.”

“Well, how would you feel?” I snapped. “If every time someone looked at you they assumed you only had what you had because of who you were sleeping with?”

Suddenly he leaned into me, his face absolutely livid. “I would feel like
they
were the stupid assholes, Lizzie, because they had no idea what we have.” His jaw tightened. “Is that really how you see us? As two people who are just sleeping together?”

“No, of course not—”

“Then why the hell do you care what complete strangers think?”

“Because I don’t like people thinking I’m a gold digger! You have no idea what that’s like!”

He stood, shaking his head. “I don’t know what to say to you, Lizzie. I love you. I want to be with you. That’s it. That’s all there is to consider for me. The rest of it is just bullshit.”

“Yeah, for you, because you’re not the one who has to deal with it.”

A rumble of thunder rolled right over our heads. “You think I don’t have to deal with people judging me? Talking about me? Lizzie, that’s part of my job! But I don’t let it affect me like this. I can’t.”

He looked down at me and his face softened. “I know today was hard for you. And I’m so sorry. But—”

“Did you arrange it?”

“What?”

“The meeting? Did you set it up somehow?”

He stared at me for the longest time before he replied. “I’m not even going to respond to that. That’s how fucking insane that question is.”

Then he was gone, turning on his heel and stomping across the wet deck. He slammed the sliding door closed behind him.

I sat there for a long while, letting the rain dampen my hair. Finally, when the skies really opened up and the rain began to pelt down mercilessly, I stood, taking the bottle of wine and heading for the house.

Thomas was nowhere to be seen, and I couldn’t hear him on either of the other levels. Wanting nothing more than a hot bath, I walked to the stairs—then stopped dead in my tracks when I caught sight of the table.

There was an arrangement of pink roses set in a cut glass vase that certainly hadn’t been there when I got home. With a shaking hand, I reached out and took the card.

I’m so proud of you, Lizzie. You inspire me with your dedication and hard work. All my love, Thomas.

I stared at the card for a long time, not knowing how to feel. Finally, I placed it back in the vase and turned for the stairs, leaving the flowers behind.

***

For the second time since we’d moved to Los Angeles, Thomas and I slept in different beds. Of course, we’d spent nights apart throughout our relationship. We’d always had separate apartments in London, though we still managed to spend a majority of the nights each week in the same place. And there’d been the terrible time when I was back in Detroit, sleeping alone every night, literally sick with the pain of missing him.

But there had never been a time when we’d been in the same home but different beds. I barely slept the entire night, the California king seeming impossibly large without him.

I was feeling bad for a lot of the things I had said to him. Bad that he had bought me flowers and I’d attacked him before he could give them to me. Bad that he had gone to bed without even saying goodnight to me.

But every time I thought of that meeting, I felt the mortification rush through me all over again. Nothing I had told him had been untrue—I was sick of people looking at me like I was some freeloading gold digger. I was scared I would never get the chance to make a name or a career for myself if we were together.

I was scared, period. I hated the distance between us, hated feeling angry at the person I loved more than anyone else in the world.

There was a moment last year, after I went back to Detroit, when it seemed like Thomas and I wouldn’t make it. The pain of being so far apart, the difficulty with his career, the pressure from my family—all of it had piled up on us until I was sure we were over. It was only my decision to come back to London that had brought us through.

For the first time since I made that choice, I wondered if we weren’t actually meant to end up together. It made me feel dizzy, lying there in bed, to think that this might not last. Last time I had crossed an ocean to save our relationship—what else could I give now?

Then I realized that Thomas was leaving the following day to shoot on location, and I felt like I was going to throw up. He was leaving, and we were sleeping in separate beds. I sat, and looked out at the moon shining through the night clouds, debating whether or not to go down to the guest room and find him.

Before I could make up my mind, there was a creak on the stairs, and then he was there, his outline filling the door. He saw me sitting up in bed and paused. “You’re awake.”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“Me neither.”

He stood there for a long moment while I tried to make myself apologize, make myself take it all back. But I couldn’t take it back—I meant it, all of it. Finally, I lay down again, pulling the blankets back from his side of the bed, a silent invitation for him to join me, fight or not.

I closed my eyes when I felt the bed dip on his side, the mattress creak softly. Then his arms were around me, pulling my back to his chest. We lay like that in silence for a long time.

“I’m sorry you had a bad day,” he finally murmured, and I realized that he, too, was probably struggling with the desire to take back all that had been said. His apology was what he felt he could say without taking back the things he had meant.

“I’m sorry your last night at home wasn’t a nice one.” I said.

His arms squeezed tighter for a moment. “I’ll be gone for four days. I’m going to try to get out of work earlier a few nights when I get back. We should…talk. Spend time together.”

I nodded against his chest, staring out at our quiet, dark bedroom.

We didn’t make up that night, didn’t take it all back or kiss the pain away. I didn’t tell him how scared I felt, how unsure I was starting to feel about our future. We didn’t make love or come to any conclusions. But Thomas did hold me all night. And I did, finally, fall asleep in his arms.