She frowns. “I’m going to get us some Chinese, how about that?”
I sigh, changing the channel. There’s no use arguing with her. She’s going to do what she wants, what she thinks I need for her to do, whether I like it or not. “Sure,” I say.
“How’s your head?”
I look over at the glass of water she brought me. I haven’t drunk hardly any of it and to be honest, I still feel dehydrated and drained. I shrug again.
“I’ll get you some ibuprofen too, how’s that?” I know she’s just looking for something to do. She’s driving herself crazy not being able to fix this right now. She’s drafted statements and sent them off to the PR people, she’s been fielding calls all day asking for interviews or quotes. That’s still not enough to fully occupy her or distract her from watching me like a baby bird she’s worried is going to fall out of the nest and break its neck.
But truthfully, I could use some time to myself. She keeps talking—and at first it was nice to have something to distract me from my thoughts, but soon I started to tune her out and then she was just more background noise while my thoughts went back to Ian.
She sighs and guilt hits me. I know I’m moping and being a pain in the ass and she doesn’t really deserve it when she was the one trying to warn me against this.
“Thanks, Rosa,” I say, turning to her. “For everything, but mostly for not saying ‘I told you so.’”
She gives me a sad smile and pulls me into a hug. “You know, I really wanted to be wrong about him, for your sake.”
“Me too,” I say, refusing to cry. Refusing even to let my voice break.
“Beef and broccoli?” she asks.
“And spring rolls.”
She laughs. “Of course. Can’t forget those. All right, I’ll be back soon. Don’t answer your phone for anything.”
“I won’t,” I promise. “It’s still off in my bag. I don’t need to know what Twitter is saying about me right now.”
“Good girl,” she says proudly, patting my head before she heads to the door.
And then, finally, I’m alone again. I’ve got the TV turned on the DIY channel, which I think is probably safe. I can never be sure with the other channels who’s going to suddenly have a little interlude about celebrity gossip, but here, all I find is home renovations and more gardens.
I think maybe I’ll start a garden when I get back home. Spend more time outside. Away from screens and the internet. Away from other people’s opinions being constantly shoved in my face. I’ve never really tried to grow anything, but how hard could it be? Plants grow on their own without any help all the time. And a garden would be nice. Maybe I’d even get some butterfly visitors. I bet Mariah would like that if I could get her out for a while.
I’ve only seen the first five minutes of My Nightmare Renovation when there’s a knock at the door. I frown, wondering if Rosa forgot her key, but then that doesn’t make any sense. She doesn’t really need a key to get back in when we both know I’m not going anywhere.
So who’s at my door?
A teeny, tiny, minuscule part of me hopes it’s Ian. But I quickly stamp that thought out. I can’t see him again. Especially not now. I know I’m going to have to share the plane with him later tonight, but that’s then. I still have time to prepare for that. He can’t just be ambushing me right now, can he?
The knock comes again and I can’t ignore it anymore. My curiosity is killing me. So I get up, try to drag my fingers through the tangled mess that is my hair, and rub my hands over my face to get rid of any errant tears or streaks of makeup. I’m definitely not looking my best, but I don’t look bad for a girl who’s just had her heart broken.
I look out the peephole first, and my heart skips for a moment when I see a tall, muscular guy on the other side, but it’s not Ian. I don’t know if I’m more relieved or disappointed to be honest. I don’t know him, but he does look vaguely familiar and he’s standing on the other side of the door with his hands in his pockets, rocking on his heels, looking kind of nervous. I put the latch on the door before I open it the inch or so that allows.
“Can I help you?”
He jumps at the sound of my voice and smiles. “Hi. You don’t know me, but my name’s Serge. I’m Ian’s best friend and former bandmate—”
I’m already closing the door by the time he gets to that point of the sentence, but he shoves his hand in the crack and I don’t have the heart to crush his fingers, though I probably should.
“Please, I just want five minutes of your time, I promise.” He’s not moving his hand, so I can’t close the door. I could just walk away, but that’s not going to stop him from saying what he’s going to say.
“I’ll talk to you through the door, I don’t care.”
I roll my eyes and sigh. “Fine,” I say, pulling the door open as much as the safety latch allows. He immediately looks more relaxed.
“Look, I know what happened, but I’m absolutely positive Ian had nothing to do with the stuff you found in his bag.”
I don’t say anything, but my unimpressed look must say it all for me because he just barrels forward without really pausing.