Mister Dick

I stumbled over my words and came to a sudden stop. Holy shit. I was in love with him. That made things so much worse.

Ali reached down and patted my shoulder as if she were ninety years old and I was a little kid. Sometimes it was hard to forget she was only ten years older than me. “Try the soup, Echo. Trust me. It will work.”

She took a few steps back. “What do you want to do about the meetings on the West Coast?”

“What? West Coast?” I was officially losing my shit. I had no idea what she was talking about.

“You’re supposed to fly out tomorrow morning. We’ve got meetings in LA Wednesday and Thursday, and then you’re flying from LAX to Boston for Lyric’s event Friday morning.” She paused. “I can cancel if you want me to, but we’d have to reschedule sooner rather than later because they need your approval for the new makeup lines, and the new clothing partnership is a go, so we need to meet with them as well.”

This was my life? Makeup and clothing?

The last thing I wanted to do was fly out to California and pretend that I loved all the new shiny and cute names we’d come up with for the fall palettes. Frisky Fall. Dewy Leaf. Cinnamon Cider. Ugh. And the clothes I had no part in designing were supposed to take my brand to the next level. A brand I no longer cared about because the brand wasn’t me. Not anymore. But I had people counting on me. People who fed their families and paid their bills and sent their kids to private schools because of me.

“Echo?”

It was time to grow the hell up and take responsibility for everything. For where I’d landed in life and, more importantly, for my past mistakes. I hoped like hell I could make Boyd see how sorry I was. I’d get on my knees if I had to and beg his forgiveness. But that kind of thing needed to be done in person. It needed a few days to percolate to give me time to grow a pair of balls. To be brave and fearless. I wasn’t there yet. But I would be.

“Don’t cancel. I’ll be ready. I’ll be fine.” I attempted a smile.

“Eat the soup, and I’ll believe you.”

LA was crazy, and I’d been away for months, so I forgot just how crazy it could be. The paparazzi swarmed like bees wherever I went. That wasn’t something new. But they were relentless, more so than I remembered. With all the press Boyd and I had gotten lately, they were waiting for that money shot. They wanted to see us together as much as they wanted to take us down. Nothing fetched a higher price for a picture than someone at the top falling all the way to the bottom. The endless questions rang in my head.

“What’s up with you and Boyd?”

“Where’s your new boyfriend?”

“What do your sisters think of your new man?”

“What does your ex think?”

As for Boyd, I’d broken down and called him Wednesday night. He didn’t pick up, but he did message me back. He said he was dealing with some stuff and couldn’t talk, but that he wanted to and that it needed to be in person. I was as polite as he was. I sent a message back and told him I understood and that I would see him in Boston.

He didn’t reply, and I tried not to take it personally. Though I did spend most of my meetings Thursday thinking about text messages and how the space between each word you use can hide a bunch of invisible words that say something else entirely. I had no idea if Boyd was going to tell me he never wanted to see me again, or if he wanted to listen to my side of the story. Would he accept my apology? Or would he tell me to go to hell?

It drove me crazy. And seeing my face in Hollywood Tattler and the Daily Mail nearly sent me over the edge. So-called friends, the kind who thought any press was good press and the more salacious the better, kept sending me links to different stories. I should have ignored them, but I was too weak and had to look. Which made me upset, and finally, I stopped looking.

Thursday night, I sent Lyric and Harmony each a message and told them I was going radio silent and that I’d see them in Boston. I didn’t wait for a reply. My phone was dying anyway, and I told Ali that unless the world was ending, I didn’t want to know or hear or see. I went to bed early and, with the help of my old friend Xanax and two glasses of wine, finally fell asleep.

Of course, because of the Xanax and the two glasses of wine, Friday morning dawned way too early and everything seemed foggy. Ali and my team had flown back to New York the night before, so I only had myself to blame for being late. My phone was dead because I’d forgotten to charge it, and then I couldn’t find the damn charger. I banged my little toe on the edge of the bed and swore like a mother trucker as I tossed my phone into the new Gucci bag I’d purchased the day before and headed to the lobby. My ride had been arranged and should be waiting. Shopping used to heal all wounds, but even the new bag did nothing. Face hidden behind the biggest shades I could find, I pushed at the door.

A big shiny black SUV was parked by the concierge, and the driver hopped out when he spotted me. I ducked inside, ignoring the paparazzi who appeared like a plague, along with the shouted questions that echoed on the concrete. Maybe I should have paid attention. Maybe then when I touched down in Boston, I would have been better prepared for the shitstorm headed my way. But I was still dazed and foggy and, on some level, in denial that in the space of a few days, I’d gone from thinking I had everything I wanted to being unsure that I’d ever had it at all.

So I settled back in the darkened interior, clutching my Gucci carry-on and matching bag, staring down at the Fendi sandals on my feet, the Lulu tights and matching sports bra in vibrant blue, and the white Prada sweater I’d tied at my waist. I was dressed head to toe in some of the most expensive brands on the planet, which a few months ago would have given me some kind of pleasure.

Today, it did nothing but make me feel empty.

My flight was quiet, one of the perks of flying private, and we managed to catch a tailwind that shaved a good thirty minutes off my flight. I arrived in Boston at four thirty and had exactly ninety minutes to get to my hotel and prepare for Lyric’s event. It was a five-hundred-dollar-a-plate fundraiser for the local arts community, and she was part of the committee. She’d caught all of us at a weak moment. Normally, I’d just send a check, but she’d been so good to me lately, how could I say no? I don’t knock fundraisers, but man, I do a lot of them.

There was a driver waiting for me as well as a bunch of photographers (not as much as LA or New York, but still) and just as I was about to step inside the SUV, I heard someone shout something about me and Boyd, and then I heard Axel’s name. I turned around, but there was so much shoving and cursing, I had no idea what they were saying. I wondered where the hell my security guy Enzo was, but then the driver was in my face.

“We need to go, miss. The traffic is bad this time of day.”

Tim the driver had a charger, and I asked him to plug in my phone as we headed out of the airport to join the hundreds of cars pointed in the direction of downtown. By the time we reached the hotel, the thirty minutes I’d shaved off the flight had all but disappeared. I thanked the driver and grabbed my phone, which was buzzing and pinging and everything else a phone will do to tell you shit is going down.

Quickly, I slid my finger along the screen. There were so many messages, I couldn’t even count them. Tons from people I hadn’t talked to in ages. At least fifty from my sisters and messages from Ali and from Marta. There was one from Boyd. His was simple. It said: I’m here and we need to talk.

But it was the last one that made me pani