“You’re in love. This is scaring you because you’re in love with him. You’re in love with a movie star,” Phoebe screams, loud.
“What?”
“You’re in love with a movie star who is also your boss’s ex-fiancé. This is everything in life you’re against… movie stars and shitting where you eat.”
I sigh loudly, turning the lamp on as the night falls, and the darkness creeps in.
“I don’t think that expression applies to this situation, and it’s gross.”
“Milly, I’ve known you forever. This isn’t you. He isn’t what you’re about.”
She has known me for forever and states the truth. Wesley is not what I am about if I’m about anything.
But what if that is no longer me? The scared and timid Milana, who would run any time anything changed. Here I am now, the complete opposite.
“I miss home.”
“I know you do. We miss you.”
“We?”
“Liam and me. He asked about you again, for like the hundredth time. He still cares. It’s not too late, you know.”
“That boat has sailed, Phoebs. Liam and I are just Liam and I.”
“And you and Wesley are—”
“Wesley is crazy. I am… in love,” I finally admit, openly, to her.
“And that, my friend, is the answer to your problem.”
I think about what she’s saying, and stupidly I question why love should be a problem. Isn’t love supposed to be the greatest thing to happen to you? The world becomes full of rainbows, unicorns frolicking around, and all you can feel is the crisp, clean air and hear the sounds of a beating heart that bursts every day with joy.
Love is not crying each day. Love is not questioning whether you should pick up the phone and call him because you fear his mood swings and erratic behavior. Love is not asking for space.
And if love is not self-inflicting pain and falling back into his arms because, in a twisted way, it comforts you, then what is it I’m feeling?
The exhaustion hits me, the yawns coming hard and fast while I barely say goodbye, my phone face-planting me several times. Phoebe reminds me to call her later, something about catching me up on who is dating who in town, and the latest controversy with her neighbor’s teen pregnancy.
I doze off, only to wake to a commotion, unknown voices and some yelling. The doors to my suite swing open, forceful and slamming against the wall, with Wesley standing between them, wild and monstrous. He appears larger than usual—his built physique wearing a black hoodie and gray sweats. His beard, normally well-kept, is over-grown and covering his lower face.
Emerson is quick at his heels, pulling him back which he ignores, shaking her grip off him which only frustrates her more. His gaze is steadfast, hard against me, and his breathing is abnormally noisy—the only sound echoing in the room.
“Wesley, stop. Calm down, will you,” Emerson commands, her tone rigid.
“Leave us, please,” he grits, nostrils flaring with a piercing stare.
“No. You’re crazy. Are you on something?”
“It’s okay,” I tell her, rubbing my eyes and sitting up. “You can leave us.”
“Are you sure?” Emerson glances at Wesley, staring him down with worry. “I’ll be right outside dealing with security, and a husband who will no doubt tear me to shreds.” She l
eaves the room, closing the door behind us.
Wesley paces back and forth, head bowed with a heavy step, clenching then unclenching his hands.
I’m not surprised to see him here. He has a way of finding me wherever I may be. I’m still tired, though I did sleep, my anger is controlled, perhaps from my exhaustion. And despite his clear anguish, I’ve missed him.