But so what? Even if I were to forgive Reed for making Alessandra cry, he’s still got two other strikes against him. The grant and Isabel. In Reed’s voicemails, he said he “refuses” to explain himself about either topic, via text or voicemail, but, instead, “demands” that I call him to hear him out. But I’m not in the mood to meet his “demand.” Nor am I inclined to let him try to sweet-talk me. He already tried to do that as I was leaving the party, and I wasn’t impressed.
I move on to Reed’s next text, which he sent around noon yesterday (Sunday):
I get that you’re upset, and you have every right to be. But I’d appreciate the courtesy of a reply to my voicemails and texts, even if it’s just to tell me to fuck off. I’m worried about you and want confirmation that you’re safe and sound. Call me.
Obviously, he received no reply to that command. And so, he sent another text, this one about an hour later.
Per our initial agreement, I’ve booked a hotel room for you for the summer, at the W in Hollywood. I’ve also decided it would benefit the special issue if you had access to a car, so I’ve rented a little convertible for you. It’s already sitting in the hotel’s parking garage. Keys at the front desk. No need to thank me. I’ve done all of this for business reasons. All I ask is that you call me, the CEO of River Records, to let me know you’re safe and sound.
When Reed received no reply from me about the hotel and car, he sent yet another text, four hours later. This one, on Sunday afternoon.
Guess where I am, Georgie Girl? At Hazel Hennessy’s 1st birthday party! Drinking like a fish, sitting in a corner, wishing you were here. You were supposed to come with me to this shindig, remember? In fact, you were excited to come. And now, here I am, a lone wolf. Looks like The Man with the Midas Touch has lost his golden touch, huh? Sure would be awesome if you’d answer one of my fucking texts or voicemails.
Reed’s next text came an hour later, at 5:26 pm on Sunday.
I swear I’ve never wished I could rewind the clock and get a ‘do-over’ more than I wish that right now. I’m sorry, Georgie. Please, call me. XO
Fifteen minutes later, he sent this:
Georgie, I’d walk a million miles, barefoot, over the shards of my Ferrari’s shattered windshield, if it would make you forgive me. Please, call me. Scream at me. Tell me you hate me. Just call and let me hear your voice. I’m losing my mind. I’m sure you’re happy about that. I’m sure you’re smiling at my misery, and I don’t blame you. But if you ever cared about me at all, please, just call me and let me explain. I’m physically sick with the need to talk to you. XO
When he still didn’t receive a reply from me, Reed sent this little gem at 2:13 a.m. today (Monday):
Congratulations. You’ve now ignored me for a full twenty-four hours. Are you alive? Are you safe? Should I file a missing person report? I think the punishment far outweighs the crime, at this point. I mean, I get that you’re pissed at me. But guess what? I’m pissed at you for smashing my Ferrari as punishment for a fucking kiss! So, let’s call it even. A kiss for a Ferrari. Call me, even if it’s to tell me to fuck off and die. CALL ME.
I can’t help smirking. God, he’s terrible at this. Doesn’t he realize he should be groveling right now? Not lashing out. Not being cocky. Not telling me he’s angry with me. Jesus, he’s infuriating. But so am I. Because the pathetic truth is that I kind of like Reed’s bad attitude. In fact, knowing he’s grouchy and angry and cantankerous and lashing out... all of it kind of makes my heart go pitter pat. How screwed up is that?
When Reed didn’t hear from me, yet again, he sent me another text. Surprise, surprise. This one, about thirty minutes later.
I lied. I’m not mad about my Ferrari. Never was. I just texted that to piss you off, so you’d call me. Please, Georgie. Have mercy on me. I’ve never done this before. I’ve never felt this before. There was no way I was going to be able to do this, and to feel this, without stumbling. I fucked up. I know that. Give me another chance. Please.
But I didn’t call. Not because I have willpower of steel. Not because I’m heartless or the Bobby Fischer of breakups. But because... I had my phone off. Because I was in bed, wallowing in self-pity.
Well, guess what? My non-strategy strategy finally wore Reed down and forced him to do the one thing he swore in his voicemails he wouldn’t: explain the grant to me over text. In four messages, all of them sent in rapid-fire succession, he unloaded on me, as follows: