That may have been a bit harsh.
“I’ll see you at dinner,” she says, and she hangs up.
Well, that could have gone better.
I don’t know what the hell we’re doing here anymore. I don’t even know why I thought it was going to be a good idea in the first place. Dutch suggested it, sure, but I’m the one that filled in the details.
This kind of thing can make an onscreen performance sizzle, but whatever’s going on here, it’s personal, and because it’s personal, we’re both fighting it in our own special way.
Why’s it personal, though?
I’ve been here, to this very hotel, for this very purpose, at least five times and I’ve never had so much fucking hassle right from the start.
Come to think of it, the whole blackmail thing’s probably got her pretty freaked out.
I pull the phone out of my pocket and dial the number.
“I don’t really want to talk right now,” Emma answers. “I’ll see you at dinner.”
“It’s been 72 hours, hasn’t it?” I ask.
“Yeah,” she says. She’s crying.
“What did you do?” I ask.
“I wrote him a check,” she says. “What do you think I did? He sent me texts with the pictures. He’s definitely got them.”
“Wanna talk about it?” I ask.
She sniffs and takes a deep breath. “If there’s any way we could get through this weekend without mentioning it again, I would be very happy,” she says.
“Okay,” I respond. “Do you want to come out and maybe just talk?”
I’m halfway down the hall, but in the distance, I can hear a door unlatch and Emma opens up, her hair still pristine, though her mascara’s running.
“Yeah,” she says into the phone, and hangs up.
Tofu.
My stalker carved tofu, covered it in raspberry sauce, and left it in a black garbage can on my gated driveway.
Right now, everything’s complicated and everything’s absurd.
Out there somewhere is a woman who thought the way into my heart was a way-too-familiar letter and that 30-pound bag.
Right in front of me is a soon-to-be-A-list, not to mention gorgeous actress with perfect hair and the saddest eyes. In that doorway is a woman who’s in one of the more ridiculous situations the world can throw at a person, just trying to find a way to focus on the job that’s going to make or break her career.
Maybe it’s time I throw her a rope.
I walk toward the room, but Emma shakes her head.
“We’re just going to dinner a little early,” she says. “That’s all. I’ll be out in a few minutes.”
Maybe I should tell her about Jamie.
That really couldn’t serve a purpose here, though. The way that Emma described intimacy, I mean, it wouldn’t be out of line, I don’t think, but then again, how could it possibly be relevant?
I guess if the only point is to be vulnerable, that’s the story to tell, but I don’t think that intimacy, especially fake intimacy, demands complete vulnerability.