I tap a yellow one into my palm right now--because god knows I lost control in a big way with Dallas.
Big. Major. Huge.
But all I do is stare at the pill, and then I drop it onto the ground beside the car.
Fuck it, I think. I can handle this.
And I really hope that I'm right about that.
I'm just about to pull back out onto the road when my phone rings. I glance at the caller ID, and then eagerly push the button to talk.
"Hey, sweetie." My mom's voice is soft, with just a hint of her Georgia roots, and the moment I hear it, I burst into tears. "Baby?" She sounds freaked, and I can hardly blame her. I love my mom--I talk with her all the time--and even though we sometimes disagree, her calls never drive me to blubbering.
"Sorry--I'm just--" I cut myself off because I don't know what to say. I rub my hands under my eyes and suck in a calming breath. "I'm just having one of those days, and I'm really, really glad you called."
It's true. I am. I'm almost thirty-two years old, and right at that moment, I don't think there's anything in the world that would make me feel better than talking with my mom.
"I'm glad I called, too," she says. "You know you can always call me."
"I know." My entire life, that's been my mother's motto. I can call her anytime. I can talk to her about anything.
For the most part I have. My marriage and divorce. The Hollywood bullshit I've encountered in LA. My panic attacks before media appearances. My never-ending stream of self-defense classes. My frustration with therapists who don't help. And, of course, the nightmares and anxiety that have dogged me for the last seventeen years.
But the one thing I've never talked to her about is the one thing I need to talk about the most--Dallas. What happened between us. How I feel about him. How much the distance we've kept between us now eats at me.
How much I just plain want him, and how hard it is to know that I can't have him.
Doesn't matter how open my mother is or how well we communicate. That is one conversation that is just not happening.
"Why don't I come over?" she suggests, obviously concerned that I'm not elaborating on what's bugging me. "We could make cookies. Watch a bad movie."
I glance at the clock. It's almost midnight. "Don't you think it's a little late?"
"It's not even nine," she says. "And I'm just down the hill on Sunset. I'll ditch Sarah and be right over," she adds, referring to her lifelong bestie.
"You're in LA," I say, as I realize that she believes I am, too. On any other day, the odds are that she'd be right. I've been living for the last four months in an adorable little rental house just off Mulholland Drive. I'd tried working on the screen adaptation of The Price of Ransom from New York, but there were so many meetings, it ended up being easier to just make the move.
"We decided to do a girls spa and shopping weekend," Mom explains. "We arrived just in time for dinner, and we're on our way to after-dinner drinks and dessert, but I'm happy to change plans if you want me to come by."
I smile, because that is so my mom, just going with the flow and looking cool and fabulous while she does it. I can imagine her in the back of their hired car, her golden blond hair perfect even after a day traveling, and her linen outfit not the slightest bit wrinkled. Lisa Sykes is always camera ready, always has a smile for reporters, and is pretty much the classiest lady around. I inherited my looks from her, but not her ability to make friends wherever she goes. Personally, I'm happy to fade into the background.
"You can come by," I say, amused. "But since I'm not there, I don't see the point."
"Well, maybe tomorrow then. If you want to join us for massages in the morning you can--wait." I can practically hear her playing back our conversation, including my comment about the late hour. "You're not in LA, are you?"
"I'm in the Hamptons. I just got back to New York today, actually." I am, in fact, only about half an hour away from the house my parents now keep in East Hampton village.
She laughs. "Well, isn't that a comedy of errors? Did you drive all the way out to see me and Daddy? No," she answers herself, "of course you didn't."
She knows perfectly well that I never drive to see them unless I call first. My father is usually traveling--I happen to know that he's in Houston at the moment, working his way through a lineup of meetings relating to the new Sykes Pavilion, a massive, high-end retail, restaurant, and hotel destination that is scheduled to open in just under twenty-two months.
"I came to see Dallas," I admit.
"Dallas?"
I understand the surprise in her voice. She knows Dallas and I have avoided each other ever since the kidnapping. Hell, I even went so far as to beg to go to a boarding school in California, near where my birth father was living at the time, just so that I could get away. Mom absolutely despises Colin now, and she trusts him not at all. Not only that, but she'd gone through a brutal battle to have his parental rights terminated when I was a little girl.
Even so, she let me go. And that simple fact underscores how much she knew I needed distance from my brother after the ordeal was over.