He said he loved me.
If it’s any consolation, he looks like he regrets it.
“We’re still just starting out,” I tell him.
“I know,” he says. “I’m sorry. I guess I just got wrapped up in the moment.”
“I don’t know what it is with you,” I tell him. “First, you break up with me because you don’t think you can deal with a relationship, and now you’re dropping the L-bomb when I’m trying to get thick and juicy?”
“I really don’t know how to respond to that,” he says.
I laugh and pat him on the chest. “It’s not that big of a deal,” I tell him. “If I had the chance to get with me, I’d probably be saying it, too.”
“It’s nice to see that your ego hasn’t suffered from the event,” he says.
“Did you mean it, though?” I ask. “That’s the question.”
There are all sorts of ways to turn the screws on him for this.
“I don’t know,” he says. “I don’t think I don’t love you,” he stammers. “I’m just not sure if I’m where I do…yet.”
Do I love Damian Jones?
Before I got to Hollywood, before I got my first acting job, back when all of this was just my teenage wet dream back in Who Gives a Shit, Illinois, I would have immediately responded, “Yes, I love Damian Jones.” The problem with that is that fan love and real love are very different thing
s.
The only people who really can’t tell the two apart when they’re right up close are the ones who end up stalking and…
“What ever happened with your stalker?” I ask. “You never did tell me about that.”
“She still calls,” he says. “I’m thinking about changing my number.”
“I thought you would have done that by now,” I say. “How long has she been calling you?”
“A few weeks,” he says, and puts his palms over his eyes, “a few months, I don’t even know. It feels like a long time.”
“So why wouldn’t you have changed your number already?” I ask.
“I like my number,” he says.
I snort. “You would rather have a stalker, a crazy woman with an unhealthy, possibly dangerous obsession with you, continue to call you at her leisure because you like your phone number?” I ask.
“Well,” he says, “that and…”
Whatever it is, it seems like it’s really embarrassing. I probably shouldn’t pursue it any farther.
“That and…?” I ask.
“Well,” he says, “I don’t know. I guess I wanted her to still be able to call in case the police wanted to, like, trace her number or something.”
I’m putting my breasts back into my top and I’m curled forward, laughing.
“Yeah,” he says, not nearly as amused as I am, “that’s about what the police said. Apparently they care a lot less than I thought they did.”
“You’d think they’d take a celebrity stalker a lot more seriously in a place like this, huh?” I ask.
“Really,” he says. “Anyway, are we good?”