Disgust? I want to blurt out. I’m not disgusted at all. I’m gut punched. My heart is pummeled as everything I believed to be true and good has been ripped from me in two minutes. I feel ambushed. I simply want to see Rocco to confirm that this is all a lie, but at the same time, there’s no reason Ben would lie to me about this. We’ve been friends since Rocco and I started dating, which has been over a year now. “Tell me when the infidelity started,” I squeak out, still trying to find the place in my memory of something I did wrong.
Was there some way I could have caused this?
Maybe I could still fix it.
I’ve been on the road an awful lot, even missing some of his games.
“I only discovered it recently, since your last trip.”
“Two weeks.” I breathe out, one eye tracing the paparazzi coming down the sidewalk. I pull my baseball cap down, concealing my eyes, as I try to convince myself that two weeks isn’t that long.
He can’t possiblylovethis woman.
Not how he loves me.
It’s just a mistake.
We could work on it.
I’m willing to try if he’s honest and comes clean.
“I’m sorry, but that particular woman has been here all week, and the paparazzi already suspects something is up with Rocco. They’ll get a photo sooner or later, and it might be best if you’re not in it.” He nods to the left, away from the oncoming reporter. “You need to leave now.”
My hands fly to the bill of my cap, shielding the sides of my face as my cheeks rage in overwhelm and heartbreak. My knees buckle, and moving is not an option. My romance with Rocco flashes before my eyes, and I’m mourning all the romantic dinners, private vacations, and never-ending phone conversations. I can’t walk away from that, even if my legs could move.
“You need to leave before you cause a scene.” Ben’s voice grows in urgency, but it’s too late. Not one or two, but a barrage of phone cameras point at me now. One is from the nearest paparazzi, another is from some guy who popped up across the street, and more are from down the block. I’m surrounded, and I can’t even defend myself.
I’m melting.
But I’m not.
I’m clearly still standing out in the open for all to take photos of.
Could I please melt?
“For Pete’s sake, don’t just stand there.” Ben whips the front door open, and yells, “Get inside.” I slip inside, and Ben follows on my heels. Marching me to the closest door, which happens to be the mailroom, he says, “You can hide in here, and I’ll get a car to come around the back.”
As he pivots to return to his post, I call out, “I’m sorry. I froze.”
“It’s okay.” He tuns back with a sympathetic look on his face. “You’re the one who is owed an apology.”
Suddenly, I’m in a flashback.
At sixteen years old, I promised myself I was going for everything everyone told me I couldn’t have.
They said I couldn’t have fame.
I took the hard road, counting each small success as a win, and eventually, I got it.
They scoffed and said my fame was fleeting, and that I'd need a job to build real wealth.
I was smart, investing in myself, and by not wasting even a dime I’ve accumulated a lot of wealth over the years.
Then they said that even if I could do all that, I would never be able to both work that hard and find true love.
They got me on that one. A single hot tear slips out of my eye, and I let it glide all the way down my cheek.
I guess they were right.
