“Oh my god, was she in an accident?” Lana whispers.
“No. No, I don’t think—no. Definitely not. I hope. I—I think she read the first draft of my script.”
More silence.
Louder silence, if that’s possible.
I sink into my desk chair, forgetting that it’s wobbly, and topple right over.
“What was that?” Lana asks.
“You good, boss?” Butch says as he eyes me splayed across the floor.
“I’m fine.” I’m not fine.
Bea’s left.
Daphne wants me to give myself tetanus through my arsehole.
And I think I’ve fucked up the very best thing I’ve ever had.
“Why do you think Bea saw your script?” Lana asks.
“It printed during dinner and was stacked oddly on my desk.”
“You havegotto get a new computer and printer system.”
“I’m bloody well aware of that.”
I push myself to sitting and slump against the desk drawers of the bloody awful desk that I should have prioritized replacing months ago.
The handles poke me in the back, but the discomfort is nothing compared to the roiling in my stomach and the pain in my chest.
My eyes burn. “How—how badly do you think I’ve fucked up?” I ask Lana.
“You need to go talk to her.”
“She’s not taking my calls.”
“That’s why you need togo talk to her in person.”
Of course.
Of course.
“Thank you. I don’t—Lana, I don’t know how to do this.”
“Yes, you do. Quit thinking you don’t, and do what your gut is telling you that you have to do for someone you care about.”
My gut is telling me that I’m a fuckup who never should have tried a relationship in the first place.
But my heart is telling my gut to sod off.
I bolt up. “I’m going out,” I tell Butch.
He and Pinky fall into step behind me on my way to the garage.
And I realize I don’t even know where the keys are stored, so I slump into the vehicle’s back seat like the idiot that I’ve become. “To Bea’s apartment,” I say.
