“Glad you could make the show. I hope you enjoyed it,” I say, shaking away my disdain to once more become the consummate professional. Smile, exchange pleasantries, take the obligatory selfie, and move on.
“Oh, we definitely enjoyed it,” she responds. She briefly looks at her friend, lost in conversation with Paul, and then turns back to me. “Especially those moves inTonight, I’m Gonna Fly.” She raises her eyebrows suggestively before letting her eyes drift down to my crotch.
“Excuse me, I just need to make a quick call,” I say, suddenly filled with such loathing that I know if I don’t remove myself right now, I will cause a scene. I nod toward the door for Rob’s benefit, so he knows to ensure no one bothers me as I leave.
Once I’m out of the room, with Rob following behind me down the hall, I let out a sharp exhale. No longer in performative mode. Not sacrificing my needs to appease everyone else. I reach for my phone and instantly feel my chest tighten again at its reluctance to slide out of my jeans pocket. The frustration rises up to my throat as the facial recognition fails to recognize me.
Damn makeup.
I attempt to rub it away with the palm of my hand as I hold the phone up to my face again. This time it opens, right as I enter my dressing room, and I slump into the white leather couch. I open up iMessage, scrolling back past new messages from the family chat, a friend back home, and Paul, to the message I sent Christopher earlier.
Hope you have a great time at your sister’s bachelorette party. Robs left two tickets under your name if you change your mind.
A wave of fear hits me when I see there’s no “delivered” notification underneath. But I know I took down the number right. I’d checked the napkin three times when entering it in.
Maybe his phone’s dead?
Maybe he doesn’t have roaming set up, and his phone only works on Wi-Fi?
God, I wish my head would give me a break sometimes.
But I need to know the answer.
I click on his contact icon and let my thumb hover over the call button. I take in a sharp inhale, hold my breath and close my eyes, and press the call button. It goes straight to voicemail.
Hi, you’ve reached Christopher Foster. I can’t get to the phone right now, but if you leave your name and number, I’ll get back to you.
The sound of his voice hypnotizes me briefly before a rush of panic hits. I hadn’t thought about what I would say to him on avoicemail, let alone if he actually answered. I manage to hang up just before the beep sounds.
What would be a good reason to follow up? I tap my fingers on the arm of the couch. I don’t want to come across as desperate, and sending another message when he hasn’t even read the first one would be just that.
But I do want to see him. To hang out with him.
A thought pops into my head, and I redial, this time leaving him a voicemail.
“Hey, so a few of us are heading to Tape for a personal appearance I have to do, just in case you want to swing by. They’ve got me a table and a load of free drinks, so you, your sister, and all her friends are more than welcome to come. Let me know.”
Rob opens the door, and the flash of lightbulbs hits me.
“Wait!” I yell, over the bellowing from outside.
Rob slides the door back and I reach for my phone, checking once more, but there’s still no message from Christopher. My gaze darts around the car, traveling from Rob to Lucy to Connie, and then on to Paul.
“I need to put Christopher plus guests on the guest list.”
Paul looks at me with a concerned expression, then toward Rob.
“Who’s Christopher?” Paul asks.
I gaze at Rob, whose expression remains steadfast, then at Lucy, who shrugs, and sigh. They’re the only two who know about my interactions with Christopher. At least they’ve respected my right to privacy, but I know what this means with Paul.
I take a deep breath and say, “Just some guy from the hotel.His sister is having her bachelorette party tonight and I thought they could swing by.”
Paul shifts in his seat, leaning forward slightly to study my face, just like he would a painting in a gallery.
“Do we have a nondisclosure agreement in place?” His expression is deadpan.
“Come on,” I laugh, shrugging him off. “Not everyone I interact with needs an MNDA.”
