He looked me up and down a few times before nodding in approval. “You look like shit.”
The half-hearted smile I offered officially committed me to the conversation. “Well, I worked hard to look this hung over, so thank you.”
“I know you did. Your drunken ass is all over Twitter.”
“Hell yeah. Don’t get too comfortable with that bad boy title, RJ, ‘cuz I’m coming for you.”
“Hang on there, Howdy Doody. Learn to hold your liquor and then we’ll talk.”
“I hold it just fine.”
“Tell that to the potted plant you barfed in last night.”
“How’d you know about that?”
“Pretty much every detail of your evening was chronicled on film. My favorite part was when you tried to pet the squirrel on the way into the hotel.”
“Impossible. I hate rodents.”
“Not drunk you don’t. You got on your hands and knees and were calling out over and over, ‘come here you cute little rascal.’”
“Oh god—no.”
“Oh, yeah.”
We sat there in silence for a minute or so, me worrying about all the things I couldn’t remember and RJ looking as if he were trying to conjure up the courage to dive deep into a conversation with me. Finally, he seemed to find his bravery.
“So, even though I find the squirrel-loving Bodhi humorous, I’m sort of getting worried about you. I’ve known you a long time and I’ve never seen you like this. I’ve come to the conclusion that you either have a tumor pressing on your brain stem or you’re dealing with some shit you obviously don’t know how to deal with.”
“I’m going to go with the tumor theory,” I said.
“Man, come on. What’s going on with you?”
“Nothing. Are you the only one allowed to have a little fun?”
“No. But honestly, you don’t appear to be having any fun at all.”
I shrugged off the pain radiating through my head. He wasn’t wrong about that. There was nothing fun about the way I was feeling right now.
“Look, if this were just about you blowing off some steam, I’d say good for you. All publicity is good publicity, right? But, dude, I’m not gonna lie, this is starting to look like a cautionary episode ofCelebrity Rehab.”
I laughed despite the misery I was in and the gesture brought fresh agony. A groan escaped my throat.
“I’m asking you this as a friend. Should I be worried?”
“I’m fine, RJ,” I lied. “Really I am.”
His brow rose in response. Obviously he didn’t believe a word out of my lying mouth.
Sighing, I said, “I’m just working through some shit right now.”
He nodded, twisting his hands together. Clearly there was more he needed to say. “What was in that letter?”
The letter. Jesus. What she’d written to me wasn’t some standard ‘I’m your long-lost mother’ crap. She’d taken the wound that had lived in me—the one that formed the day I was born and the day she supposedly died—and ripped it wide open. I wasn’t who I thought I was. My father sure as hell wasn’t who I thought he was. And now, all of a sudden, the dead mother I’d idolized my entire life was just a flawed woman with demons all her own. I wanted to confide in RJ, but the deception was still too raw.
“You can trust me,” he said, hopeful for more after watching the turmoil pass over my conflicted face. “You know I have your back.”
I rubbed my tired eyes. “I know, but not now. Not yet.”
