I did, however, look at his crotch before I left. There wasn’t a semblance of an erection, and it made me feel things I shouldn’t.
Knowing he had no choice but to have an intense make-out session with his on-screen girlfriend, and it didnothingfor him.Yet he claims that just bylookingat me, he’s ready to go, round after round.
I hated that I had to watch them kiss. And it was real this time, unlike every other scene they’d shot.
After the third take, I could tell he was getting frustrated with Mara, who purposely kept messing up, resulting in the scene needing to be shot again and again, until Cole had enough and pulled her aside to talk to her.
After he said whatever he did, they shot the scene in one take—so I’m told—while she feigned incompetence, claiming she kept forgetting her lines.
I don’t buy it, though. If I were her and got to kiss him all afternoon, I’d pretend to forget my lines, too.
One kiss from him in my kitchen was all it took, and I forgot how to breathe.
I watched the two of them standing side by side, and they looked like they justfit. Like they’re about to surprise everyone and announce they’re secretly in love. If Mara has her way, they probably will. And I’m in no position at all to protest.
Do I like it? No, not even a little bit.
Can I do anything to stop it? Also no. But fuck, I wish I could.
I’ve never cared enough about a guy in the past to worry about what he’s doing, or if he’s hooking up with anybody else. But I realized that I care a little too much about what Cole’s doing at all hours of the day.
Not in an obsessive type of way, but I could be making myself dinner, and I would wonder what he’s eating.
I could get home after having a long day, and wonder if he’s just as exhausted as I am. Or when I wake up after having little sleep, I wonder if he got a solid eight hours.
I wonder about so many things. Yet every part of me is holding back from letting him know that I think of him in ways I shouldn’t think about my fuck buddy.
To take my mind off it all, I did the one thing I swore to myself I wouldn’t do.
I would love to blame it all on my best friend for not being here to talk me out of it, but this one is on me.
I’ve tried to avoid Becky Rogers for four days, but that woman is persistent. I’ll give her that.
She caught me at the wrong time—for me, the right time for her—when I was in desperate need of a distraction, andapparentlyI agreed to meet with her and Mark.
They’d flown to town after I asked her not to. She said he was adamant, which made me even more hesitant. But I promised myself I could handle it.
She would look well.
She isn’t dying.
She would be kind.
OK, that last one is a stretch, but the young girl inside me is pathetically hoping to reignite the relationship with my mother that I have no memory of.
There is no good, only bad.
I took all of that into consideration on my drive from the creek to Katie’s Diner, parked my car, and now, here I am.
In a booth tucked in the very back corner.
My back is to the door, waiting for her and Mark to greet me, and to my absolute surprise, they’re on time, alerting me of their presence with a single tap on my shoulder.
My body stiffens.
Is it too soon to leave?
Looking behind me, I see Becky Rogers, no taller than five foot three inches, her natural blonde hair freshly cut above her shoulders, and her ice-blue eyes staring back at me.
