I’d almost forgotten that Kit was on the other line. Turning back to the stage, I saw that neither the backup dancers or the choreographer were back just yet, so I slipped away pretty much unnoticed. It wasn’t until I was in the darkness of one of the stadium’s awnings that I felt comfortable enough to talk. I could still see the stage, and if anyone was really looking for me, they’d see me just fine. But being just out of sight felt like exactly what I needed.
“I’m sorry, Kit.” I began, wiping a hand over my face to clear it of the terror sweat that had formed there, wiping my now clammy hand on my pants. “Van called you because I was having a fucking breakdown.”
“What happened?” Care dripped from every syllable and I was never more grateful to have Kit in my life than in that moment. He truly was like the brother I never had and knowing that he just wanted the best for me was fulfilling. “Talk to me, Alistair.”
Only one way to deal with something as difficult as the subject of Wanda Finneson: band-aid style.
“My mother called me.”
Kit’s gasp wasn’t out of place, because he should be shocked. It was the last thing any of us would have expected. I hadn’t seen or heard from the woman in over a decade so why now? That thought plagued me, and I wanted the answer, but I couldn’t spend too much time pondering. I wouldn’t let her take up too much mental space in my head, at least not more than she already did, clearly.
“What thefuck. She’s violating the restraining order.”
“She knows. I said that and her response was that she didn’t care.”
His scoff wasn’t misplaced either. He’d heard enough from me over the years that he knew how she operated just as well as I did. “Why would she start now?”
Kit mimicking my own thoughts made me smile. “I know.”
“Well, did she say what she wanted?”
“She claims that she just wanted to congratulate me on my success.”
“Bullshit.”
“I know.”
Running a hand through my long blond hair, I tried to untangle the straight strands. They weren’t even messed up, but my head was, so I’d convinced myself that just brushing my fingers through my hair would unwind the mess in my mind just as easily.
“You need to call the police, Alistair.” Kit purred the unbiased truth into my ear. “She’s violated the order and they need to know that, especially with her leaving Phoebe.”
“You’re right, I should.”
“I can call on your behalf if you need me to. I know you’re so close to tour starting. Are you at rehearsal right now?”
“Yeah, I am. But it’s okay. I’ll call Priyanka about it and see if she can handle it, but I think I have to be the one. I’ll make the time. I appreciate you wanting to help, though.”
“Just tell me how to help and I will. You know I will.”
“I know.” I said that so much during that call, I was tempted to log it in the column of no longer allowed dialogue in my head. But it was sweet of Kit to offer his help. He’d already helped me more than he could ever know, just by answering the phone. “Just talking me through this is helping.”
“Well, good.”
Feeling proactive, I added, “Hey, have you heard back about the trailer? Any word on what the landlord is thinking of doing with the trailer?”
“I was going to wait to tell you when you came down for Christmas, but yeah, I did. He wants to sell it to someone else after her shit is cleared out.”
“Offer him cash to sell it to me.”
“What?” The heavy shock was littered throughout that one single word. “Why the hell would you want to buy it?”
“Because I want the trailer destroyed.” I admitted, forming a very quick plan in my head. “Text me when you have an answer from him?”
“I mean, of course, if that’s what you really want.”
“It is.”
“Alistair…”
