“Did you try telling him how you feel about him?”
I don’t bother denying that I’m in love with him. Actions speak louder than words, and she’s seen me mooning around like a teenage girl for the past four weeks, eating chocolate chip cookie dough straight from the package and binge-watchingTiger King.
“It doesn’t matter because he doesn’t feel the same way about me. At least not strongly enough to make up for having to live under the glare of the paparazzi.” I give Mirri one last belly rub and hoist myself up, taking my bag with me. “Come on, let’s get this over with. The sooner I grab the rest of my things and get out of here, the better.”
I lead the way to the spare bedroom I occupied when I first moved in. I cleared most of my stuff out the day I left, but there are still a few things I couldn’t manage to grab in my rush to escape. Connor might have offered to let me stay as long as I needed, but that wasn’t happening. Being that close to him and not being with him, not being able to touch him or taste him, would have been torture.
“Where do you want me to start?” Ainsley asks, taking her coat off and flopping down on the bed.
“Not there.” I pull an empty garbage bag out from my oversized purse and toss it to her. It lands on the pillow above her head. “There’s some stuff hanging in the closet. Just throw it in the bag. I’ll sort it out later.”
“Hangers, too?”
“All of it.” I strip my jacket off and hang it the bedpost. Then I fish my phone out of my purse and open my favorite Spotify playlist, hoping a little music will cheer me up. And keep Ainsley from continuing to grill me about Connor. “Mind if I put on some tunes?”
She shrugs and pushes herself upright, taking the garbage bag with her. “Knock yourself out.”
I press play, and Harry Styles’ “Watermelon Sugar” fills the room. Ainsley gets working on the closet, and I take an empty box from under the bed into the adjoining bathroom to make sure there’s nothing of mine left in there.
We work in companionable silence until everything is in bags or boxes. It takes longer than I thought—I totally underestimated the amount of stuff I left behind—and it’s almost noon by the time we’re done.
Ainsley tosses my Vans checkerboard slip-ons into a bag and slumps down onto the floor, her back resting against the wall. “Has anyone ever told you you own way too many shoes?”
“My brother. At least once a week the entire time I’ve lived with him.” I slump down next to her. “Thanks for helping me pack. And for letting me come back and crash with you guys on such short notice. I’ll be out of your hair soon.”
“As if we would turn you away.” She slings an arm around my shoulders, and I lean against her, happy to let her take some of my burden. “You’re family. We’ll always be here for you. Just promise you’ll be back from Toronto in time for the wedding.”
“Are you kidding?” I scoff. “There’s no way I’m missing that. Besides, production says I’ll be done shooting in a few weeks. That gives me plenty of wiggle room to get back here in time for all the festivities.”
Including the bachelorette party her best friend Mia and I are planning for her at Top Shelf. But she doesn’t know about that. Not yet. It’s a surprise. Even Jake is sworn to secrecy.
“I’m so stoked for you.” She gives my shoulder an affectionate squeeze. “Your first big feature film role. I want a front row seat at the premiere.”
“I don’t know about big. It’s only a supporting role in a indie movie.”
A nice, juicy one, though. I’ll be playing a sexual assault victim who sues her attacker, the son of a prominent politician and champion of the #MeToo movement, after the justice system lets him off with a slap on the wrist. It’s dark and edgy and the exact opposite of my role in the Mortal Misfits. And I’m working with one of the hottest indie directors out there.
I still can’t believe he hired me after all the shit that went down at the film festival. Irene’s article went viral the next day, as expected. But Miriam worked her magic. Got me on a few daytime talk shows, gave me a chance to explain my side of the story. And she was right. After a few days of seemingly nonstop coverage, the whole thing died down, and the tabloids moved on to the next celebrity scandal.
“Remember what I told you when you booked that ensemble role inLes Mis?” Ainsley nudges my knee with hers. “There are no small parts—”
“I know, I know. Only small actors.” I stand, brushing my hands off on my jeans. My stomach grumbles, reminding me that I skipped breakfast. I grab my jacket from the bedpost and stick my arms through the sleeves. “It’s almost lunchtime. We should probably get this stuff out of here. And maybe grab some sushi at Shoji.”
Translation: I’m starving, and I don’t want to risk Connor showing up after his meeting and finding me here.
“Sounds good to me.”
She gets to her feet, puts her coat on, and hoists one of the now full garbage bags over her shoulder. I grab a box and follow her out of the bedroom.
It takes a few trips to get everything down to the lobby, where my doorman buddy Ernie has agreed to watch it until it’s all out of the apartment and we’re ready to go. We’re finishing up our last run, about halfway down the hall on our way back to the living room, when the ominous click of a lock echoes through the quiet apartment.
Ainsley stops in her tracks, and I almost plow into her, clutching the box I’m carrying to my chest to avoid dropping it.
“Shit,” she hisses, hitching the garbage bag in her hands higher on her shoulder. “Connor’s home.”
“Maybe it’s his cleaning lady,” I say, knowing deep down that it can’t possibly be that easy. Not the way my love life—or lack thereof—has been going lately.
“I’m sorry,” Ainsley whispers. “I should have asked Jake to text me when their meeting was over.”
