I’ve met someone else.
I love you and want to have your baby.
Okay, he knows me too well for that last one.
I try to reassure him by goofing around, asking for a photo of him now that I’ve sent one of me. He sends one of him reclining in bed with a book, and I tease that it doesn’t show nearly enough. I get another picture… of his head and bare shoulders.
We go on like that for a while as I walk to the hotel, and ultimately, I get a full body shot… with the book strategically placed. I laugh at that, but I don’t ask for more. We’re old enough and savvy enough not to exchange X-rated pics. I’ll reciprocate tomorrow with something equally sexy and PG-13.Afterwe have the conversation, though. Better not send him a boudoir photo right before telling him that, with the right online search terms, he can find pictures of me topless in a hot tub, straddling Colt Gordon.
I sigh. That is not going to be a fun conversation. None of it is, and I wish I could retract my promise to Isabella, fly home tonight and tell Marco in person.
I’ll do it by video chat tomorrow, and maybe that’s best, giving him time alone to assimilate everything before I come home.
Right now, though, I have another call to make. To my mother.
Chapter Fourteen
Mom and I talk for almost two hours. Her responses are as perfect as ever. She’s concerned that I might be hurt again. Proud that I stood up to Isabella. Less forgiving of Isabella than I am, and let’s face it, that’s what every child wants, isn’t it? The mother who will stand at your side, snarling in full Mama Bear mode, leaving you to feel proud of yourself for saying, “No, Mom, it’s not all her fault – I accept responsibility, too.”
That is hour one of our conversation. Hour two is quieter planning. Mom agrees I need to talk Isabella down from this mad scheme. She also agrees a public reconciliation would do me no good.
After that, we plan for her to come see me. She has a lunch engagement tomorrow that I urge her not to break. She’ll arrive in the evening, and we’ll enjoy three days of New York City before I go home.
That settled, I order room service for dinner and curl up on the massive bed to eat and watch a show on my laptop. I manage to stay up until ten, which is a miracle given the time difference. Then I sleep remarkably well… until my body jolts upright at four, shouting, “You’ve slept in!”
I force myself to stay in bed a while longer. It doesn’t require much coercion. I slide between dreaming and waking. Then I admire the photos Marco sent, indulge in a little sleepy daydreaming… until I’m awake enough to remember that call with him later this morning, the one I need to plan for.
I’m doing that when my phone chimes with an incoming text, and I grab it, hoping it’s Marco. Like when I’m waiting my turn to audition, and I get the chance to jump the line. I volunteer even as part of me screams that I’m not ready. Sometimes “not quite ready” is the best place to be, where you haven’t reached the overthinking and overplanning stage.
The text, though, is from Isabella. I wince, and I lie there, looking at her name, not opening the message, wondering whether I can text Marco instead and see whether he might be free before nine.
I sigh and open the message as I curse my mother for raising a responsible child.
Isabella:Is it possible to see you for breakfast instead?
Isabella:Jamie’s had an episode. I need to leave this morning.
Isabella:Can you let me know when you’re up?
Jamie’s had an episode.Those words send a frisson of worry through me. I remember Isabella saying she’d stayed with Colt longer than expected because of Jamison. I know from that poster that Jamison is an actor, and honestly, that’s a surprise. I remember a quiet, sensitive boy. Easily wounded, but kind to his core.
I google Jamison Morales-Gordon. The first few results are about the new movie, his second apparently, the first with his father. I dig deeper, and when I do, it’s like a punch in the gut.
Drugs. Alcohol. Rehab. Attempted suicide.
My eyes fill, and my heart hurts.
Oh, Jamie. Baby. What happened?
What happened? Well, let’s start with his trusted tutor allegedly sleeping with his father and nearly breaking up his family. I quickly text Isabella back.
Me:Go to Jamie. We can talk another time.
Isabella:I really would like to see you, and my car won’t be here until ten.
Isabella:Could you come for breakfast?
Isabella:Please.
