A Moment of Truth: A Complete Bonus Set (A Matter of Trust #1-2) (46 page)

Chapter Nineteen

The next morning, I wake with my mouth so dry, it’s practically sealed shut. As I haul myself out of bed in search of water, I realize that I’m stiff and in need of a hard workout. It’s been too many futile days sitting and staring at a piano.

I throw on some workout clothes, tie on my sneakers, and then with eyes still half-shut, grope my way to the kitchen for water. Guzzling some down, I immediately feel better, but send myself directly to the gym without passing Go.

The workout is hard but feels incredible. I stretch and push my body until I’m good and sweaty and then head to a treadmill and start running. With music jamming from my earbuds, I watch the TVs playing various shows—news, infomercials, and I should have guessed—an entertainment show is on. I avert my eyes because, well, I’ve been trying to avoid “seeing” Dan. I hate how disconnected I feel from him and how I worry more each day if this distance is going to ruin our relationship.

The “what if” train’s wheels start to chug, and soon it’s departing the station.
What if he finds someone new? What if he realizes this is just too much of a pain in the ass to deal with? What if he decides he likes the single life and wants to do that indefinitely? What if, what if, what if . . .

I glance at the TVs, catching a quick glimpse of Dan heading into some restaurant with a blonde in tow. Flashes pummel him while nausea pummels me. This must be the date he was talking about. He’s not overly smiley, but he does hold the door open for the woman—the very pretty and young woman.
Oh God. This needs to stop. It needs to stop!
I suddenly realize I’ve just shouted, “Stop!” out loud because the people next to me turn in my direction. “Sorry,” I say, pointing to my ear buds. “Singing along.” They nod and keep going, but I turn red and run harder because I need to shake the uncertainty that’s building up.

I burst into the apartment and shout, “We need to drink tonight!”

Bridget sits up on the couch. “What?”

“Did I wake you? How could you be napping? It’s like one in the afternoon, and we got up only two hours ago?”

She rubs her eyes. “I don’t know. I’m tired. Anyway, you want to go out drinking again? Damn, Claire. You’ll be an official drunk before this single life experiment ends.”

“Ugh. I just need to get my head quiet. Maybe drinking isn’t the best way, but what else can I do? I’m having a hard time writing music, and I’m just antsy.”

“I get it, I get it. It’s fine. Your girly bits are sad, which makes you sad. I get it.”

“What?” I ask with a laugh.

“You haven’t gotten laid in weeks, and your girly bits are bitchy. It’s normal. And I hate to burst your bubble, but we’re not going out tonight.”

“What? Why not? You guys are always going out.”

“Because the snowstorm is coming through tonight, remember? Camille’s out now gathering the requisite bread and milk.”

“Oh.” I plop onto the chair, bummed.

“She’s also getting alcohol, so you’ll still be able to get drunk, lush.”

“Yay!”

***

Later that night, the storm’s in full-swing outside—sideways snow, blustery wind—but the fun inside is in full-swing, too—a coffee table strewn with half-eaten Chinese, the TV’s on, and the three of us are in our jammies, curled up in the living room, drunker than drunk.

After a lusty perfume ad on TV, Bridget says, “Camille, you are so in love with Colin, it’s kind of sickening. Like make-me-want-to-puke sick.” Bridget pretends to hurl and laughs at herself.

“I am not! We don’t talk ’bout love or things, just . . . things.”

“Oh, that clears it up,” I say, giggling.

“Oh, shut it, you. You and Dan are all, ‘I love you,’ ‘No, I love you,’ ‘No, I love you more,’ smoochy, smoochy, smoochy,” Camille says, puckering her lips and making kissing noises.

I snort in laughter. “At least I can admit it.”

“Right. Because you are so honest and in touch with your feelings?”

I wiggle my fingers at her.

“What are you doing?” Bridget asks.

“Using my powers of deflection! So what about you and Shane, Bridget? You two looked really cozy on Halloween and then nothing? You’re hiding things. Spill it!”

Bridget turns red and shrugs. “There’s nothing much to say, really. We had fun. He called a few times.”

“What, you’re shy now?” Camille asks.

“Not shy.
Private
.”

Camille and I crack up at the idea, and when Camille slips off the couch I nearly pee myself laughing.

“What? I’m serious.” Bridget watches as we laugh. “Okay, fine. He really likes me, and it’s freaky. I was just expecting to hookup, not get a boyfriend that night.”

“Can you believe this is Bridget’s first official boyfriend?” Camille asks me from her new seat on the floor.

I start giggling. “After all these years as Princess Boom-Boom.”

“Princess Boom-Boom?” Bridget asks. “What the hell is that?”

I stand and thrust my pelvis in time with saying, “Boom! Boom! Boom!”

“Well, then say hello to the Princess!” Bridget starts whacking me with a pillow. I dive onto the couch and curl up into a protective ball that really isn’t protecting anything. And I definitely can’t stop laughing.

“She was being obnoxious, too!” I point to Camille.

Bridget begins swatting Camille next.

In the nick of time, my phone rings. I scramble away from the beating to look. I don’t recognize the number, but answer anyway. “Hello?”

“Hey, Claire.”

“Dan?” I shout. “Dan! Hi! How are you calling me?”

“Are you drunk?” He snickers on the other end.

Oh! His British laugh!
I’m swooning like I’ve never swooned. “Yes. You can tell?”

“Yes, I can tell—you’re sort of slurring.”

“Oh, well, the snowstorm’s here, and we, you know, Camille and Bridget and me—we got Chinese—your favorite—and some wine, too. It was tasty.”

I head to my bedroom and lie on my bed. “So how are you calling me? Did you kill your watcher person-people? Do you need us to hide bodies? I think Camille has a shovel. I can ask her if you want.” I’ve got head-to-toe goosebumps and a smile that’s making my cheeks ache.

He’s laughing. “No, that’s okay. I’m all set with the bodies for now, thanks. My watcher person’s name is Rodney, and get this—he’s Sushman’s slimy nephew.”

“His nephew? He didn’t have other professional watcher people to, you know, watch you? Sounds really suspicious. Are you suspicious? You should be, you know, suspicious.”

Dan’s snickering. “Well, from what I’ve gathered, Sushman owes his sister a favor or money or something, so I’m stuck with Rodney, and I think he’s as sick of me as I am of him, which is why he’s in the car waiting for me and not up my arse like he usually is. In any case, I probably don’t have long—I’m using the payphone at the library. Told him I had to do some research.”

“You big liar! And he bought it? Ha! Hey, you want to do phone sex at the library? Wait, can’t Rodney see you?”

“No, I’m inside the enclosed entrance, but there’s a window here, and I can keep an eye on him in the car.”

“Good thinking! I’m so happy you called me. I’ve missed you so much. Like a lot. A real lot, you know? I also don’t like that you’re going on dates with these pretty young things—wasn’t that a Michael Jackson song? Anyway, I really don’t like it. It makes me angry.” There’s nothing but silence. “Dan? Did Rodney catch you? Are you there?”

There’s a sudden snort followed by laughter. “I like talking to you when you’re drunk. You’re really funny. Don’t give those dates a second thought. They are far from real. I mostly glaze over while these girls pick at their nails or check their phones every three seconds or try to . . . never mind.”

“They what? Hit on you? Rub on you? Is sleeping with them a part of your contract, too?”

“What? No! Now don’t get all feisty on me. I’m not sleeping with anyone except lefty, but more often righty.”

“Who?” My anger seethes until understanding dawns on me. I giggle. “Ha! Lefty, righty. Your jokes are getting funnier! Anyway, those fake-dates make me cranky.”

“Yeah, well, that photo of you and Ian didn’t make me happy.”

“Ian’s a douche . . . wait, what photo?”

“Len showed me a picture from some gossip magazine—Ian had his arm around you at a bar. What happened?”

“Yeah, that was weird. The girls and I were out, totally minding our business, when he surprise-attacked us, me.”

“Ian sent me the photo the same day it hit the paper, too, with a note saying he couldn’t wait to take you to dinner.”

“Eww. I’d never go anywhere with him! He’s really creepy. But Camille sure scared him off, so I’ll just make sure to bring her everywhere from now on.”

He chuckles. “She is good for that. Anyway, he’s dangerous, regardless of what anyone says. Just watch out.”

“I will . . . so guess what? I saw you at the movies—in the previews for Sushman’s movie. Your face was huuuuge on the screen, and you were all lubed up and wet.”

He snickers. “You liked the trailer, then?”

“Yes. My God, who wouldn’t? I mean, no one knows you’re Fifteen-Minute King, but you looked so fucking good.”

He laughs. “Sounds like you miss this Fifteen-Minute King, anyway.”

I sigh deeply. “I hate that I miss you so much.”

“Yeah? How much?”

“So much that just before you called Camille and Bridget and I were discussing our relationships, and Bridget’s all freaked out about Shane liking her—not that she doesn’t like him, but you know, she’s always been a player—and then Camille said the other day that she might join Colin on tour. Did you know that? Isn’t that crazy? Sorry, I’m rambling.”

“I keep missing Colin’s calls, but I know he really likes Camille.”

“She really likes him, too. I wonder how serious they’ll get.”

“I wonder how serious
we’ll
get,” he says.

I’m taken aback. “As far as you want it to.”
Oh, the wine makes it so much easier to speak my thoughts.

“So it’s up to me?” he asks, his voice deep and soft.

“You sound like you’re trying to whisper on a stupid payphone from thousands of miles away.”

“Because that is what I’m doing,” he says with a chuckle.

“Right. Anyway, yeah, up to you. Ball is in
your
court, Bucko.”

“You’re just saying that because you’re drunk.”

“No. I’m serious. I’d take this as far as you’d want it to go. Totally up to you. Ball’s in your court.”
Balls.
I giggle even more.

“What are you saying?”

Though I’m deeply submerged in a drunken haze, I’m aware enough to know he’s being serious and I should be thoughtful, careful even, about what I say, so I figure honesty is the best policy. “I guess I’m saying that being away from you hurts. I don’t like being away from you.”

“Me neither.”

“Yeah, but you’re really young and, well, you know.”

“No, what do I know?”

“That you’re too young to get really serious.”

“What does age have to do with it? I think it’s pretty serious that we met each other’s family and spent Christmas together.”

“True, true. But you have a lot of time ahead of you, and why should you be tied down to one person when you’re so young? My mom says that a lot—like every time I speak to her. That you’re too young to know what you really want, which is why you’ll leave me someday.”

“She says that? That I’ll
leave
you?” He sounds shocked, offended even.

“You’ve met her. She says what she thinks.”

“Do you agree with her?”

I know this is a conversation that’s probably best for sober times and sober thinking, but screw it; it’s good to be open. “Well, yes and no. I mean, you are young, that’s a fact, but . . . that doesn’t mean you don’t know what you want. Although I do worry you’ll change your mind. You could very well change your mind. It’s probably why I run away from you when I get upset.”

“So that I don’t run away first? Is that it?”

“I think so.”

“That won’t happen,” he says.

“But how do you
know
?”

“I just know. I know what I like, and what I want, and especially, what I need.”

“And what’s that?”

He’s silent for a stretch. “You. You’re what I like and want and need,” he says softly. “Does that scare you?”

My heart flutters. My belly does, too. “A little. Maybe someday I won’t be all those things.”

“You know, that could happen on your end, too—you might change
your
mind.”

“Nope.”

“And how do
you
know?” he asks.

“Because when I see you, my belly always does this fluttery butterfly dance, and I laugh a lot with you, and I just like the way I feel around you. Plus, you’re ridiculously good-looking and have nice arms and stuff. I’ve dubbed you Mr. Beautiful in my head. Did you know that?”

I hear him chuckle. “No, I didn’t, but . . . did you ever think that maybe I feel the same way?”

“You call me Mr. Beautiful in your head?”

“No.” He laughs. “Listen, I can see Rodney’s getting restless, so I have to go, but before I do, I wanted to tell you I’m going to be in New York next weekend for business. There’s going to be a party at the Iris. I know we’re not supposed to be together, but since it’s a work thing, and you’re in the business, too, I thought we could coincidentally be in the same place at the same time. Give David a call. He can get you a ticket. I need to see you—in person—even if I can’t really talk to you.”

“Oh my God! Yes! 3-D is much better than 2-D!”

He laughs. “Exactly. I’ll try to sneak in another phone call soon, but until then, I love you and hope you can make it.”

“Love you, too. Talk—and hopefully see—you soon!”

“Bye, my love.”

“Bye.”

We hang up, and I roll back and forth on the bed, thinking about his sexy voice, and the next thing I know, the sun’s shining, the brightness is blazing into my room, and my mouth feels like someone glued it shut.