Page 82 of When I Had You

“I love you, too, Mom.”

Just as I climb out, she says, “Think about going to Brazil next weekend. I think it will be good for you to be there.”

“Okay. If I can get away, I will.”

As I roll my case through the private security doors, I think about everything she said. It wasn’t a conversation I would have sought to have, but it was needed.

The media was alerted of my arrival, so when I landed, they swarmed, asked questions that would make even the strongest feel weak, and shoved me twice before security intervened. With Poppy back in New York, I have no choice but to run to the car line and wait my turn.

Fortunately, security shuffles me to the front as the words “cheater” and “Corbin” are tossed out with one or two “slut” and “horrible person.” Those words should bounce off me like a rubber ball, but they still hurt when I realize this is what they think of me.

What the hell?

Tears fill my eyes, and with no time to find my sunglasses, they fall. A back door is opened and through watery vision, I squeeze through the chaos. The phone in my back pocket buzzes as I climb inside the car. I don’t even care if my suitcase makes it at this point. I tell the driver, “Go. Please go.”

How do I go from one of the best nights of my life to dropping my head into my hands and crying?

“Are you okay, miss?”

“No. I’m not.” I turn to look outside, but something catches my attention in my periphery. I look at the driver again and see him handing me a box of tissues.

He says, “I’m sorry. That was awful.”

Taking the box, I stare at him. As awful as that was back there, here I’m being offered the kindness of a stranger. “Thank you.” This is what matters. Not people who make more money off upset celebrities or the paparazzi who make a living off provoking someone to capture their worst in a photo. “I appreciate it.”

He nods, focusing his attention forward for the remainder of the drive. My phone keeps blowing up, but I’ll deal with that when I’m back at the apartment. I take a deep breath, deciding that taking a moment in the quiet will benefit me more.

The quiet doesn’t last long when I get into the apartment, but I leave the other calls for later. I just need to hear one voice to feel better.

“What the fuck just happened back there?” Cash answers on speakerphone. I assume he needs room to pace.

“How do you already know what happened at the airport?”

“It’s all over social media. I was texted links.”

“Are you okay, Marina?”

I’m not okay, but worried I’ll anger him more, I whisper, “I’m—”

“Don’t say fucking fine. Are you hurt?”

I might need to pace myself. “Don’t talk to me like that.” I put him on speaker and walk to the sliding glass door. “I’m okay.”

He exhales loudly, then says, “I’m sorry. Where is your security? The fuck is going on that you’re being pushed in a crowd, and nobody thinks to help you?”

“Airport security intervened. I’m fine. Really. I’m not hurt, Cash. My pride is bruised, but physically, I’m all right.”

“Do you have a security team, or does the movie provide a detail to protect its stars?”

Spotting someone in the distance, I squint my eyes. “Oh my God. Some guy has a long lens aimed into my apartment.” I quickly shut the blinds.

“It’s not safe there. You need to get to a place with active security on duty.”

Stuck standing in the dark, I sit on the couch when my feelings start to overwhelm me. “I . . . Poppy’s at home . . . alone. I have no food.”

A video request rings and I see him trying to connect. I swipe at my tears before accepting and plaster on a fake smile. He’s angry, not at me, but I don’t want to deepen the emotion. He needs to focus on his career. “Hi,” I say, holding the phone up so he can see my face.

The shock of how handsome he is never seems to wear off. I can’t take my eyes off him. “I’m coming to get you,” he says. “If they can’t protect you, I will.”

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