Page 39 of Wildest Dreams

I shake my head, look at the grocery list in my hand, and concentrate on getting my things and going home.

Once I get my food upstairs, I leave the bags on the stove and sit on the couch. I pull out my iPad and open Instagram, then search for Pierre’s name.

A lot of pictures come up. Mostly shots from red carpet events and stills from movies, but scattered amongst what I would expect to see are photos taken last night at Cattywampus.

Photos of Marina touching his arm. Photos of Marina sitting less than an inch from him, grinning like a crazy person. Photos of Marina with her arms around him.

I’m in a few of the shots. In some, you can see the back of my head. In others, I look sullen, staring down at my hands, my body language screaming that I did not want to be there.

The comments on the pictures are clear. Everyone thinks they’re together. A few people had posted pictures of them from a movie they did together years ago and red carpet shots of him with his arm around her at the premiere. There are even a few shots of them talking on the set of the movie they’re filming now. I recognize the buildings from downtown and the interior of one of the historic homes.

None of this is true. I believe in my heart that he’s not lying when he says he’s not interested in her. I was there that night at Cattywampus. The implication derived from those photos is complete fiction, probably fabricated and staged by Marina herself.

But I can’t help feeling…gross, somehow. This is not my world, and the last thing I want is to be a footnote in some public farce.

My stomach sinks with a feeling of humiliation. I agreed to go out with Pierre to get back at Tucker – to rub it in his face that I could get someone better. And I did. The whole town was talking about it. I’d be lying if I said it didn’t feel good. The problem is, I fell for it too. It started as a short-term thing, and now I’m in way over my head. To top it off, everyone in town now sees me as a pathetic wronged woman yet again.

I call Patsy, but she doesn’t answer.

Instead of doing the healthy thing and walking away from the internet, I keep scrolling. Past the photos of Pierre and Marina are pictures of Pierre and every other beautiful woman in Hollywood. It seems to go on forever. They’re all so tall, so perfect, so glamorous. I can’t even pronounce the names of half of the designers they’re wearing.

And here I am in cut-off jeans and a t-shirt.

I feel stupid. I know Pierre means well, but those pictures prove we’re on separate planets.

This can’t go on. I can’t have any more pathetic pictures of myself end up on some tabloid site. I can’t have any more awkward run-ins at the grocery store. I can’t keep telling myself I’m okay with this being a temporary thing when I fall harder and harder each time I see Pierre. It’s been good for me, I know. But I need to leave it at that.

This needs to stop before I get more hurt than I already will.

* * *

Patsy never calls me back, but I do hear from my mom. She’s heard everything, of course, and wants to know what’s going on. I want to confide in her, but since I know she’ll just get worried and drive up here, I downplay the whole thing.

Pierre calls, but I ignore him. I don’t know what to say, so I take the coward’s way out and avoid talking to him.

I’m the absolute worst. He really does deserve better.

The next morning, I’m relieved Patsy is actually on time. She walks in, coffee in hand as usual, and rushes back to my office.

“I am sorry I didn’t call you back last night. We were at the ER with Bow.”

“Oh no! Is he okay?”

“Ugh. He and Buck climbed out of their bedroom window and onto the roof. They tried to sword fight with some sticks they found up there. Of course, he fell and slid right on down into the bushes. Thank God for the azaleas or he would’ve had worse than a broken arm.”

“I’m glad he’s okay.”

She rolls her eyes. “Boys. It’s always something. At least the pain meds calm him down. My mom is keeping him and Hunter this week while I take the other three to be extras in the movie.”

“Oh. I almost forgot about that.”

“It’s still okay, right? You don’t need me here Wednesday, Thursday, or Friday?”

“For work, no.”

Her eyes narrow and she cocks her head to the side.

“What’s wrong?”

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