Page 14 of Steamy on Set

At least his issue with my work is actually something I’ve done. Tossing the torn trousers into our reject pile, I go back to the rolling rack, looking through the jeans we have for the right pair. A gray denim fit with wide bottoms looks like a good choice. Now just to fit it to the actor’s measurements.

I get to work on finishing the alterations, then jump into my next project. Soon after Mira enters the room, bouncing on her feet like she has no worries.

“How was the meeting?” I look up from the sewing machine.

“Good.” She slides into the chair across from me. “We are on track with timing for completion, and things are going well. I just wish Errol wasn’t so involved. He has an opinion on everything.”

Tell me about it.

I nod along happy to have found an ally in my war with him.

“He is the worst!” I throw up my arms.

She cocks one eyebrow and tilts her head.

“I don’t know if I would go that far.”

I would beg to go further.

She leans forward to rest her hands on her knees.

“What exactly is your beef with each other? I noticed it at the pool party, and just now when I walked in.”

I shrug my shoulders.

“He’s insufferable, and I’m doing my best at putting up with him. I’m not a saint though, so at times I lower to his level.”

She rolls her eyes.

“I may be who you report to, but he has a lot of say on this set. I would try to get on his good side.”

Unfortunately, to do that I would have to learn to tolerate his cocky demeanor, and that just isn’t possible.

“No thank you,” I say, shaking my head.

“Plus, he is hot and single. He was out with this girl I know, Piper, last week.”

That makes three different people he’s been out with in less than a month.

“That’s community dick Mira. You deserve better.”

She laughs, but the starry look in her eyes doesn’t leave. Let her go for him if she wants. I definitely never would. No matter how much my heart races when he comes near.

Later that evening, I walk into the house to silence, letting me know Monty isn’t home. Without anyone around, I strip down to my underwear right at the front door and make my way into the kitchen. In need of ice cream to wash down this day, I graba carton of mint chocolate chip from the freezer before heading to the couch. With my phone in my hand, I can finally give my attention to the piled up notifications from today.

Each one acknowledged means I get another bite as a reward. When I get down to my emails, my screen fills with a name I was starting to think I would never see. I lurch forward, placing the container on the coffee table and unfolding my legs from underneath me.

My heart beats faster as I slide up to open the email in full. In plain black and white, Christian has finally given a response. I read it again and again as the two sentences permeate my mind.

“Stop calling. It’s over,” I say out loud, needing to hear the words. Needing for them to be real.Stop calling. It’s over, is all he has to say to me after months of no reply. After all the phone calls and texts, is this all he is going to give back? The realization of how pathetic I’ve been slams into me as his words circulate in my mind. This whole time I have been reaching out to a man who wants nothing to do with me. He has shown me time and time again that he doesn’t care about me, and I’ve been trying to prove to myself that he does.

Sure, I deserve a conversation, but to what end? How many times am I going to call or text him so that he can tell me the reason he cheated? How much longer am I going to patiently wait for a response? Why did it even matter? It won’t change anything; it makes no difference. Or will it? I need to know why my best friend of ten years, the man I love, cheated. What is becoming evidently clear is that I’m never going to know.

My fingers rub away the tears as soon as they fall. They are heavy with all of the weighted disappointment that this response is.

I move to put the ice cream away, needing something stronger. Grabbing a bottle of gin from our makeshift bar, I slide back into the comfort of the sofa. No need for a glass, as I sip right fromthe bottle. I sit this way drinking away my sorrow until I hear the turning of a key in the lock. Monty pushes through the front door to find me slouching in my underwear glass bottle pressed to my lips. Dropping her back pack by the shoes, she looks at me, questions lingering in her shifting eyes.

“What’s wrong?”

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