Page 85 of Take 2
Lisaisgoingtogive me hell for being late. The term work-wife was created for people like her. Fortunately, she puts up with my shit.Unlike my actual wife.Two years later, and I still hate calling her my ex. The sane thing to do was definitely to lock away the phone, which still has her saved asMy Wife Bella,and continue paying for it even though I exclusively use my new phone with my LA number.
There are pieces I’d like to hold onto of my old life. Bella can’t be one of those, so I hold onto the Wisconsin phone number.
I’m an idiot.
When we arrive, I avoid touching Nicole, the pretty woman I’m seeing at the moment. If it weren’t for the casual nature of our situation, I couldn’t be with her on Oscars day. Still, it’s agitating. I’ve avoided most human contact for this day every year. Romantic contact has always been a hard no.
Lisa’s party looks like it should host the winners of the Academy Awards, not her clients who are trying to get there. I walk in and catch her eye. She lights up and waves me over.
Then, the world stops turning.
Her hair is shorter, but even from behind, I’d recognize her anywhere. And fuck if it isn’t in an Oscars dress. The back is open to reveal the skin I’ve massaged, scrubbed in the shower, and scratched when she had an itch she couldn’t reach. Her legs are incredible in spiked gold heels, but her feet are going to hate her later. Does she have anyone to rub them for her? There’s a guy with her as she talks to Lisa. Seeing her with someone twists my stomach. It’s impossible trying to reconcile wanting her to be happy with the nausea that’s always assaulted me when I think of her being with other people.
Her chocolate brown curls swing over her shoulder as she turns around. For the first time in over two years, I look into the eyes of the only woman I’ve ever loved.
Those eyes bulge, and her face turns pale so fast I have to suppress the urge to grab her arm to make sure she doesn’t collapse.
“Mirabelle Sheridan, this is Preston Greene.” Lisa’s words are in an echo chamber. They’ll haunt my dreams.
Bella’s chest heaves and her red-tinted lips tremble. She’s even more gorgeous than I picture her in my mind, and it’s way too soon for us to meet again.
There are moments when I think she and I are done for good. Moments when I’m even glad for it or wish we had never been together. But those are as rare as rain in LA. Usually, Iknowwe’ll get back together. Eventually. We met too young. We got married too young. We needed time to live.We should have met in our thirties.It’s an idea I’ve held onto. She’s still five years away from her thirties, and I’m three years away from mine.
My legs are poised to run like I’m waiting for a football to be snapped.
But Bella extends a shaky hand to me. “Nice to meet you.” So that’s how we’re going to play this.
Her hand is clammy in mine. “You too.”
“And I’m Nicole.”
I press my eyes closed and my lips together as my date leans around me to shake my ex-wife’s hand. My lack of awareness of her presence is pretty telling of what draws me.
“A pleasure.” Bella’s smile is tighter than an A-lister’s NDA. “This is James.”
I tense, but as James shakes Nicole’s hand, then mine, I relax. My gaydar tells me he’s not her date in that way.
“I was just telling Mirabelle thatMissed Opportunitiesis a big reason for my big move,” Lisa says.
I clear my throat. “The credit is all yours, Lisa. You’re awesome at what you do.”
“You’re too sweet.” She loops her arm through mine. “Let’s get you a drink.”
Robotically, I let her lead me to the bar. Lisa waltzes away while I wait for my whiskey on the rocks. The ‘always champagne’ rule only applied to watching the awards with Bella. I’m glad to see she’s still keeping her traditions … I guess. I watch as she finishes her champagne and hands the empty glass to James. The smile on her face is so fake it’s laughable as she talks to him, but it’s still the most beautiful thing I’ve seen in years.
I’m so fucked.
She disappears down a hallway, and I mumble something about the bathroom to Nicole.
Is it going to make everything worse to talk to her? Possibly. But really, how much worse could it be? We’re in the same industry, we have the same agent—How the fuck did I not know that?—so we’re bound to run into each other again. Better to clear the air now.
I pass a dark, empty bathroom and a closet before I get to a closed door with light glowing from underneath it. “Bella?” I knock lightly.
The door unlocks with aclick, but the handle doesn’t turn. It takes a second to muster the balls to open it. When I do, she’s sitting on the floor in the far corner of what I guess is a guest bedroom with her knees up to her chest. I shut the door and lock it, reminding myself not to look at the view under her skirt.
“Bella, I—”
“Do notcall me that.”
