Page 34 of P.S. I Miss You

This woman lives and breathes drama, and I guess she should seeing how it’s her job. Many of the greats have studied under her. Brad Pitt. Selma Hayek. George Clooney. Charlize Theron. Jennifer Lawrence. Robert Pattinson.

I try to focus on Sutter’s words, letting them replay in my head over and over. Stewing helps me forget the hordes of manic butterflies that swarmed my insides when we kissed.

“Hey.” There’s a tap on my shoulder. When I turn around, I find a guy, not much older than me, wearing a smile and a faded blue button down. “You need a partner?”

I nod.

He smiles bigger, his teeth straight and white and his blond hair parted on the side. He reminds me of one of those guys who own yachts and wear sweaters draped over their shoulders when they have dinner at the country club, and he sounds like he’s from New England. I imagine he came out here with a dream and a trust fund.

The guy moves to the empty seat beside me. “Michael.”

“Melrose.”

“Real name or stage name?”

I roll my eyes, but in a self-deprecating way. “Real.”

“That’s awesome. I was thinking of changing my name to something more memorable. Maybe Baz or Stone or Storm or something,” he says. “You’re never going to believe what my last name is.”

“Smith?” I guess one of the most common names in America.

“Nope,” he says. “Scott.”

“Ah, like Steve Carell in The Office.”

“Exactly,” he says, eyes lit.

“All right, I’m passing out a worksheet,” Paula says, voice smooth like butter and carried on a cloud. “Today’s lesson is …”

I try to focus on Paula’s instructions, but I can’t stop thinking about earlier today … in the garage.

Obviously I feel like an idiot for thinking he was trying to kiss me. I mean, it was dark and he leaned in so close I could feel the inviting heat of his mouth against mine. What was I supposed to think?!

But more importantly: why did I want it?!

My cheeks turn red. I’m rarely embarrassed, but I’ve been cringing and confused since the moment it happened.

“Melrose?” My partner says, snapping his fingers in my face, which annoys me to no end. “You still with me?”

I wave his hand away. “Yeah, sorry.”

Michael hands me one of the worksheets. My eyes scan the words but I don’t read them. They might as well be random letters, nonsensical phrases.

I need to snap out of this.

He can steal my dignity, but I won’t let him steal my focus.

Clearing my throat and sitting up straight, I read lines with Michael, giving it as close to one-hundred percent as I possibly can, and when it’s over, I gather my things and head to the door.

“Hey,” Michael stops me. “A bunch of us are going to get drinks after this. You want to come?”

I pull in a ragged breath and offer a gracious, “No, thank you. Maybe next time?”

His expression falls, but he maintains his smile.

He might feel rebuffed, but at least there was no kiss involved in our scenario.

When I get home, the place is dark, soundless.

Sutter must be out.

Jogging up the stairs, I change into pajamas and grab Murphy to let him outside. I’m sitting on the back steps when my phone vibrates beside me and Nick’s picture fills my screen.

My heart jumps as I tap the green button and answer. “What’s with the actual phone calls lately? I feel honored.”

“Melly.” It’s loud where he is. People chatting. Music. Guitar strings being plucked and strummed and tuned.

“Where are you?”

“Phoenix,” he yells.

“Having fun?” I ask, speaking up in case he can’t hear me.

“Yeah, Melrose, say, listen,” he says, “is everything okay between you and Sutter?”

I pause, unsure how to answer.

Why is he asking this?

Did Sutter say something?

“Things are … fine. I guess. Why?” I ask.

“Well, you sent me all those weird texts a couple weeks ago and then they stopped. Are you guys getting along now?”

As best we can. “Yes.”

“Cool, cool,” he says. “I was worried. I’d feel like shit if I made you live with some asshole.”

“If it was that bad, I’d have left by now.”

He laughs. “True.”

A woman’s voice fills the phone, though I imagine she’s next to him, maybe shoulder-height. There’s a tightness in my chest when I picture some beautiful, long-legged blonde who has an all-access pass to Nick’s whole world.

Never thought I’d be jealous of a groupie, but there’s a first time for everything.

The phone is muffled for a moment. I couldn’t make out what they’re saying if I tried.

“Sorry about that,” he says when he comes back. “So … I mean, did anything happen? With you and Sutter?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Did you make up? How did you go from hating him to saying everything’s fine now?” Nick asks, though I can hardly hear him. It’s almost as if he’s speaking in a lower voice now, like he doesn’t want anyone to hear.

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