Page 51 of P.S. I Miss You

“You’d be so lucky.” That asshole. What I wouldn’t give to slam his back against these framed walls right now. “I’m not an actor, you sick fuck.”

Robert eyes the doorway, like he’s anxious for Richard to return. He’ll be back soon, so I take one final step closer. When our stares lock, his tan skin washes in white and he swallows hard.

Pencil-dicked coward.

“If you ever so much as think about touching Melrose Claiborne again, I promise … you’ll live to regret it,” I say.

This piece of shit should be sitting in a jail cell instead of wandering around his next multi-million dollar purchase, but I’ll take what little justice I can get.

At least for Melrose.

She’ll never have a chance to stand up to him, and he needs to know he’s not going to get away with this shit forever.

When Richard returns, Robert wastes no time mumbling some excuse about having another meeting to get to, and then he says he’ll send his wife to finish the rest of the lighting picks when she’s back from Fiji next week.

I might not have money, fame, or fortune, but I’m rich with a conscience, and that’s more than Robert McCauley can say. And I have to admit, watching guys like him sweat, guys who hide behind attorneys and gated houses but back down like chicken shits when a regular guy gets in their face … was fucking priceless. And if McCauley’s got any smarts about him, he’ll keep his mouth shut to Richard.

Richard isn’t afraid to ask blunt questions, and he doesn’t put up with anyone’s bullshit. He didn’t become a multi-millionaire by being a doormat.

I tug at the collar of my t-shirt, fanning myself and taking a moment to gather myself before heading back down to finish the main level with Manny and the crew.

Taking the stairs a minute later, I find myself grinning like a child when I think about the look on his face—sheer terror, shock, confusion.

I can’t wait to tell Melrose tonight.

Hell, I can’t wait to see Melrose tonight.

THE FRONT DOOR OPENS and shuts Wednesday night at five-thirty on the dot. I tug the zipper on my first suitcase. Half my things are packed. I’ve set out enough clothes to get me by these next few days.

I was under the impression I had more time, that I wouldn’t have to leave for at least another week, but the director wants me there as soon as possible, and my agent managed to get me three more days.

Three days to say goodbye to Gram. To Mom and Dad. To Aunt Catherine and Uncle Charles. Maritza and Isaiah.

Sutter.

His footsteps are heavy on the stairs, and the floor creaks when he reaches the top. His heavy presence fills my doorway a moment later.

“Hey,” I say.

He leans against the frame of my door, his white shirt covered in dirt and his skin slicked in sweat from the day’s heat.

“Packing already?” he asks with a laugh.

“I’m leaving Saturday.”

His expression falls. “You … you okay?”

“Don’t cry for me, Argentina,” I tease. “I’m excited. It’s literally a dream come true. I just … thought I’d have more time, you know, to say goodbye to everyone. But I guess it’s only two months. Three if there are weather delays and things like that. You never know.”

“I see.”

“Oh, hey, what’s this about?” She unsticks my Post-It from the top of her dresser and hands it over, her blue stare narrowing. “What did I ask you?”

“You don’t remember?”

I laugh. “Nope.”

His tanned fingers hook the back of his bronze neck as he drags in a long breath, but the moment he begins to respond, my phone rings.

“It’s Nick,” I say a second later.

He straightens his back and gives a nod. “I’m going to take my shower.”

I press the green button on my phone and hold the screen against my chest. “See you downstairs in a little bit?”

He shuts the door when he leaves, and I take a seat on my bed.

“What’s up?” I ask.

“I’m having an existential crisis.” Nick’s words are slurred.

“Where are you?”

“New Jersey.”

It’s not even 9 PM where he is and already he’s hammered.

“This whole touring-with-Maroon-5 thing not turning out to be what you expected?” I ask.

He exhales into the phone, then I hear something rustling in the background, like he’s shifting around to get comfortable.

“It’s lonely as hell out here, Mel,” he says. “The different city every night thing is just …”

“Please, Nick, tell me more about your First World problems.” I chuckle.

“I know. I know how I sound.”

“Are you homesick? Maybe you’re homesick.”

He exhales into the phone, pausing. “Yeah. I think I am. I think I want to come home, Mel.”

“You’ll be home before you know it,” I say. “And think of all the wild stories you’re going to have. You’ll be eighty years old someday and still telling people about life on the road.”

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