I hang up, breathing hard. After a moment, I dial another number. This time, Jamie’s voice mail answers.
“Never mind,” I say, forcing a cheer into my voice that I don’t feel. “I’m going shopping and thought you might want to meet up. But no big.”
I hang up thinking that shopping sounds like a damn fine idea. Retail therapy won’t cure the world’s ills, but it works pretty well to take your mind off them. On that point, at least, I agree with my mother.
I take a deep breath, then another. I’m calmer now, ready to go. Ready to crank the radio up on a classic country station and let George Strait sing about how his problems are so much worse than mine.
I glance out my window, but don’t see the keys. With a sigh, I push open my door and get out of the car, adjusting my skirt as I do. I’d thrown them hard, so they’re probably yards away near the dark green Mercedes or the massive Cadillac SUV. The only flashlight I have is the app on my iPhone, and I hope it’ll be enough.
My heels click on the asphalt as I cross the garage to the Mercedes. The area with the Mercedes and the Cadillac isn’t as dark as the corner with my car, but it’s still dim, and I frown as I contort my body and shine the light, trying to look under the two cars without getting down on my knees and putting huge runs in my stockings.
It takes a while, but after circling the cars twice, I finally see the keys hidden in a shadow behind the Mercedes’ back tire.
I snatch them up, then freeze when I see movement in my peripheral vision. There, near the stairwell by my car, I see the shadow of a man.
“Hello?”
The shadow doesn’t move, and I shiver, unnerved by the sensation that he is watching me.
“Hey,” I call. “Who’s there?” I stand, debating whether I should move forward—toward the shadow and the car—or whether I should start walking back toward Stark Tower and get a security guard to escort me.
I hold up my phone. “I’m calling security. You might want to take a hike.”
At first, the man doesn’t move. Then the shadow moves backward and is absorbed by the deeper darkness. A moment later, I hear a metallic creak, followed by the heavy thunk of the stairwell door slamming shut.
I shiver and hurry to my car. Right then, all I want is to get out of there.
By the time I arrive at the Beverly Center in West Hollywood, I’ve had my fill of George Strait and have twirled the dial back to the classic rock station. I’m jamming to Journey as I pull into a space right near the brightly lit escalator that leads into the fashionable mall.
Jamie hasn’t called me back, and to be honest, I’m grateful. I’m feeling centered again, the Hyde to my Jekyll buried deep once more, and the thought of rehashing the whole day with Jamie just seems overwhelming. I don’t want to think about it. I don’t want to push those buttons or tug on those triggers.
And I really don’t want to think about the way I ran from Damien Stark.
What does he think about me now?
No. Not going there.
I get out of my car, lock it tight even though no one in this part of Los Angeles would be caught dead with my piece of shit vehicle, not even a criminal, and head into the mall, my thoughts on makeup and shoes and purses. Thoughts of Damien Stark are not allowed.
The escalator moves me up, up, up, like I’m rising out of a dark hell into the light of a shiny bright heaven. Beautiful people are everywhere, and we are alike in our plastic-ness. Me, the people, even the mannequins in the windows. We’re all hiding behind our masks, strutting our stuff, pretending to be perfectly perfect.
Beautiful clothes call to me like sirens from window displays, and I dip in and out of the stores like flotsam moving with the tide. I pull things off racks. I try them on. I twist and turn in front of three-way mirrors and smile politely when the sales-clerks tell me how darling an outfit is. How it makes my legs look so, so sexy. How I’ll turn heads everywhere I go.
I put them all back.
In Macy’s, I find a display of colored T-shirts, along with some cotton drawstring pants in a blue and white pinstripe material. I buy the pants and two T-shirts, also blue and white. I carry my little bag to the Starbucks and order a coffee loaded up with cream and a blueberry muffin. Comfort clothes, comfort food.
I sit by the window and watch the world go by. Once again, I’m caught without my camera, and I wish I had it. It’s been like a security blanket since Ashley gave it to me for Christmas during my freshman year of high school. I’d like to capture some of these passing faces. They are mysteries, all of them. I watch them and try to guess their secrets, but it’s impossible. I have no clue. She might be having an affair. He might beat his wife. The clean-cut teen might have shoplifted a pair of lacy underwear. There’s no way for me to know, and that hollow, empty question mark lifts my spirits. If I can’t look at them and read their secrets, then they can’t know mine, either. I am a mystery, too. To them and, I hope, to Damien Stark.
I’m not proud of the way I burst out of his apartment. I know I owe him an apology. I probably owe him an explanation, too, but that will have to wait. I need to come up with something plausible. Stark may not be able to guess my secrets, but I’m certain he will know if I lie.
I finish my muffin and stand up, taking the rest of my coffee with me. As I do, the full import of my thoughts hit me. I’m planning to see Damien Stark again.
The thought twists through me, trepidation mixed with anticipation. And a tiny bit of fear mixed in there, too. Will he even want to see me again? More important, will he accept that this thing between us has to come to an abrupt and permanent end?