“I don’t know. Everything feels so bizarre. Stranger than usual since Manny came back with her, which is strange enough.”
“Does anyone know what happened?”
Linda says nothing. Not one piece of what she knows falls on the table. “He’s just went into Rehab. Why do you all make such a drama about everything?”
“Rehab certainly hasn’t helped with his anger issue. Did anyone else hear that he broke Vince Carroll’s arm for drugging her?”
Linda rolls her eyes. “If you are going to get your gossip from the tabloids, no one will ever take you seriously, Bianca.”
Bianca looks up at Linda. “Ryan told me Manny almost put Ian through a wall just for talking to her and then admitted he broke Vince’s arm for drugging her. I don’t think the Rehab shit helped much with his anger issues.”
Linda is now like a laser-guided missile. “Manny has been with Ryan and Ian?”
“You didn’t know?” Bianca asks. “He’s recording a solo album with the little princess. Manny didn’t tell you? Len doesn’t know?”
Linda says nothing. She stares. She shrugs. I can feel how upset she is, but she is loyal. Always loyal.
Linda stares them all down. “Shut the fuck up! I mean it. No more gossip. No more chatter. Nothing. And if you fuck with her you are fucking with me.”
The door slams behind Linda. The girls stare at each other.
“God, what’s up with her these days?” Bianca asks.
“These days? It’s every day. Len fucks everything that moves and she goes ballistic on us.”
Another line snorted. The door opens and the wives all look up at once, as Kenny Jones saunters in.
“What’s up with the hen house? You all look guilty. What are you cackling about now?”
Kenny sinks to the floor and pulls his girlfriend back against him. He takes the rolled hundred, does a quick line, and then cleans his airways.
Bianca says, “The little princess. Ian says Manny is recording a solo album with her. That he’s quitting the band.”
Kenny leans back against the bed, laughing so hard that his face reddens and tears sparkle in his eyes. “Where the fuck do you get this shit? The girl is nothing. Just something to do. She’s just some bird he picked up at The Blue Light. Her friend was a crazy ass bitch. He fucked her in the bathroom at the club. You know how Manny is. Fuck ’em and on to the next one.”
Bianca fixes intense eyes on Kenny. “How do you know for sure Ian is wrong?”
Kenny does another line and stands up. “Because he fucked her and dumped her thirty minutes ago.”
Chapter Fourteen
I grab from the closet a black cardigan of Alan’s. Someone can deliver my things to Jack’s tomorrow. I leave the bedroom with only my purse, and spot Jesse Harris still at the party.
I cross the room to him, unable to look up as I speak. “Can you walk me home? I would really appreciate it if you’d walk me home. It’s not far and I want to leave here.”
He stops me with a hand on my arm. “Are you OK?”
“I’m OK. But it would be really, really cool if you just walked me home and didn’t ask any questions.”
He nods. He is a nice guy. I wasn’t wrong about that. At least I wasn’t wrong about one thing. Don’t cry, Chrissie. Don’t cry. Not yet.
“Stay right here,” he says in an urgent and soothing sort of way. “I should tell my brother I’m leaving. I’ll be right back. Don’t leave without me.”
I start to shake, realizing I must look more of a mess than I thought. I fight not to look from the entry hall into the party. In a moment, Jesse returns.
The streets are as close to empty as New York ever gets. We walk without talking and I focus on the stench in the air. It is only six blocks to Jack’s apartment. A fast walk. It feels long. Very long, and I’m tired by the time we get there.
The doorman opens the door the minute he sees me.
“Home?” Jesse smiles. “Nice digs.”
I stare at him. “Would you like to come up?” I am on the verge of meltdown and grab his arm. “Please, come up. I don’t want to be alone just yet. Please, I don’t know anyone in New York and I could really use a friend.”
He follows me into the elevator and I take the key and insert it in the panel.
“Penthouse, huh? Nice digs.”
Small talk. Jesse’s just making small talk. Trying to insert normal here, when there is absolutely nothing normal about any of this.
I smile. “It’s my dad’s apartment. I live in California. Remember?”
Jesse gives me a kind smile. “UGG boots. How could I forget?”
Why does it feel like it takes forever to get to the top floor? Chug, chug, chug. Metal can move so slowly sometimes. I don’t want to cry until I’m through the front door.
Too late. Tears. And my body curls into Jesse’s chest. “I hope you are an ethical reporter. I would die. Absolutely die. If any of that makes print. Ever. Please. Never, ever, ever.”
His fingers lift my chin. He has such kind eyes. “Never, ever, ever. I’m a lousy reporter because I’m ethical. My family lights candles in church every week, praying my novel sells. Otherwise, I’m not going to have much of a future as a writer.”
I give a soggy laugh, though it isn’t much of a joke.
Jesse looks disconcerted now. He’s studying me almost as if he’s debating with himself. “But, Chrissie, you need to know. I’m off the record tonight, but I wasn’t the only reporter there.”
Oh shit! What have I done?
Jesse folds me into a comfortable, protective type hug. “Don’t break on me now. It doesn’t matter. Who cares if it does make print? It will all go away in about thirty seconds. My professional opinion. You can bank on it. This will all go away and be nothing.”
I can’t will my legs to carry me out of the foyer, and I stand surrounded by my mother’s priceless collection of glass encased violins. But that’s not all that’s there is in the cabinets. There are family photos. Lots of family photos in between the spruce and ebony, and Jesse is staring at them as if the mysteries of the universe have just been revealed to him.
“Now I know why you look familiar,” Jesse says, his voice quiet and a trifle grim. “You’re Jackson Parker’s daughter. I’m sorry, Chrissie. This is going to be a long night.”
* * *
I curl on a couch, wrapped in a blanket, sipping a cup of tea that Jesse made for me and the phone just won’t stop ringing.
Ring. Ring. Ring. I’m afraid to answer it. We let it go to service most of the time. Jesse suggested unplugging it. I don’t know why I won’t let him do that. Why do I want to know Alan is ringing? Why do I need to know it? He humiliated me, he hurt me, he dumped me and he is the cause of this horrid, horrid night that never seems to end.
The sound of the ringing hurts me. It makes me more shaky. It makes me cry. I need to hear the ring, even though every ring isn’t Alan.
If Jesse answers, sometimes it’s Linda, but it is most frequently the press. And I won’t talk to anyone, and Jesse is very good at getting rid of people. He is a born crisis manager.
Jesse answers a call, makes an abrupt response, and hangs it up quickly.
“It’s part of being a nice guy,” he jokes. “Knowing how to deal with a girl’s relationship problems. And I’m a reporter. I definitely know how to handle the press.”
I laugh. I don’t feel like laughing. I don’t want him to go. How long will he stay?
Shit. It’s 6 a.m. and this hideous night feels like a slow moving century. It feels like it’s never going to end, time isn’t making me feel better, and the phone won’t shut up. I miss Alan and I don’t want to.
I stare into my cup of tea. Only a stupid girl would miss Alan after what he did to me. I grab another tissue.
Jesse is staring at me. “It’s going to be OK.”
“Don’t you have somewhere you have to be? How long do you think this will last?”