Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
ELODIE
Waking up in Shaw’s arms was a little too familiar.
Too…comfortable.
For a few moments when I first drifted awake, it was almost like before, when this was an everyday thing if we were lucky enough to be in the same city. If proximity was on our side, nothing could keep us away from each other.
We were happy, and in love, and…then I fucked it all up.
We could’ve been like this forever if I hadn’t fucked it up.
That was the thought that pulled me fully awake to carefully extricate myself from Shaw’s hold—it probably wasn’t a great idea to linger in such an intimate position when we weren’t “like that” anymore. He was still deep in it, undoubtedly tired from being up with me half the night, sitting.
If I’d just stayed my ass at home, this wouldn’t have been a problem.
In the bathroom, I relieved the pressure on my bladder then went to the sink to wash my hands. I didn’t want to check the mirror, but I couldn’t help my gaze from traveling up.
I looked exactly like what I’d been through.
Shit.
Somehow, my eyes were still rimmed in red from crying—a great complement to the swollen, puffy face. I dried off my hands, lifting the oversized arm of the T-shirt I’d borrowed from Shaw to get a good look at the bruise my so-called “fan” had left on my skin.
“ I just want to talk to you! ”
I shook my head, trying to clear the memory.
He’d said that shit multiple times as I was fighting him off.
I’d long sworn off people who “talked” with their hands—it wasn’t a language I wanted to become fluent in. So to have a complete stranger take it upon himself, to be approached in such a violent manner, randomly, I…
Shit.
I didn’t want to cry again.
I left the bathroom, grabbing my phone from the nightstand before I left Shaw in his bedroom, still knocked out. It had been bold as hell to ask that man to sleep in his bed, but I was certain it was the only reason my sleep hadn’t been plagued by nightmares.
His presence had always been a comfort.
One I wasn’t entirely sure I deserved to seek anymore.
Not like this.
Now, I found my way to a quiet spot in his living room, curling up to check my phone. It was full of texts from people checking on me, and I planned to get to everybody, but my brother was first up—especially since the phone lit up with a call from him while I was looking at it.
“Hey, loser,” I answered, trying to sound chipper.
“Damn, that’s what I get? See if I worry about your little ass next time,” he shot back, matching my energy before he got to why he really called. “Nah, for real though—you good?”
“Uh…as much as could be expected, I guess?” I answered, pulling a blanket from the back of the couch to cuddle into. “What are people saying?”
“Nothing you need to be concerned about.”
I closed my eyes. “That bad, huh?”
It wasn’t that hard to imagine the narrative some had probably decided to go with— “Spoiled Princess Elodie Perry Maces Adoring Fan Seeking Autograph.” That was how it always went. Especially if you were a woman, especially if you were a Black woman—celebrity status precluded you from being a victim of anything short of…maybe murder.
And even then, there would’ve been plenty of discourse about what I could’ve done differently.
Rather than simply being left the hell alone.
“Logan went by your place to get you some clothes,” Pierre continued, not really giving me an answer to my question. “I don’t know how long you plan to kick it with Shaw, but…you probably want to give your place a bit of space for a while. We’ll make sure you get anything you need from out of there though.”
Damn.
Okay.
Maybe he was answering the question.
“I feel like I’m going to regret asking, but…what’s happening at my condo?”
“Media circus.”
“Shit. Um…I don’t know. I guess I can get a temporary rental somewhere. I don’t think it’s a good idea to be here with Shaw too long,” I answered.
“Stop playing with me,” he said. “You can stay with me and Logan—she’s already been making sure one of the guest rooms is ready for you. And as far as Shaw…you want to tell me what’s going on there?”
“Not particularly.”
“El.”
“There’s nothing going on,” I insisted. “We happened to be on the phone when it happened, and he saw how upset I was, so he told me I should come to his place. So…I did.”
“Got it. Nubia got everything worked out so you’re not due on set for a few days—try to rest, decompress, all that as much as you can until then.”
“Sure. I’ll get right on it.”
He sighed. “I know, easier said than done. Just…try. This media frenzy shit isn’t new, remember? You’ve made it through worse scandals.”
“Yeah, back when I lived for that—and we see where that got me,” I said. “I’m trying to be off that. I just want to mind my business and make good TV.”
“And you shouldn’t let this little drama stop you from doing exactly that. It’ll pass, El. I promise.”
Even though he couldn’t see me, I nodded. “Thanks, P.”
“Anytime, baby girl. Logan is gonna drop that stuff off at Shaw’s for you.”
“Okay. Thank you. Luh you. All that.”
“Luh you too. Bye.”
“Bye.”
Once we were off the phone, I pushed out a long, heavy sigh.
Despite my brother’s insistence on not letting the media shit get to me, it was already doing exactly that, as the possibilities tap-danced through my mind.
I wanted to go to social media, bad.
Instead, I went into my text message notifications.
That was where I needed to be to preserve a better headspace, checking in with my family and friends. Even Charlotte had reached out, assuring me that they would work through the show without me until I was ready to come back, which I appreciated.
Still.
Today was the only day I’d be entertaining any “take it easy” offers.
Work was a needed distraction.
I smiled at a group text from Vanessa and Teagan going back and forth about who was going to beat up anybody I needed “handled,” and I was about to chime in when I heard the soft pad of footsteps coming down the hall.
Shaw.
“It’s early. I wasn’t expecting you to already be up and out of bed.” He stopped in the walkway after he said that, keeping plenty of distance and just…looking at me.
Waiting for my response.
For an explanation.
“Once I woke up, uh…it didn’t feel right to stay in your bed,” I explained. “And I’m sorry for even asking that of you, actually. It was inappropriate.”
He shrugged. “I don’t give a shit about that.”
“Stella might.”
His eyebrows shot up, and immediately, his jaw went tight. “Really, Ellie? That’s what you’re on?”
“I’m not on anything,” I denied, putting a hand to my chest. “I swear. I just…I don’t want to overstep any boundaries or disrespect your girl. Any more than I already have.”
“Stella isn’t my girl. And if she was, I wouldn’t have had you in my bed—damn, what kind of dude do you think I am?”
“I’m sorry.”
I really was.
Like… shit.
He shook his head. “Whatever. How you feeling? You hungry?”
“Not really,” I admitted quietly, wishing I could take back the last few minutes. “But…if you’re eating, I will too. I probably should.”
He didn’t say anything.
Just nodded, then turned to walk away, most likely headed to the kitchen.
I dropped my head as soon as he was gone, cursing myself for not filtering my damn mouth. The last thing I wanted—or needed—was to piss off the people who had my back.
Instead of letting it ride, I jumped up, following him to the kitchen where he’d already started pulling out breakfast ingredients.
“Hey,” I said, cautiously approaching the other side of the island, leaving space between us so it wouldn’t feel like I was crowding him. When he didn’t respond, just kept on with what he was doing, I spoke up louder. “ Shaw. ”
His shoulders dropped, and he turned to look at me, brows furrowed, tight jaw…
Definitely pissed off.
And somehow, still looking entirely too good.
“Yeah?”
“I’m sorry,” I told him again. “I wasn’t trying to imply that you were some kind of bad guy, or that you needed help respecting your girl. That wasn’t about who you are, it’s about who I want to be. And I don’t want to be the girl getting in the way of somebody’s relationship. I didn’t know you and Stella weren’t a thing anymore—you know how to keep a relationship out of the spotlight, clearly ,” I reminded him. “So I acted based on what I thought I knew—I decided to err on the side of caution by not overstepping the same boundaries I would want. That’s all it was.”
Shaw’s gaze dropped, and for a second I thought he was about to reject my words. But then, he pushed out another deep sigh, scrubbing a hand over his face before he spoke.
“I’m sorry too—for reading more into it than you meant, and reacting instead of…asking for clarity,” he said. “Clearly, it’s still…sensitive.”
I nodded. “Understandably. That’s why I wanted to make sure you understood. I’m not… there anymore.”
“Good.” He straightened up, pushing hands into the pockets of his sweats. He was wearing a shirt now, unlike last night, but it was still a sight to behold. “And…I have to say…or maybe it’s weird to say, but…thank you for expressing what you needed to.”
A dry chuckle pushed out before I could help it. “Yeah, I…gotta grow up at some point, right?”
“We all do,” he agreed, biting down on his lip.
Holding my gaze.
Was this…were we having a moment?
“Let me…get to these eggs before I burn this skillet up,” he muttered, turning away as I realized the stove had been on—with said skillet getting hotter and hotter—this whole time.
“My bad,” I offered, coming around to where he was to see if there was anything I could do. “How can I help?”
“I got it,” he insisted. “You’re supposed to be relaxing.”
“I am?”
“Yes, go sit your ass down somewhere,” he said, ushering me out of the kitchen.
I only complied because I felt like I needed…a breath.
That whole interaction had been a little stressful.
A lot.
Actually articulating myself in tough conversations wasn’t exactly my strong suit, but for the last year or so, I’d been working on it.
In therapy.
That shift had been exactly the breakthrough I needed to start coming out of some of my own toxic behaviors—stuff that was so normalized I couldn’t even see it, because nearly everybody around me was doing the same thing or had the same beliefs.
What was the point in talking about what you felt, what was bothering you, when the man didn’t care anyway? That was the prevalent messaging— girl, don’t send that paragraph, he ain’t reading all that!
It contributed to this idea that it was better to smother your feelings, that the appropriate response your partner did something that bugged you was to simply “match their energy.” As if the person you were supposed to feel safe with, and love, and care for was the enemy combatant in a war.
It was sick, actually.
So much of the absolute worst in unhealthy communication was. And in the absence of healthy examples outside of maybe my brother, it was all too easy to find myself believing the pervasive idea that any passably handsome man with a modicum of swag, especially if he had a little money, was secretly “for the streets,” no matter what lies they spun.
It wasn’t as if experience didn’t back it up.
I started dating at fifteen or sixteen years old, which meant six or seven years of firsthand fuckboy experience before I ever met Shaw.
It was part of the appeal—in addition to literally everything else about him—that he was so different from anyone else I’d dated. Polar opposite to the last boyfriend before him, an appropriately stage-named rapped called Hellion.
He wasn’t even that much older.
Just two years, and damn those years made a difference.
There was this maturity about him I’d admired, but also… feared a little.
Like it would eventually lead him to realize I wasn’t actually the one for him.
It was part of why I’d insisted on keeping the relationship quiet—I didn’t want the scrutiny I knew would come my way from being with him. His reputation was so antithetical to mine—before I calmed down.
I was a wild child, drinking, partying, scamming the occasional rich man for “fun.”
Shaw…liked watching movies. Lazy days in bed, lunch and shopping in the suburbs where we wouldn’t be recognized, game nights with friends.
He was quiet, and in my eyes, so damn cool.
I didn’t want to ruin him.
So…I ruined us.
It hurt to admit it, and he probably wouldn’t frame it that way—we actually called it mutual.
I wished I’d just gone to therapy then .
Instead, I spent most of the last year of the two-year relationship mired in insecurity-fueled distrust that had little to do with anything Shaw was actually doing. Everything to do with what he might do, since most other men would.
Especially when as far as the public knew, he was single.
Any party he went to, of course there were women trying to shoot their shot.
Of course, he flirted back.
Maybe he went home with me, but he probably wanted to go with them.
He probably wanted something new.
Right?
Away shooting a movie with a beautiful co-star?
He was probably fucking her.
I mean…that was how we met, so it wasn’t that far-fetched.
Right?
It was…hell, inside my head.
And admittedly, probably hell for him too, facing unfounded accusations, trying to prove he wasn’t what I expected, the frustration of not being trusted by the woman he loved.
Based on nothing except past experiences—my own and my friends—and fucked-up stories from other women on the internet.
“ Fear and uncertainty are gifts, Elodie. Those two things are part of the defense mechanisms our brain employs to protect us. Physically, mentally, emotionally. But they can absolutely be curses as well, I’m afraid. When our lived experiences haven’t been as positive as they should, those two particular systems, they can go into overload. We see things as what they aren’t. We infuse meaning that isn’t there. We hear things that weren’t actually said. Because we expect the worst, instead of anticipating the best. ”
God , I wished I’d heard that before I drove him to the point of saying, “ I don’t think this is healthy for either of us. ”
He was absolutely correct.
But back then, it just felt like exactly what I’d already been afraid of.
I couldn’t see it as the self-fulfilling prophecy that was so painfully obvious now.
“I’ve got a plate ready for you.”
I jumped a bit at the sound of Shaw’s voice—I hadn’t realized I was zoned out, deep in thought long enough for him to be done cooking.
“Thank you,” I said, getting up from where I’d made myself comfortable again on his couch. “It smells great.”
“I’m glad. Hey—” He grabbed my hand as I was passing to get to the kitchen, pulling me closer.
Not… intimately .
But still.
“Yeah?”
“How are you feeling this morning? Did you sleep okay? Do you need anything?” he asked, giving me a sheepish grin. “And all the other stuff I should’ve been asking instead of getting in my feelings about old shit.”
I laughed. “Uh…tired. Yes. And…a time machine, if you’ve got one.”
He blew out a sigh, shaking his head. “You know I would if I could, but…you gone have to settle for a fried egg and toast this morning. I’ll work on the time machine though, and get back to you,” he said, squeezing my hand.
Don’t read into it.
Don’t read into it.
I grinned back at him and shrugged. “Fine. If there’s a glass of some type of juice…breakfast is an acceptable offer for now.”