Chapter 6
SIX
Ryan
Did she figure out who I was or something? Is that why she left so abruptly? Did my real identity scare her?
This randomly crosses my mind yet again as I mindlessly page through the script in my lap. And it’s peculiar, because it isn’t typically like me to have these obsessive bursts of thoughts pop into my brain—not unless it’s about Jasmine.
But all today, and all last night after I finished playing pickleball, the sound bites from this random conversation in a random café and in a random pickleball court keep infiltrating my mind.
I’m on my rental balcony, staring out at the ocean, zoning out—the script is a real winner, let me tell ya. Then again, I’ve gone through five or six different projects in the last hour, so my head’s spinning.
On the small, circular table beside where I’m sitting, there’s a stack of scripts. Prospective offers. People who want to work with me. When you’re doing well in Hollywood, even when your name is in the news in a bad way—sometimes especially when your name is in the news in a bad way—the offers roll in. This is the first batch my assistant has mailed me since I’ve been here, but I expect it won’t be the last.
Yet as I’m desperately trying to get to work, to keep my mind off Jasmine, to keep my mind off everything —I’m instead distracted by something else. The woman I met yesterday afternoon.
She was… unique.
And not in a bad way.
I’ve never met someone with so much conviction before. Someone who so staunchly defended a celebrity she didn’t even particular seem to be a fan of. For all I know, she’s never watched my show. She seemed mad only on account that anyone would so carelessly gossip about anyone .
It’s been a long time since I spent time with someone like that.
It was refreshing.
We spent a fun afternoon together. Then, she bolted before I could even ask for her number or her name (hell, she doesn’t have my name, either). I’ll probably never see her again. Even if I do return to the pickleball court where she plays, what are the chances of running into her? Not that I could so easily dole out my digits without repercussions—I’ve learned the hard way to be extremely careful. Which is why I hesitated at the end of the night, debating whether it would’ve been the smart move. When she left, she made the decision for me.
If I were to see her again, how would she react if she found out I was an A-lister? If she hasn’t already figured it out, that is. She seemed anxious enough without throwing my celebrity into the mix—and a little bit on the awkward side. Something tells me things would only have been harder for her if she had known my real identity.
Ah, the joy of masks.
If only I could bump into her again.
It would be nice to have a friend to talk to. Instead of being so isolated, away from everything and everyone I know.
A thought pops into my mind, and because I sometimes act impulsively, I’m dialing my assistant before I can stop myself. When I’m feeling uncomfortable about doing something—like for instance, returning to the pickleball courts to talk to this woman again—it helps to have positive reinforcement.
Thankfully for people like me, we have assistants to do just that.
“Hey,” my assistant, Kristen, answers on the second ring. “You alright over there?”
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I groan, Kristen’s voice instantly bringing me back to Hollywood. Thinking of how Kristen’s much closer to Jasmine, and I’m all the way up here, and all the things I’m missing back home. My brain immediately begins to obsess over the distance, itching, uncomfortable, unsettled. All my thoughts about the woman from yesterday and pickleball fly out the window.
Fuck me.
Maybe Kristen can help me get back home—no, wait, no. Stop, brain. Yes, yes, she can set something up. I’ll sneak back on a private jet. Frank will never realize. Or even if he does, so what? I need to go home. Need to see Jasmine.
Need to?—
Stop!
Maybe calling was a bad idea.
Maybe pickleball and seeing this new woman again is, too.
“You’re not fine,” Kristen sighs.
“Not at all.”
There’s a brief pause. A chime sounds, and I assume it’s an email coming through on her computer. It could be another request for an interview, regarding the fight, or regarding the show, or regarding something else entirely. Who knows. I don’t want to think about that right now.
Frank told me to come here to clear my head.
I should listen to him, should ignore my urge to run home, even if this feels like a jail sentence.
“I know things are crazy right now,” Kristen says. “But you will get through this, and people will get over this, and everything will blow over by the time you return for filming.”
It’s an optimistic thought, and Kristen’s constantly looking on the bright side, but someone is always going to remember what happened on set between me and Dan.
Even if they don’t, I will.
I brush a hand over the top of my thick strands of hair.
“Yeah, you’re right,” I say, even though I don’t really mean that. “Just gotta do my time up here.”
“It’s good to get away to clear your head,” Kristen says, ever so positive. Sometimes so positive it drives me crazy. “I hear the beaches there are wonderful. Are you enjoying the fresh air?”
“It’s nice.” I force a smile as I say the words—to make myself sound more authentic, a trick I learned a long time ago. Truthfully? My heart’s been too heavy to truly enjoy anything.
“Good. I’m glad. You deserve a break.”
“Thanks.”
I’m about to tell her I’ll talk to her later, just so I can get off the phone and get away from the discomfort this call is bringing. But I see the anxiety in the eyes of the woman in the café, and how unsettled she appeared in her own body, and how negatively she viewed her playing during pickleball out on the courts. That alone is enough to keep me on this phone call. I’m drawn to people in distress, probably since deep down I need to try to help them.
So, I stay on the line, cracking my knuckles as I try to form the right words.
“Uh, Kristen?” I ask.
“What’s up?”
“I actually called you to get a female’s perspective on something.”
“Oh, yeah! Sure. What’s going on?”
“If you met a random dude in a mask at a café, who you had a nice conversation with, how would you react if the guy in the mask met up with you again and revealed he was a celebrity?”
“I guess that depends.”
“On what?”
“Are you the random guy in the mask at the café?”
“I just might be, Kristen. I just might be.”
“She’ll be into it.”
I smirk, crossing my arms. “Pretend this isn’t me for a second. You spent maybe five hours with a man who concealed his identity, talking and then playing pickleball together, and then you end up finding out later that he’s famous? Wouldn’t that be uncomfortable?”
“Not if you apologize for not telling her. Do it soon, Ry. The longer you wait, the more jarring it’ll be. Think of all those rom coms you love.”
“Uh huh.” I narrow my eyes, face burning—I hate it when she brings up my guilty pleasures. But is it honestly so odd I’d like some—and I mean some —rom coms when I starred in a few low-budget ones before getting cast in the show?
“Okay, like, here’s what you should do. You learned about the pickleball place from her, right?” she asks.
“Well, yeah.”
“Go back there, but lose the mask,” she says. “Wait for her. Find her. Tell her why you hid your face and that you want to hang out again. It’s that simple.”
I’m about to protest, to say some reason why this is a bad idea, when Kristen beats me to the punch.
“I’ve watched you pine over Jasmine for years, waiting for her in the wings,” Kristen continues. “She isn’t leaving her husband. You do know that, right?”
I bite my lip, resisting the urge to start arguing. Heat starts to fill my veins, even though I ignore it. Kristen just doesn’t get it. No one does.
“You can’t save her,” Kristen adds. “Or fix her or be her knight.”
“Got it,” I say in monotone, ignoring all of this. My business with Jasmine is between the two of us. Kristen wasn’t in the room. She doesn’t know Jasmine or what our connection’s really like.
Jasmine and I belong together.
The only problem we’ve ever had is that it’s never been the right time.
That’s it.
“I need you to go out there and make some new female friends, Ry,” Kristen says before I have the chance to say anything else. “Do it for me . Do it so that we can both move past the Jasmine Era, and you’re not calling me up all broody and angry with life. Isn’t this your time for a new chapter?”
Her words are sugary sweet and incredibly optimistic and feel like something out of a self-help book (or… and I say this very discretely… one of the romance movies we watched together).
Well, Kristen isn’t wrong about me finding a distraction. I can’t sit in here for the next few months alone, aimlessly trying to find a way to settle my mind.
My brain flashes back to my last conversation with Jasmine. I made promises to her. Talked to her about building a life together. She told me she needed to save her marriage, crushed my heart into a million pieces. Yet a huge part of me wants to keep trying. Still plans on trying again. Is hoping that when I return to LA, she’ll be ready for me. That we’ll finally be together after all these years.
For now, I need to keep myself busy. To make sure I’m in a good head space for when we do have our reunion. It’s this thought that keeps me awake at night and occupies my mind, driving the anxiety that flows through my body.
What if I’ll never be good enough or ready for her?
My forehead tenses.
Fuck. Let’s get on with this, then. I need this distraction. Badly.
“Fine, you’re right,” I tell Kristen, conceding. “I get the feeling this woman plays pickleball almost every night, so it shouldn’t be hard to bump into her again if I return.”
“Yay.” I hear Kristen clap her hands together. “Send me the name of the courts. I’ll call and get you set up with a trainer, so it seems like you’re returning for a reason.”
“Hold up,” I tell Kristen, a lightbulb going off in my head. “I have an even better idea. One that won’t draw as much attention as Ryan Lane playing pickleball out in public.”