Chapter 18
18
Now
“Hello.” I speak into the receiver, surprised at the steady resolve in my voice. When more than a year has passed since you last spoke to a certain someone on the phone, you start to wonder if perhaps you’ve forgotten how. But despite my efforts, silence greets me on the other end of the line.
“Hello?” I say again, confused and quietly regretting my decision to answer.
“H-hi.” A response comes through finally. It’s shaky and thin but unmistakable. A total shock to the system, hearing again the voice that once sang me to sleep with lullabies. The same one that eventually called me her greatest disappointment.
“I’m sorry, I—I guess I’m just shocked you actually picked up is all,” my mother finally says.
I reply with a listless “Yeah,” thinking of how I surprised myself, too , but not saying it.
A tension headache blooms at my temples, and I shift uncomfortably on the plush velvet accent chair in the quietly luxurious hotel room I’ve called home since moving out of the penthouse I once shared with my ex. It’s past ten p.m. and I should be in bed. With a four a.m. call time, I’m already running on fumes. But I am getting divorced, and now the whole world knows. It feels like one of those moments in life when you pick up the phone simply because it’s your mom who’s calling. So this time, I did.
But now there’s more silence—so still and prolonged that for a moment I wonder if the call dropped.
“So,” she says, piercing through the quiet and making me jump. “Is it true? What I’m reading in the blogs about you and Elliot. He’s divorcing you?”
I shouldn’t be surprised she got straight to the point. No how are you? No I’m sorry. No, I’m proud of you. No are you eating? And I’m not surprised. But it’s jarring each time I’m faced with this version of a mother that’s so vastly different from the one I need in the moment. I swallow past the lump in my throat, the one that always forms when I think of her and all the ways things could be different for us.
“We are divorcing,” I reply, angry at the stinging threat of tears behind my eyes and opting not to correct her framing. It was me who decided to leave Elliot. He’d have been content to keep our rings so long as I agreed to keep pretending everything was fine.
“I—I don’t know what to say, Elladee,” she replies. “Your father and I were hopeful this could be the year you finally gave us a grandchild. I know it’s something Elliot wanted too.”
At this, I nearly choke on my tongue. “Well,” I say, with a puff of humorless laughter. “I’m sure the three of you can still accomplish that together if you really put your minds to it.”
“This isn’t funny, Elladee.” The words drop like weights, like I’m a teenager again, being disciplined for missing curfew or failing a test. Except that’s not what this is. This isn’t Parenting 101. It’s something else entirely.
“I’m sorry to keep disappointing you, Mother,” I say. “But our relationship was toxic. He wasn’t faithful. I wasn’t happy.”
“Please tell me you’re not planning to drag this out and let things get messy, Elladee,” she begs, sidestepping everything I just said. “I’m assuming there’s a prenuptial agreement in place, and honestly, you owe that man. Who knows where you’d be right now if he hadn’t taken a chance on you.”
I can hardly believe my ears. But at the same time I can. After all, hers is the voice I hear whenever I doubt myself, or question my own instincts.
“Mother, I have to go,” I say.
“Of course you do,” she says bitingly. “Our first conversation in over a year and there you go, running away because I’ve told you the truth. I’m sorry I’m not one of those ‘yes’ people you’re surrounded by all the time.”
“Have a good night, Mother,” I say before clicking off the line. Then I block her number. I’ll probably unblock it tomorrow. But for tonight, it gives me peace knowing she can no longer invade my bubble.
It’s possible I’ve become a cliché—the fragile pop star who’s finally starting to crack under all the pressure.
After a decade in the business, I’m still waiting for that tough outer shell everyone says is coming. The one that’s supposed to somehow shield me from the industry’s sharp edges. But what they don’t tell you is that it’s the inside stuff that’ll get to you first. Because whenever it’s quiet and I can manage to sit still long enough, all the overwhelming fears that were embedded in me early on in the game start to compete for their turn at the mic. Is Elliot the only reason for my success? Would I have a career without him? Will I have one after him?
Eventually I reach my boiling point. I might get snippy or impatient with my team, then apologize profusely seconds later. Or I might pull another adolescent disappearing act. On the very rare and very private occasion, I might dissolve into a puddle of tears.
Apart from now, I actually can’t remember the last time I let myself indulge in a really good cry. The kind that leaves you feeling dehydrated, puffy, and hoarse. At this rate I’ll be all those things by tomorrow. Things I can’t afford to be on Good Morning America . It’s why I usually tend to avoid tears at all costs. But after pressing end on the call with my mother tonight it was pretty much a losing battle.
Most days I’m surrounded by people, a dozen or so of whom are at my beck and call. And if they aren’t nearby, I can just ring them up. Like now, for instance, I could call up Rodney or Angelo. Chances are they’d catch the quiver in my voice and invite me on as third wheel for their date night. Or I could try to crash Sheryl’s Sunday night family dinner. Or play the world’s worst wing woman for Jamie out at the bars. But then I’d just be an extra in their lives, a seat filler. One who’s liable to suck the air and attention out of the room the moment I step into it.
Nobody wants to attend the pity party for the girl who has it all anyway. So, I’ll settle for alone. I’m headed to the en suite to fill up a hot bath when—
Ping!
A notification on my nightstand makes me jump. With my work phone on do not disturb and everyone with my private contact info otherwise occupied, I’d expected a quiet night of merlot and a moderate mental breakdown. But when the phone pings a second time, I jump to see who it is. Padding over to the nightstand, I pick up the phone and turn it over.
Unknown: Don’t cry. Shop girl.
I arch an eyebrow because only about a dozen people have this number. Then a chilling suspicion creeps in that maybe it got leaked on Reddit and I’m about to have an influx of prank calls and dick pics. Who on earth would be texting me a quote from You’ve Got Mail out of the blue? But despite the apparent risks, curiosity gets the best of me, and before I can stop myself, I’m typing a reply and pressing send.
Me: Who is this?
Unknown: Shit. Sorry
Unknown: It’s Miles
Unknown: Westbrook
My heartbeats gallop in my chest, like syncopated thunder. Biting my lip, I think of the headlines and the very real chance that this could be some prepubescent kid having a razz at me.
Me: Not buying without proof.
A minute later, a slightly grainy image that is unmistakably a selfie of Miles Westbrook comes through. In it he is wearing a plain white T-shirt with a thin silver chain around his neck. He makes eye contact with the lens and smiles while holding a Blu-ray copy of You’ve Got Mail with a Post-it note that reads Hi, Ella! stuck to the front of it.
He couldn’t possibly know I was crying, but his timing is uncanny…perfect actually. Because I’m not anymore.
Me: Did you just send me a selfie?
Unknown: Depends.
Unknown: Did you like it?
A laugh bubbles up from my chest as I plop onto the bed and lean back against the headboard. This boy. This man. He’s a complete surprise from one day to the next. And the worst part is that I have no idea what he wants from me. For all I know, he could be reaching out to express his deep regret for being in my video now that his face is on the landing page of every digital tabloid with spring training starting so soon and a lot of pressure to lead the Dodgers on a redemptive season—I might have spent some time reading up on Google in recent days.
Me: Miles. How did you get my number?
Me: And what exactly is happening here?
Unknown: I thought that was obvious.
Nothing about Miles Westbrook is obvious. Except for the part where I’m painfully attracted to him. And the other part where that attraction could potentially spell a whole lot of heartache for me, and a major headache for both our teams.
Unknown: I’m trying to flirt text with you.
Unknown: Flext. If you will…
A flurry of questions bounce around in my head like…Did I just giggle? When did all my tears dry? What grown woman sits like this, curled up on a bed in a ball like a giddy schoolgirl grinning from ear to ear? While I’m in the middle of interrogating myself, a string of texts comes through from Miles.
Unknown: Jamie gave me your number btw.
Unknown: I hope that was okay.
Unknown: I was thinking about you.
Unknown: Quite a bit.
I sit frozen. Chewing on my manicure. The ability to think of words beyond I was thinking about you and quite a bit completely evaporates. I have a decision to make in this moment. A “red pill, blue pill” kind of thing. Sink or swim. I decide to jump.
Me: Me too.
Miles’s text bubble pops up, does a little dance, then disappears again. Sweat has broken out at my temples and I am practically panting, in shock at what I’ve just admitted—and in writing. That’s when the panic sets in. What if this is a scammer after all? What if that cute af selfie was a deepfake? What if screenshots of this conversation are going to be plastered all over the internet tomorrow? Before I can register the decision, let alone stop myself from doing it, I’m calling Unknown.
“H-hi, Ella.” He answers on the first ring and his voice is like dark silk. Immediately, my pulse slows and my breathing calms.
“I…I’m sorry, I just, kinda panicked there for a second and called to make sure it was really you,” I admit in a cluster of word vomit.
“It’s okay,” he says, laughing a little. “I probably should have done that to begin with. I just do better with texting sometimes for…reasons. I’m sure you understand.”
“Oh!” My face drops to my hand. “Right. If you don’t want to talk this way, it’s fine I—”
“No! Don’t get me wrong. I want to talk to you,” he cuts in. “I like talking to you.”
“Oh?” A warm feeling blooms in my chest. “I like talking to you. Too.”
“Well, I actually reached out for a reason,” he says. “I w-wanted to ask what you were doing next weekend?”
Absurdly, I’m grinning so wide my face hurts. “Are you asking me on a date, Miles?”
His laugh is a low rumble that makes my stomach flip. “Not exactly.”
Grin be gone. “Ah,” I say as my eyes slam shut and I ponder the physics of melting into oblivion.
“I mean. Not that I wouldn’t love to take you out,” Miles says in a rush. “I just f-figured…given everything going on in the press, you w-wouldn’t be down for something so public right now?”
“Yes. That’s right,” I say, going along with his very sound, rational, sane train of thought. “There’s a lot I have to work through right now, and it’s all pretty complicated. So you’re right, it wouldn’t be a good time.”
By now I’ve slid from the bed to the floor, where I lay prostrate with the phone propped against my head. I just basically asked myself out and turned myself down, and still, I have no idea why he’s reached out to me.
There’s a long stretch of awkward silence until Miles clears his throat. “Well, I’m hoping things aren’t so complicated you wouldn’t consider performing at this benefit I’m hosting next Saturday night at the Rainbow Room?” he asks in a rush. “It’s for my foundation. I-if you’ll be in N-New York still?”
I might be stunned speechless because Miles fills in the gap of my silence. “It’s totally okay if you can’t! I know you stay booked and busy. I just—”
“Miles,” I cut in, smiling at how nervous he sounds. “I’ll do it. Of course I will. I’m so far in your debt I could never tell you no.”
“You can always tell me no, Ella,” he says. “But I’m glad in this case you didn’t. I can’t wait to see you there.”
It’s quiet for a beat, and I can’t tell if the conversation is over. If it should be over.
“So, where does one find a Blu-ray of You’ve Got Mail these days?” I end up asking, to test the waters and see if this has legs.
“Pfft! Amazon…duh,” he says. We both laugh.
“And?” I add. “So what’s the verdict? Did you fall under the spell of Tom Hanks’s approachable wit and sarcasm? Or was it Meg Ryan’s endearing sentimentality and charming cable knits that got you?”
“Honestly, it was Greg Kinnear that stole the show for me,” he says. “Something about his complete lack of self-awareness really pulled at my heartstrings. And don’t get me s-started on Parker Posey. She feisty!”
I’m not proud of the giggle that escapes me next. “I must say, Miles Westbrook. You are unexpected.”
“Hopefully in a good way?” he asks.
“So far, I’d definitely say so,” I admit.
We say our goodbyes, and after hanging up, it’s a long while before I manage to pick myself up from the floor.