16. Willa
Chapter sixteen
Willa
I wake up in a much better frame of mind. Last night, I was overthinking and catastrophizing. Sure, Nick and I have an unusual dynamic, but that isn’t the end of the world. We'll figure it out later. But for now, I’m excited about another day on the beach with Nick.
Stifling a smile, I think to myself, I wonder what dirty things he has planned for today’s beach trip?
He’s supposed to pick me up soon, so I spring out of bed and get ready, dressing in my sexiest bikini.
But when the time of our date comes and goes without Nick appearing outside my door, I’m surprised. Nick is never late.
When I look at my phone, I notice that he called me several times overnight, but since I had my ringer silenced, I didn’t hear it. I quickly call him, but it goes straight to voicemail, as if his phone has been turned off or run out of battery.
After pacing my suite for another fifteen minutes, I don a swim cover-up and take the elevator up to his hotel suite. Perhaps he overslept or isn't feeling well. No one answers my knocks. As dismay creeps through me, I return to my room and call him again. Still no luck .
I contemplate asking Maggie if she's heard from Johann, but I don't want to alarm her if it ends up being nothing.
Anxious, I decide to wait in my room until I hear from him. Needing a distraction, I spend the day reading the latest script that Max sent me. It’s a film about Monaco's Princess Mila. It's an engrossing tale that reads like a modern-day Cinderella story.
In between reading breaks, I visit Nick’s room twice more.
It’s not like Nick to disappear and any number of alarming situations flit through my mind to explain his disappearance, everything from the benign to the disturbing.
Suffering from anxiety means that my overactive imagination can spin some real doozies.
He lost his phone and is tied up at the store trying to replace it.
He and Johann experienced car trouble and are stuck on a remote road outside of cell tower coverage.
He was in an accident and is in the hospital in a medically induced coma.
He met someone else and is entertaining her at her place, having forgotten all about me.
God, I wish my brain had an off button. Or even a pause button.
On the final trip up to Nick’s hotel room, my knock is finally answered. For a split second, relief fills me when the door cracks open…that is, until a stranger peers out from behind the door.
With a perplexed expression, the elderly man asks, “Can I help you, miss?”
I hesitate. My eyes flit to the left of the door to double check the room number. “I—I’m sorry. I was looking for someone else,” I stammer.
“No one’s here but me, young lady.”
“Did you just check in today?”
Reticent, the man nods slowly, “ I did.”
Backing up, I murmur, “I’m sorry to have bothered you.”
Then I backtrack, racing toward the elevator as reality hits.
Nick checked out of the hotel without even saying goodbye. The betrayal that spreads through my body surprises me with its ferocity. This abrupt dismissal of our time together cuts me deeply.
I opened up to him in a way that I seldom do, and to be thrown aside so casually feels especially cruel.
We never voiced any time restriction, nor did we label what was unfolding between us. I was na?ve to assume that our time together was special.
But, to me, it was.
I slink back to my hotel room and ponder my next steps.
Unfortunately, the idea of traveling alone isn’t as captivating as it was before I met Nick.
Depressed, I burrow under the blankets on my bed. I’m in no hurry to make any decisions.
A few hours later, my phone beeps and I reach for it like a drowning victim snatches a life preserver. My heart thuds excitedly when I see Nick’s name, but my delight is short-lived.
Nick: ERROR MESSAGE DELAYED 4:14AM.
I suppose I should find a tiny bit of solace that Nick didn’t stand me up. His text was simply delayed in arriving. I sigh, bereft as I read his goodbye message.
Nick: Onward, I go. Johann and I decided it was time to travel to our next destination. I apologize for our hasty departure and that I didn’t have the chance to say goodbye in person, but we had a flight to catch. It was a pleasure getting to know you, Willa. Best of luck in your future endeavors.
We had a flight to catch. So, their decision to leave wasn’t spontaneous. They researched their destination and made travel plans.
It was a pleasure getting to know you . Well, if that doesn’t say I never want to hear from you again, I don’t know what does.
Best of luck in your future endeavors. Is this a personal text or a professional correspondence? It reads like I’m an interview candidate who got turned down for the job.
Which is exactly how it feels, too. I auditioned for the role of Nick’s girlfriend, but I didn’t make the final cut.
I’m tempted to send a giant screw you text in response, but I don’t.
I opt to take the high road and ignore him.
I won’t give him the satisfaction of getting a rise out of me.
My finger hovers over the Block Contact option, and before I can talk myself out of it, I click the red button.
Then, I fling myself face down on the bed and cry.
Forlorn, I feel a familiar loneliness settling inside me once again. I finally admit to myself how much I liked Nick. Against all rational thought, I felt like I had found my person. The person who understood me. Who valued me. Who might have even loved me.
His natural extroversion filled my silences and allowed me to relax in the comfort of his attention. His fierce protectiveness soothed my anxious mind. His moments of control and dominance in the bedroom lit a fire within my body that left me gasping for air and burning for more.
My fame and wealth didn’t intimidate him. Hell, they didn’t even interest Nick. It was heaven to be with him and feel like a simplified version of myself .
But he threw it all away with his disappearing act and vague text message.
When my phone rings, I’m tempted to let it go to voicemail, but when I see that it’s my agent calling, I choose to answer the call. Maybe Max can distract me from my maudlin mental ramblings.
“Hey, Max,” I greet him, infusing some false enthusiasm in my voice so he won’t ask me what’s wrong. I don’t have the energy to dissect my feelings with another person.
“Finally! It’s about time, Peaches.”
As soon as Max met me, he nicknamed me Peaches due to my golden complexion and striking auburn hair.
Of course, my hair color was all thanks to highly skilled hair colorists and my skin tone was courtesy of self-tanner and an amazing esthetician.
Now that I’m back to my natural brunette hair and fair complexion, I wonder if Max will still call me Peaches. Probably.
“Sorry, not sorry. I’ve been enjoying my time off, Maxi Pad.”
“And you deserve it, but we also need to get your next movie booked. Did you read the Princess Mila script I sent?”
“I did.”
“And…”
I groan before admitting, “I liked it a lot more than I thought I would.”
A period piece would be a welcome change from my last few movies. The European glamour of the 1960s. The fashion, the castles, the romance, the drama of the era. I don’t hate it. In fact, the longer the script marinates in my mind, the more I envision myself in the role.
“I knew you would! I think this role will be perfect for you. Can we schedule a call sometime soon to speak with the director, Hugh Benoit? He’s eager to discuss the project with you,” Max explains, his words coming out in quick bursts, a sure sign that he’s excited about this particular project.
“I don’t need to fly to LA for a screen test?”
Once you reach a certain pinnacle of success in Hollywood, an actor isn’t always required to audition for roles. But I don’t feel confident enough in my fame or abilities to assume I’ve reached that level yet. To know that a director is specifically interested in me for a role fills me with pride.
“Hugh wants to meet with you to ensure that you share the same vision for the film, but otherwise...” Max pauses. “Peaches, you’re the frontrunner for the role. There are a couple of other names in the hat, of course, but the director wants you. You’re his first choice.”
You’re his first choice .
Those are words that I desperately need to hear today since it became glaringly obvious that I wasn’t Nick’s first choice.
I was merely the convenient choice.
Since learning the truth, I fixate on conversations I had with Nick. Like an involuntary time traveler, I obsessively replay them in my mind, worrying that I let him see too much of the real me. The messy parts, the anxious parts, the parts that make me unlikeable.
The parts that made it easy for him to leave me.
The parts that render me unlovable.
And then I wish that I’d said something different. Behaved differently. I wish that I had maintained a cool, aloof bravado rather than allowing my mask to slip and letting Nick see the real me.
Especially because Nick proved what I've always feared—that the real me isn’t good enough.
But my conversation with my agent is a much-needed infusion of confidence, reminding me that I am good enough in Hollywood. I’m good enough as an actress to continue getting roles.
“Okay, let’s do this,” I reply with finality.
Nick leaving me behind is the catalyst I need to return to my career. That fantasyland dream of leaving Hollywood behind to build a life with Nick was just that—a dream.
A stupid, idiotic, unrealistic, unattainable dream.