Page 45 of The Producer: Aaron

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asks, genuinely interested.

I arrange my clothes slowly, pausing to think about what I would like to tell her, but in the end, I decide not to confide with her about Dakota. Because the truth is that there is nothing to say. What my brain tells me is the exact opposite of what my instinct tells me to do. Until I make peace with the feelings I carry within me, no one can help me solve this situation.

“It’s just a stressful time, that’s all.” I smile at her and finish fixing my tie.

Sonia studies me for several moments before smiling.

“Put it this way, when you have clarified this ‘stressful time,’ as you call it, you will be happy that you have not betrayed the trust of the person you really care about.”

I smile at her and nod. It’s useless to contradict her on something she already understands.

***

After being out with Raphael for a round of golf and dinner, I enter my home late at night. I didn’t tell him I couldn’t fuck Sonia. I paid her for the time she wasted on me and waited for my friend at the bar.

We changed at the Country Club, smiled in front of the paparazzi who photographed us, exchanged pleasantries withthe other men on the golf course, and then went to dinner. He never noticed the discomfort accompanying me; or if he did, he didn’t point it out.

All day, the thought of having to forget Dakota was as present as the girl herself. Not a great result for one who should put aside his obsession and return to work. I got to this point in my career precisely because I never let a woman get into my head to such an extent that she distracted me from my responsibilities.

I approach the couch and find Dakota asleep with a book held tight on her chest. She is so innocent when she sleeps that I pause to look at her for a few moments. She is not a sexy beauty like Sonia, but she is no less sensual.

I grab the book and place it on the table.

She doesn’t even stir as I take her in my arms, take her upstairs, put her in bed, and tuck her in. It is a gesture that comes so naturally, I find myself surprised by my own actions. I walk to the door, and before closing it behind me, I take a few seconds to enjoy the view of her sleeping. How much evidence does my brain need to understand that “trying to get her out of my head” is no longer an option?

When I’m alone in my room, I strip off my suit and observe the massive erection my boxers can’t hide, the one my body denied me this afternoon. I inhale thoroughly and lie down to stare at the ceiling. Sonia’s words come back to my mind,“Are you sure you want to go on?”and the realization that no woman will ever be able to compete with the girl who sleeps in the next room makes its way into my chest like a pouring of concrete that prevents me from breathing.

Thinking of staying another Saturday night at home with Aaron when we barely talk to each other suffocates me. It’s strange how the idea of living with him terrified me at first, then became a pleasant routine, and now has turned into a situation that makes me uncomfortable. Two weeks have passed since our conversation in which he told me to my face that he doesn’t think of me as a woman but as the daughter of the man that died in his arms, and not a day goes by that I haven’t thought of leaving.

Aaron didn’t tell me to leave. Our agreement was six months, and almost four have passed, so it’s not long before the day when I’ll have to pack my bags and leave. There was a time when I almost wished I could stay here forever, enjoying the comforting routine we had but now I’m not so sure anymore.

I finish putting on my makeup and sandals and lean my ear to my bedroom door to hear if Aaron is out and about. He locked himself in his office this morning and never came out. He is avoiding me at least as much as I am avoiding him, and the situation has become almost ridiculous. No contract forces me to stay here, yet neither of us makes the first move to find new accommodation.

I open the door and tiptoe down the stairs, making as little noise as possible. I approach the front door, ready to go out, and when I turn to the pool, I find Aaron leaning against the doorjamb, watching me with his hands tucked into the pockets of his dark trousers and a stern look on his face.

I pause to observe him, waiting for him to say something. Atthis point, I would also accept a reproach, a recommendation not to get drunk, but nothing comes out of his lips. I clench my fists angrily and turn to leave. I grab the handle and stomp furiously down the three steps, slamming the door violently behind me. If he thinks I’ll spend the rest of my time locked up here crying over him because he behaves worse than one of the kids I dated, he’s very wrong.

“Wow! Have you eaten a toad?” Serena asks me when I step out of the Uber that took me to the front of Mystique. “You have a face…”

I didn’t feel like going out with her and have been avoiding her for weeks, but the reality is that I have no one else to hang out with. Since Aaron fired Roland, no one on set has dared to ask me out for fear that the boss’s wrath would fall on them. If we add all the times when I have, for some reason, declined their invitations, it isn’t difficult to understand why they stopped asking me.

“I don’t feel like talking about it.” I stop short when she approaches the VIP entrance and expects me to come forward to help her skip the line.

It’s so irritating how she assumes that everything is due to her. The bouncer smiles at us as usual and lets us slip in under the slightly bored gaze of the people who have been in the queue for a while and don’t know when and if they can continue their night in this place. When we enter, the club is packed, all the tables are occupied, and we take a seat at the only two stools still free at the bar.

“Can’t we get a table?” Serena looks around. “We look like losers at the counter,” she adds.

I watch her swipe a bored glance around the room and then look at me. I don’t know if she notices the irritation growing inme or if she’s pretending that it doesn’t exist, but her expression doesn’t change.

“Do you think I have the power or authority to free a table?” I ask incredulously when I understand that she honestly expects me to do such a thing.

She shrugs, looks around again, lingers on a table, and points it out. “You can’t tell me that those four losers are more famous than you. You’re entitled to that table!”

I look at her trying to figure out if she genuinely thinks such a thing. And I regret having succumbed to the temptation to go out with her. Until some time ago, I still saw some good in her. Now, I can’t stand her presence. How can a sane person think that celebrity status offers different rights? Her selfishness is so deep-rooted that she answers to no one. I don’t know if it’s because I’m angry with Aaron or because there’s no alcohol involved to make the experience more enjoyable, but I ask myself how I managed to put up with her all this time.

“If you think that being famous gives me more rights than others, then you haven’t understood anything about what it means to be a celebrity,” I say, annoyed and, this time, I get a reaction.

She turns sulkily to the bartender and waves a hand to get her attention.

---