Page 2 of The Road to You
They’re not new here. We’ve exchanged small talk before, and opinions about the yoga classes we attend together. But today their smiles are tight, like I caught them doing something wrong. My skin prickles.
It could be nothing. After run-ins with the paparazzi, I always feel like everyone is staring. I look down to make sure I’m appropriately dressed—leggings, a sports bra, a loose tank top.Not naked. Not a bad dream. I’m fine. I reassure myself.
I return to the treadmill, pulling my phone and earbuds from my bag, only to find my phone dead. That explains why I haven’t heard from anyone this morning. Normally, I don’t check my phone until after my workout. I like keeping my mornings stress-free, easing into the day without the noise of emails or social media. My entourage knows better than to bother me unless it’s urgent.
I step onto the treadmill, set it to a light jog, and let my eyes drift back to the talk show. There’s no audio, just the hosts’ exaggerated expressions and a montage of clips behind them.
I squint.
The screen flashes to an old interview of Preston and me, side by side, promoting our latest movie. My pulse quickens.
Did I miss a media alert?I need to call Greta, my publicist. She never forgets to keep me in the loop, but maybe something slipped through her busy schedule. Before I can piece it together, the screen shifts, a magazine cover fills the frame, and my heart stutters.
In the upper corner is my headshot—the same smiling photo from my IMDb page. But it’s the image beneath it that squeezes the air out of my lungs.
It’s a blurry shot, probably taken from a great distance, but unmistakable.
Preston, my boyfriend of four years, is passionately kissing Ronan Kavinsky, the lead actor in his new movie. Preston’s hand is shoved down the front of Ronan’s pants, their bodies pressed against the side of a trailer.
Everything around me falls away, and my ears buzz with the rush of blood pumping into my body.
The treadmill keeps moving, but I don’t. My foot catches, and I lurch forward, gripping the handrails just in time to avoid hitting my face on the hard equipment. My knees buckle, and I hit the emergency stop button, stopping the machine before making a fool of myself.
Breathe, Lena. Hold it together.
The room feels suffocating. The thud of weights, the steady hum of treadmills, and the distant rhythm of pop music blend into a confused noise. My vision blurs with tears, and I force myself to blink. I focus on the polished floor beneath my sneakers. Years of smiling on red carpets and dodging uncomfortable questions teach you one thing: how to hold back tears until you’re safely behind closed doors.
I grab my towel and gym bag, slipping off the treadmill as smoothly as I can manage. My limbs feel wooden, and my expression is locked in a polite mask. The women by the weights watch me. Their eyes are a little too wide, and even their whispers cease as they witness my walk of shame.
I nod at Sam as I pass the front desk, my lips stretching into a tight, unnatural smile.
Outside, the sun shines too brightly, and the air is too sharp. I fumble with my keys, slide into my SUV, and slam the door shut. The silence hits me like a wave, and I suck in slow breaths until I’m sure I won’t shatter.
But the image is still there, with Preston and Ronan passionately kissing, seared into my mind. I feel my perfectmorning, my perfect life, shaking so hard I’m sure it will soon shatter.
I letTabia in and close the door behind her. The paparazzi who had swarmed my gate this morning are now more insistent than ever, and I can’t shake the fear that one of them might try to jump over the perimeter wall. My hands are shaking as I turn the lock.
Tabia smiles gently before wrapping me in a tight hug. Her soothing hand moves in slow circles on my back, and it’s a miracle I don’t shatter right there on her shoulder. I pull away and guide her into the living room, collapsing beside her on the couch. A bottle of wine sits on the coffee table with two glasses already waiting.
“Have you heard from your publicist yet?” she asks, picking up where our phone call ended less than two hours ago.
I nod, grabbing the bottle and filling both glasses. I hand one to her.
“Greta called. She said they’re already working on damage control.” My voice is hoarse, every word scratching its way up my throat.
Tabia’s dark eyes study me over the rim of her glass. Concern is taking up every inch of her face. She’s searching for a hint of how I’m holding up, but the truth is, I’m numb. I didn’t even cry when I got home. I just plugged in my dead phone and sifted through the flood of messages from Greta, switching from shock to management mode without ever truly processing what happened.
Preston cheated on me. And he didn’t just cheat, he humiliated me publicly. I can’t tell what hurts more: the betrayalor the fact that the downfall of my personal life is plastered on gossip sites for everyone to see.
“That’s it? Just ‘damage control’?” Tabia’s voice tightens, and I can practically see the wheels turning in her mind, ready to call Greta herself and demand more action.
I take a long sip of wine, letting the warm feeling it ignites settle me before answering. “She talked me through all the steps they’ve already put in motion, and what comes next depends on Preston’s response. But basically, I’m supposed to lay low and wait for the storm to pass.”
Tabia sighs, and frustration veils her expression. “Did you hear from him?”
Her voice is soft and careful, like she knows the precarious balance I’m clinging to. She should. We’ve known each other for ten years, ever since I moved to Los Angeles at twenty with a dream of becoming a famous actress. She was my roommate back then, my first supporter through every audition and rejection. She’s seen me fight tooth and nail for everything I have, and she knows that when I break, I break hard.
I shake my head, and a fresh wave of bitterness crashes into my chest. “I know he’s seen my texts, but every time I call, it goes straight to voicemail. He won’t even give me the courtesy of a conversation.”
