Page 57 of Worth the Wait
“I tried. You’re already booked solid through Friday with vendor meetings, site visits, and three new client consultations that came in because of the Sterling Industries coverage.” Amanda pauses. “Plus you added that Highland Community Center fundraiser planning session and two additional venue scouting trips that weren’t on yesterday’s calendar.”
She’s right. I’ve been scheduling everything I can think of, accepting every meeting request, volunteering for projects I’d normally delegate. Anything to fill the hours between now and some imaginary future when thinking about Cameron won’t feel like touching a live wire.
“We made it, Lianne,” Amanda continues, her voice gentle. “After all our hard work, this event put us on the map. Our phones haven’t stopped ringing since Sunday morning.”
The success should energize me. This is what we’ve worked toward for four years—the kind of industry recognition that establishes Luminous Events among the top tier of luxury planners in Los Angeles. The validation that we belong in rooms filled with people who shape policy and influence culture.
But all I can think about is Cameron’s face during those society photographs, the easy way Isabella fit into conversations with board members, the comfortable familiarity that spoke to years of shared history and mutual understanding.
“So, about Mr. Judd,” Amanda begins carefully. “He’s called seventeen times since Sunday. Should I continue taking messages?”
Seventeen times. Each call a reminder of the weekend we were supposed to share, the plans we’d made, the future I’d stupidly allowed myself to believe in.
“Yes. Keep taking messages.”
My phone buzzes with another text, and despite my better judgment, I glance at the screen.
Cameron:
Please call me. I know Saturday night looked bad, but there’s so much you don’t know about what really happened.
I turn the phone face-down without responding. What more is there to know? I watched him play the perfect couple with Isabella while I coordinated their celebration from behind the scenes. I listened to his mother explain why Isabella represents everything he needs in a partner while I ensured their wine glasses stayed filled.
Some truths don’t require additional context.
“You know,” Amanda says, “I’ve never seen you this focused on work after a major success. Usually you’re planning how to leverage the media coverage, not burying yourself in vendor contracts.”
“I’m being thorough,” I say, which sounds better than admitting I’m using spreadsheets and timeline documents as emotional anesthesia.
“You’re being obsessive. Yesterday you reviewed the same catering proposal four times, and this morning you scheduled venue visits for three locations we’ve already toured twice.” Amanda leans forward. “When’s the last time you ate something that wasn’t grabbed from the vending machine?”
I can’t remember. Food has become an afterthought, something that interferes with the constant motion that keeps me from thinking too clearly about Saturday night.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. You’re running on caffeine and stubbornness, and it’s starting to show.” Amanda’s voice carries the kind of concern that comes from working closely with someone for years. “The team’s worried about you.”
Before I can deflect with another work-related topic, my office door opens and Maya walks in, her expression carrying the determination of someone who’s decided an intervention is necessary.
“Amanda called me,” she announces without preamble. “She’s worried you’re having some kind of breakdown disguised as a productivity surge.”
“I’m not having a breakdown. I’m capitalizing on our success?—”
“You’re hiding,” Maya interrupts, settling into the chair next to Amanda with the air of someone prepared for a long conversation. “When’s the last time you left this office for something other than a business meeting?”
I try to think and realize she’s right. Since Sunday morning, I’ve moved between my apartment and office like someone following a prescribed route, avoiding any location that might carry memories or require emotional processing.
“I’ve been busy?—”
“You’ve been scared,” Maya says with characteristic directness. “Scared of dealing with whatever happened Saturday night, so you’re working yourself into exhaustion to avoid feeling anything.”
The accuracy of the observation hits harder than I expect. Because she’s right—I have been scared. Scared of the hurt that threatens to overwhelm me every time I stop moving, scared of examining what Saturday night really meant, scared of facing how completely I misjudged my place in Cameron’s life.
“Look, I don’t know what happened at your gala,” Maya continues, her tone shifting to something gentler. “You haven’t told me, and I’m not pushing for details. But I know you, and this isn’t how you handle success. This is how you handle heartbreak.”
The word hangs in the air between us, simple and accurate and devastating.
“You need to get out of here,” Maya says finally. “Do something normal. Something that has nothing to do with work or clients or whatever went wrong Saturday night. Go home, take a shower, eat real food. Remember that you exist outside of Luminous Events.”
