Page 64 of Off Script
PLEASE call me asap.
Are you okay? I’m getting worried. I really need to speak to you.
Shit, Carlisle. C’mon, call me back, babe.
My nerves grow exponentially as the hours tick by, and I still can’t reach her. As day transforms into evening, I feel like my anxiety level is only one rung below a full-blown panic attack. I leave her voicemail after voicemail and text after text, but I receive no response. I know I acted weird and withdrawn today, but why the hell won’t she respond to me?
Shit, if she’s mad and giving me the silent treatment after how I behaved earlier, then she’s gonna be royally pissed when I explain the showmance.
I’m so fucked.
Please talk to me.
I’m coming over. I need to see you.
I leave an hour early for my date with Willa, praying that I can catch Carlisle at home.
When I arrive at her condo, I hop out before my car has even fully come to a stop. Jogging toward her front porch, I knock loudly on the door. After a minute, I knock again, but no one comes to the door. Peering into the windows, the curtains are drawn tight, and all the lights are off inside the apartment.
Where could she be? Why isn’t she answering her phone?
Pissed at myself for creating this chaos in my personal life, I leave Carlisle's and proceed to Willa's house to pick her up and then to Soho House as planned. Quite possibly, I’ve blown up my personal life, but I can’t skip the date and blow up my professional life too.
Even though I’m scared shitless about what this story will do to Carlisle when it hits the internet, I try my best to ignore my feelings and focus on the present. Time to be an actor and act like my mind isn’t going crazy with worry. I need to pretend to enjoy myself on a date with another woman.
Seriously, how the fuck did I get myself into this fucked-up situation?
Becky tipped off the paparazzi, so there are a number of them waiting for us as soon as Willa and I arrive at Soho House. We’re swarmed as we stroll up to the restaurant hand-in-hand. Adopting a brisk pace, I tug Willa along, wanting to get out of the limelight as quickly as possible. Once inside, I draw in a deep breath. I never have gotten used to the intensity of the paparazzi’s attention.
While we wait for our appetizers to arrive, Willa asks me about my Thanksgiving. I try half-heartedly to hold polite conversation, butWilla picks up on my foul mood. She reaches across the booth to touch my arm, and I jump like she’s electrocuted me.
“Hey, remember to smile every now and then,” she jokes as she raises her eyebrows. “My dates are usually a little happier to spend time with me than this, Benji.” Willa nods her head subtly to the paparazzi clamoring outside the restaurant windows, taking photos while we dine. “Besides, we have an audience.”
I curve the corners of my mouth into something resembling a smile. “You’re right. I apologize. I’m distracted.”
“Distracted? By what?” With a tentative smile flitting across her face, she adds, “Or should I ask by whom?”
“I met someone. I really like her, but now you and I are committed to this charade. The timing sucks, that's all.”
A look of surprise flashes upon Willa’s face. She places her hands under the table and leans back. “I had no idea you were seeing someone, Benji. How’d she take it when you told her about us?”
“I only agreed to participate this morning—”
Willa’s jaw drops. “What? Becky told me it was a done deal last week.”
I laugh hollowly. “It probably was, but I was being stubborn and holding out hope that we wouldn’t be forced into it.”
“How’d your girl take it when you told her about it?”
“I don’t know,” I wince. “I was supposed to tell her today after we got back in town, but I didn’t get the chance.”
“Benji!” Willa looks incredulous at my stupidity. “Why didn’t you tell her? You fucked up, buddy.”
“Shit, Willa, tell me something I don’t know.” I begin to run my hands angrily through my hair before stopping abruptly when I remember where I am. Then I force myself to smile for the cameras.
“Nice recovery, dumbass.” Willa finger combs my hair back into place and shakes her head at me. “After dinner, we’re supposed to grab drinks at a bar, but let’s ditch that plan. When we finish here, drop me off, and then drive straight to your girl’s place to plead your case. The stories probably won’t hit the mainstream media until tomorrow, so you may still have time to talk to her before she hears about us. You do not want her to hear this from anyone other than you.”
Flashing my first real smile of the night, I say, “You’re the best. Thanks, Pipsqueak.”
