Page 135 of The Publicity Stunt
Wait, was she not expecting to run into me on the set of a movie I work on? Why is she even here? And why is she so surprised that I am? Then it hits me all at once.
Parker. Of course.
Against my better judgment, my eyes dart down to her hand. To her fingers. There’s no ring. But that doesn’t make it any better. Instead, I feel worse.
“Crap,” she tries to mutter under her breath but it’s not quiet enough. She shakes her head and swallows a visible lump down her throat. “Fuck, I didn’t know you’d be here.”
“Right.”
“I’m sorry. I really didn’t know you’d be here. I was looking for—” She stops and I look back up at her face. No one wants to say his name, and that’s understandable.
I nod and step outside with her, shutting the trailer door behind me. My brain is still trying to process this fever dream. She looks the same. Poised, elegant, legs for days, blond hair tied back in a bun, wearing one of those oversized T-shirt dresses.
“What are you doing here?”
She takes in a rheumatic breath and looks down at her cream flats. “Parker isn’t answering his phone. I have a train to catch. I’m so sorry, this isn’t … um, I didn’t plan on running into you. Fuck, I didn’t even know you’d be here.”
“Shara.” I say her name again, this time with a sense of urgency. “It’s okay. Breathe.”
She purses her lips and nods her head as if she’s only now going through the plethora of emotions I felt when I opened that door.
“I needed to give this back and it didn’t feel right to mail it back in a FedEx box,” she says, turning sideways to look through her purse. “He was supposed to swing by our place and come pick it up earlier today, but never did and now I’m getting late for my train.”
Our place.
“This has been planned for weeks. He knew I was leaving for D.C. today. I’ve called him ten times already, but his voicemail is full.”
I suck in a quick breath.
“So I called his agency and they gave me this address, and then some old guy just pointed me in this direction. I’m really sorry for turning up like this.”
I stop listening to her.
And it’s almost as if the universe—or whoever it is that’s in charge of my life—really fucking hates me today. Because all my attention is now focused on her hand, and the ring box that’s in it. I think I’m going to be sick.
“April?”
I look up and realize my mouth’s half open. I shut it and shake my head. “Yeah, no. Um, he’s not here yet but you can leave that in his trailer if you want.”
“I’m not …” she says, sounding extremely hesitant. “It’s just that it’s my wedding ring and I don’t want to”—my wedding ring?—“drop it off someplace I’m not familiar with. Can you give it to him whenever he does get in?”
There’s only so much a person can take, and this is my limit. It has to be.
“April.”
I almost laugh. Then I do. “Please, just stop.” Those words aren’t meant for her. They’re meant for the stabbing pain in my chest. “Just …” I look back up and expel a deep tired sigh. “I can’t do it. I’m sorry.”
“What?“
“No, no. I’m not touching that box. I’m not.” I step back. “You can leave it in his trailer, and I’ll make sure he gets it, but I’m not touching it.”
Shara looks at me the same way I’ve looked at myself for the past ten years. It’s not exactly pity, and it’s not exactly anger. But something in between.
She looks at me for a few more seconds, waiting for me to stop crying—and believe me, I wish I could—but it’s as if that ring just tapped into a whole new world of sadness in me.
“He didn’t tell you. You found out,” she finally says.
I look up to face her and the sheer accuracy of her words, but she’s not looking at me anymore. She’s looking at the ring box. And I’m not going to lie; it’s starting to piss me off how calm and composed she seems while I’m this blithering mess of emotions.
