Page 80 of Enemies Off Camera
“No, but hey… let’s have a drink, and you can tell me everything,” I say lightly.
He hesitates a second too long. Then: “Sure. When?”
He’s too eager. He thinks I’m a fool.
“Tomorrow night,” I say. I need time to plan.
“Deal.”
We hang up after I promise to text him the time and place.
Then I make another call. To someone I need to pull this off.
FIFTY-SEVEN
Saturday Afternoon
Ichose a restaurant Blaine and I used to frequent when we were a couple. There are dozens of paparazzi shots of us canoodling in quiet corners or dining on the patio—smiling, holding hands, pretending to be in love. We knew we were being watched. We lived for it.
I benefited the most from being Toby Lane’s girlfriend, though I never realized it until last night. Back then, I wanted the relationship to last forever—even though it rarely satisfied me. It was a romance built as much on PR strategy as it was on affection. And it worked. For both of us.
I fully expected Blaine to show up late. Instead, he’s already here. Thankfully, I made a reservation or he might’ve chosen a seat hidden from the cameras. But I made sure he’d be in full view. He’s seated by the front window. I timed our “date” perfectly—5:30 p.m.—early enough for soft, golden sunlight to flood the glass, but late enough to imply intimacy. This is the kind of dinner that the press assumes ends in a shared car ride and tangled sheets.
Blaine looks up from his phone and waves. I strut slowly toward him, giving him time to take in every inch of me in this gold, short, sleeveless Roberto Cavalli. I bought it years ago, after my first big check, when designer labels meant something to me. Blaine used to love when I dressed like this. Sexy. Flashy. Compliant.
Now, I just feel like a beautifully wrapped decoy. I hate this dress. It isn’t me. It never was.
Back then, I was constantly shoving my square self into all of Blaine’s round holes.
When I sit across from him, grinning too wide, blinking too slow, gazing at him like he’s the sun—I realize something so simple it almost makes me laugh:
I never loved him.
I didn’t even like him.
“You look hot as hell. You sure you don’t want to order and take it all to go?” he croons.
I gesture to myself. “And waste this outfit? No.”
It takes him a second to chuckle. I think he really wanted me to say yes. Would the old me have thrown away a night out just to rush home and have sex? Maybe… Okay, fine. Yes.
Yikes.
“So Blaine, how’s it been?” I ask, launching the small talk.
He hates this question, always has. And he proves it again—just shrugs and grunts like that somehow answers it.
“Not good?” I press, because I never used to.
“Not bad,” he says.
“So not good and not bad?”
His eyes narrow. He’s already irritated. I have to rein it in—remember the optics. We’re supposed to look like we’re reconnecting. Not sparring.
“All good. Not bad,” he finally settles on.
“Excellent.” I deliver the line like a toast, and he grins again, settling back into his smug comfort zone.
