"Sounds good to me." I try to push what she's said out of my head, but it's going to stick. All the way through the amazing market where there are flowers and weird chocolates and honey milkshakes and more food than I could ever possibly eat. It's delicious and filled with people and I have a hard time envisioning a place that's more New York. But I'm sure I'll find one.
We make our way to Washington Square Park and I take a selfie with the arch, and we see another show that evening. By the time we make it back to the hotel we're both exhausted and ready to sleep, but I'm still thinking about Peter. My mom is right, I do need some kind of closure. Even if we don't talk in any other way, I need him to know that I forgive him. Because I do. Fully and completely.
I curl up in my bed and turn away from my mother so that she doesn't see, and I pull up Peter's number. I never deleted it from my phone, and when I pull it up, all of our previous texts are still there. I start scrolling through, and fight the tears that come with it. I didn't realize how much of the grief of losing him remained. Maybe now that I'm experiencing the grief, I will finally be able to let it go.
The last thing he ever texted to me was 'I love you.'
Is he going to see that when I text him? Does he have all of our old texts saved or did he purge me from his life the way I tried to do to him?
I go into his contact and unblock the number. What do I say?
There's so much to say and yet all of it feels inadequate. Too small. I start to type of bunch of things, and delete them. Again and again. Finally, I settle on something simple.
Peter,
I'm sorry for the things I said, and I wanted you to know that I forgive you. If you want to talk, I'm here.
I stare at it for a long time before I press send, and I watch as the little bar moves across the top of the screen, trying to send. It seems to be having a hard time, and the Wi-Fi in the hotel is crappy so I have to move my phone around a bit for it to finally go through. It still seems to be having a hard time. I feel a sliver of dread when the text bubble turns from blue to green, because that always means there's a problem with the connection.
Finally, it sends.
I wait, and wait, and wait, and there's no response. I close my eyes, because it's late and wherever he is, he's probably asleep. But as soon as I close my eyes I feel the phone vibrate against my skin. He answered. My artificially powered heart starts to pound. I can't look at it. What did he say? I didn't even think about what he would actually text back. I'm going to throw up.
I pull the phone up and swipe to open it, and my stomach falls. The text isn't from Peter. It's an automated response, simply telling me that this number isn't in service anymore. He's gone, and it's too late, and I don't know how to feel about that.
I guess I don't have any choice now. I have to move on.
10
Peter
Present
Amber calls cut on the last shot of the day, and my body relaxes. I’ve never been so aware of a person, even when I was actively pursuing her. I walk off the set and grab a bottle of water, only to feel a hand come down on my shoulder and turn to find Michael standing there. I nod. “Hey.”
“I ran into Clay Markham on the way in, he said everything looks amazing.”
“That’s good.”
“It really is. They’re pouring a lot more money into advertising, and the network is going to do an early research showing of the pilot for some industry people later this month.”
I laugh. “Does that mean they’re going to make us reshoot stuff?”
“Not if the pilot is good, which I hear it is.”
Opening the bottle of water, I take a sip. “Good.”
“Be more excited, Peter. A good showing will mean more investors, which means a bigger budget for shooting and marketing. You know how this works.”
“Yeah, I do. I’m happy, I promise. Just…focused.” Focused is good. Focused is something that he’ll buy.
Michael gives me a look. "What's going on with you?"
"What are you talking about?"
He gestures up and down, like he's indicating my whole body. "I don't know you seem...more moody than normal. Between this and you disappearing for two days—"
"I didn't disappear."
"Well..."
Taking another sip of water, I pin him with my eyes. "Michael, I didn't disappear. Not answering my cell phone because I want to clear my head isn't disappearing. You're being dramatic."
"Okay, well it's definitely something." He takes a step closer and lowers his voice like he doesn't want anyone else to hear. "Are you having problems on set? Anyone on the crew? Because if you are, tell me now. The easiest time to get them replaced is now when the show is still an unknown. But after the pilot showing or release, if it's as popular as we hope, it'll be a lot harder because of all the press attention."
"What? No, I'm fine with the crew. Everyone is good. I'm fine."
"But Peter—"
"Michael." I put my growing frustration into my voice. "Believe it or not, it's not actually your job to manage my mood. I'm fine. Please let it go."
Because like hell am I going to get into another argument about Amber. I don't need another pissing contest between Michael and me right now. Especially since I'm the one that will win anyway, and it will only make me more angry. Michael has done everything for my career, but the more pushy he is about my personal life and my feelings, the more our relationship chafes. If it keeps going like this, I might have to reconsider it completely.
He doesn't look happy, but he backs down. "Okay. Clay is hosting a party at a bar tonight since everything is going so well. The whole crew is invited, and I'll make sure everyone knows about the invitation."
"Where is it?"
"He rented out Fantasia," he chuckles. "Clay Markham at his finest."
Fantasia is a bar known for its over-the-top spectacle and crazy nights. From the little I've seen of Clay, it fits his personality perfectly. "Open to the public?" I ask. A party is one thing. Going to a club where regular people might be is different. I'll have to be a representative of the show and on my best behavior.
"Public, no. Clay's friends, yes. So there will be industry people there."
That I can handle. "I'll be there."
"Good." He claps me on the shoulder again. "Maybe you, Amber, and I can find a few minutes to have that conversation that we missed at dinner."
"Sure," I say, even though I don't see why she'd want a creative partnership with me since she's unsure if she wants any kind of partnership with me.
I down the rest of my small water bottle and toss it into the recycling bin next to the table. Given the way Michael is constantly moving, I expect him to grab his phone, be swept up in an email, and be washed away on a tide of electronic things he has to do. But he doesn't.
"I have one more thing," he says.
I raise an eyebrow in question.
"I know what you're probably going to say, but I need to ask. Clay told me about the kiss on the way out. He seems nervous about it, like it went too far. We don't need a Calamity Mountain situation on our hands. So again, speak now if this is going to be a problem."