Author's Note: Friends, I know. I know I made you wait for this and for that I am truly sorry. Turns out babies take up a lot of time and attention! Who knew? ;) At any rate, onward we go!...
Chapter 25: The Right Place at the Wrong Time
"Well folks, as I mentioned before the break we have a real treat for you. With us on the show today is the author of the self-help smash that is taking relationships the world over by storm, Honest to Goodness, the one and only Damon Salvatore!"
The audience erupts in applause and whoops of excitement as his promotional picture flashes on the screen. It's my personal favorite—the "pensive" one—in which he looks like the gorgeous model he could have been if he'd have cared more about how pretty he is.
The sight of his beautiful face on my big-screen-TV sends a pang lancing though my body, sharp enough to make tears sting the backs of my eyes. God, I miss him so much.
Today, Damon is the guest of honor on Evelyn Price's show, Evelyn, the biggest day-time talk show—or anytime talk show for that matter—on television.
"Alright, alright ladies, now calm down!" Evelyn says playfully, holding her hands up to calm the riotous crowd. "He's a shrink, not the latest Bachelor!" The dying catcalls and cheers give way to laughter. "We don't want to scare him off before we get a chance to talk to him, now do we?"
A murmur of emphatic "no's" and "uh-uh's" go through the crowd. I can't help the giddy giggle that bubbles up in my throat.
Damon is a huge star.
Halfway through his tour, Damon's book is topping the New York Times Bestseller's List—just like Sharon White's reputation all but guaranteed it would—making him nothing short of a massive overnight success.
But beyond that, it's become a bit of a viral sensation. Youtube is flooded with videos of people making "honest to goodness" confessions. Twitter and Facebook and all other modes of social media are cropping up with written versions of the same. Celebrities are hashtagging and favoriting and mentioning and flagging and whatever other "ings" they do these days. Based on my very limited knowledge on the subject, I am grateful to know that aspect of Damon's career is firmly within Terri's department, not mine.
In the wake of Damon's success, I've been working overtime modifying Damon's schedule to accommodate all of the higher-profile gigs that have come calling, as well as maintaining as many of his previous commitments as I reasonably can without running Damon completely ragged.
In an odd twist, Damon's re-arranged schedule has brought him further from the center of America and out into the coasts, with a high concentration of appearances and events in Los Angeles and, very soon, Manhattan. As a result, much of the angst I was feeling about being separated from him geographically has now been replaced with worry about what it will look like when he is back in the city, with us still attempting this break.
As it stands, we're still struggling to the find a tolerable balance with the frequency of our communication, which never seems like enough but also hurts to have too much of. The deeper into his tour he gets and the higher his star climbs, the longer it takes for him to get back to me, if he manages to at all.
I try to remind myself that he isn't rejecting me, that he is just doing exactly what I told him we should do. I try my best to remember that this is what needs to happen to protect Damon, to give our relationship a chance to thrive without resentment in the future.
I try.
And while things are bearable now—if only just barely—I can't help but wonder what will happen when he is in town. Will we be able to settle for checking in by text when we are a cab drive away? Will we avoid each other because it's too hard to stay away completely, or will staying away be impossible?
Will we really be able to resist showing up on each other's doorsteps at night?
I can't decide what's worse: knowing Damon and I will cave and end up having to rip the Band-aid off all over again, or imagining that we won't.
Suddenly, the dress rehearsal for what our separation could look like after the tour is upon us. And no matter which angle I examine it from, it always looks exactly the same.
It looks like it's going to seriously suck.
Usually when Damon is doing a big nationally broadcasted show like this, everyone at Michaelson Literary Management will gather in the conference room to watch it together on the big screen TV. But today, knowing nobody in the office would bat an eyelash with the crazy hours I've been putting in lately, I opted to go home early.
It's been one of those days when everything seems to remind me of him, and I just didn't think I had the stomach to pretend to be thinking of Damon only as a client in front of everyone when all I really want to do is put on my sweats and make some tea and be alone to mourn his absence without having to be mature and dignified about it.
So that's exactly what I've done.
And now, seeing him on the big screen after so long having not seen him in person, I can say that it is a very good thing I'm alone. The consequences for dating a client at MLM may be more lax than the American Psychological Association's, but last I checked, openly drooling over a client wasn't exactly smiled upon.
"Damon, thank you so much for joining us here this morning!" Evelyn tells him as he takes a seat, hiding the fact that he is tugging irritably on his silvery-grey tie by pretending to adjust it. He looks incredible, a little tanned from the California sun he must be soaking up there in LA, his white dress shirt so crisp it practically sparkles, his grey slacks perfectly fitted to his perfectly perfect legs. His blue eyes look almost aqua in the studio lights, shining brilliantly against the contrast of his silky raven hair.
I curl up tighter on my sofa.
"Thank you so much for having me, Evelyn," he says, looking so comfortable and at ease I almost don't recognize him. I smile to myself, my insides warming without the help of the tea I've only just brought to my lips. Who knew my mysterious, guarded Damon was hiding the inherent ability to charm a nation?
"Now tell us," Evelyn continues, "how has this journey been for you, going from a practicing psychologist to an author? Becoming an overnight sensation? How does it feel to have your words influencing the world?"
"Wow," Damon says, flashing a dazzlingly beautiful smile paired with an adorably bewildered expression. "I don't even know if I can comprehend that," he chuckles, shaking his head.
"It's been amazing, though, honestly. I never expected when I sat down to write this book that it would be so well received," he says, looking gratefully at the studio audience which sounds like it consists solely of females. The moment he makes eye contact they start clapping and whooping appreciatively.
He laughs and runs a hand through his hair before turning his attention back to his host. "So it's a pleasant surprise. A really pleasant surprise."
He looks humble, just a little bit overwhelmed, but also completely at ease.
He is a total natural.
"Speaking of your sitting down to write this book," Evelyn says, "tell us how it came about. I know based on what I read in your bio that you're a widower—"
I cringe.
The audience erupts in "awws," which Damon acknowledges with a nod and a warm but tight-lipped smile before returning his attention to Evelyn.
"Did losing her have any influence on this book?"
A bolt of defensiveness for Damon's very personal story slices through me, leaving anger in its wake. Evelyn Price has always been known for unapologetically going for the jugular—a trait I'm sure Terri had the foresight to warn Damon about—but I still can barely stand to see him put on the spot like this.
But he doesn't even bat an eyelash.
I make a mental note to send Terri some flowers.
"Well I think it'd be impossible for me to claim that my wife's death didn't have an impact on the book, seeing as though any experience of that magnitude changes you, and the version of me that emerged from that experience is the person who wrote this book," he explains earnestly, confidently. "So, yeah, I think she did influence it, of course."
I am grinning from ear to ear. That was the most perfect non-answer to a question I've ever heard.
"Spoken like a true psychologist," Evelyn quips, and a ripple of laughter moves through the audience. But I don't miss the flash of determination that passes over her expression as she looks Damon over, sizing him up before loading her next question into the chamber.
"Now I hope you don't mind me asking this, but your wife was killed in a car accident a little over five years ago, am I right?" She gives him a sober-journalist/pitying look that makes me want to reach through the screen and slap her cake-make-up covered face.
"That's right," Damon confirms with a casual nod, but I don't miss the way his jaw flexes subtly, just once.
My heart constricts in my chest.
"Would you say that you're having success moving on after her death, or does it still kind of haunt your love life, missing her…mourning her?"
I go completely still, barely breathing. God, I want so badly to rescue him from this.
"Well, she was a big part of my life, and yeah, it was difficult to pick up the pieces afterwards," Damon says smoothly. "But recently, I think I've begun to feel some real peace in terms of her death, which has been nice." A hint of a wistful smile touches his lips.
Recently. I feel my face getting hot, and take a sip of my tea to cover it even though I'm alone. It's a little difficult, what with my lips' stubborn insistence on remaining curved into a smile.
"I think what I'm really getting at here, Damon—and I'm sure every other woman in this room would be anxious to know as well," Evelyn says, flashing a mischievous smile at her audience before turning to Damon with the hungry look of a lioness about to sink its claws into a gazelle, "is whether or not you're possibly, maybe ready to get back out there and start dating again?"
Women's voices shriek and clap and call his name.
Damon chuckles, scratching the back of his neck as he looks sheepishly up at the audience through his eyelashes and waits for their excitement to die down, his cheeks reddening adorably.
Those ladies don't stand an ice cube's chance in the Bahamas.
"Well, I guess you could say that," he says evasively.
Evelyn isn't thrown off the trail for a moment. "C'mon Damon!" she exclaims, her eyes shining, bright and sharp as knives. "Don't be coy with us! Is there or isn't there a special someone in your life right now, hmmm?" she asks, batting her eyelashes at him flirtatiously.
I decide that I really don't like Evelyn Price at all.
Damon plays along but I watch as he changes positions, leaning forward in a subtle show of rising to meet her challenge, vying for dominance.
"Look, all I can say is that there is someone in my life, but it's a very new relationship and I don't really think it'd be fair to her for me to talk much more about it."
"Do you think she's watching right now?" Evelyn asks.
"I don't know," Damon says, his eyes dancing with mirth, but also bearing just the slightest hint of sharpness themselves, his lips set in a tight smile that a seasoned journalist like Evelyn will be able to interpret. He's done with this line of questioning.
She nods almost imperceptibly at Damon before turning to look directly into the camera.
"Well, it's time for a commercial break but when we get back we'll take some of our audience member's questions, as well as some of your questions you sent in this week. What kind of practical advice will the ultimate authority on honesty have for your relationship? Tune in to find out, after the break!"
The camera pans over the ecstatic audience and Damon smiles winningly out into their faces before turning to chat politely with Evelyn. The screen fades to black and a commercial for Swiffer Wet-Jet begins to blare loudly into my apartment. I press the mute button.
I know the segment was pre-taped a few weeks ago and that Damon has some downtime right now at what would be around dinnertime in Los Angeles. I wonder if he is watching it as well? Is he surrounded by a gaggle of people or is he alone?
Is he thinking of me too?
I don't know if it's because I've just seen his face in hi-def and heard his voice through my surround-sound, or if it's that I was already missing him terribly before that. But I the end I cave and decide to text him.
"Hey Superstar!" I write, before cringing at my obnoxiousness and erasing it.
"So, that Evelyn just doesn't know when to give a guy a break does she?" I roll my eyes and stab the delete button until all evidence of my embarrassing attempts at levity are gone.
I sit and think for a long moment.
"Of course I'm watching," I type. I press send.
I wait, but get no response.
We agreed on a break, I rationalize. He's probably just busy.
Again.
Of course he is.
I watch the rest of his interview alone.
When it's over, I check my phone even though I know I didn't hear a text come in. Just as I thought, nothing. I sigh heavily before forcing myself up to grab my laptop. I need something to take my mind off of Damon and there's no point in leaving all of my email correspondence for the weekend.
After a half hour or so of typing and sending, I'm out of work to do. But my mind is still being pulled back to Damon like a tongue to a broken tooth. I sit in the quiet of my apartment, listening to the city.
I wait as long as I can before giving in, but in the end, I finally do.
I grab for my iPad before I can think better of it and click into the latest issue of US Weekly, which I now—much to my horror—subscribe to digitally. I signed up for it when my free trial ran out in a moment of weakness, rationalizing to myself that with all the sadness in my life, I deserved a little frivolous indulgence. I certainly couldn't keep hitting the ice cream like I had been every time I needed to escape the pain. So really it was a choice I made for my health.
Or something.
I am clicking through the pages, absorbing all of the fluff and drama like handfuls of so much candy, when I get to the "Hot Pics" page. There, amongst all of the ill-gotten paparazzi shots of Violet Affleck on her way to school and Halle Berry stealing what should have been a private kiss with her fiancé and Kim Kardashian wearing a completely transparent skirt with a teeny tiny g-string underneath, I see it.
Damon.
With someone else.
The captions reads: "Damon Salvatore, author of Honest to Goodness, gets lunch at Urth Café in Beverly Hills with a beautiful mystery woman. Is the formerly single hottie getting some 'good honest' lovin'?"
My whole body freezes in disbelief, even as adrenaline shoots through my system, making my heart race and my vision diamond-sharp. The hair on the back of my neck stands on end.
There are three pictures.
In one he is looking at her from across the table, his hand covering hers.
In another he is laughing, presumably at something she's said.
In another he is pecking her on the cheek in what looks like a goodbye kiss.
It could be an innocent lunch. It could be work related, something Terri set up without my knowledge.
It could be nothing.
Except that I know that look he is giving her from across the table. It is the same intense stare I once believed he gave only to me.
I know the sound of that abandoned laugh. The easy evidence of his armor coming down—armor I thought he only ever dropped for me.
I know the heady juxtaposition of his soft lips and ever-present stubble as they graze my cheek. The warmth of his face as it nuzzles up to mine. His spicy masculine scent as it fills my senses from up close.
Now she does too.
His hand over hers. The rough softness of his palms, the callouses of his hands that every inch of my skin knows by heart, touching hers.
Does she know them too?
She is tall and model-slim, with olive skin like mine and big sunglasses covering most of her otherwise clearly beautiful face.
Her hair is long and dark brown too.
Only hers is in waves.
My eyesight blurs and goes unfocused, and when I reach my hand up to rub my eyes, I realize that I am crying. A sob rips from my throat as my body curls in on itself, my iPad slipping from my hands.
He hasn't been responding to my texts.
He's in a "very new relationship."
I thought he meant me.
I texted him that I was watching, but oh God it wasn't me. He wasn't talking about me at all.
I press my face into my couch and cry, my too-straight hair falling around me like an accusation. Shame stabs my heart, lodges itself in my throat, scrapes at the back of my eyes.
I've been a fool.
###
I ring the doorbell once, clutching a reusable grocery bag filled with what Caroline and me, on any given girl's night, like to call dinner: a large wedge of Brie cheese, a package of peppered sausage, a bottle of Pinot Noir, and a baguette I picked up this morning from the tiny French bakery near my apartment.
We were supposed to meet up at my place, but I called Caroline this afternoon and asked if we could go to her apartment instead. I could hear the question in her voice when she agreed on the change of venue, but when I didn't offer an explanation, she thankfully didn't push for one.
I just don't want to be in my apartment, where I've shared so many memories with Damon. At Caroline and Stefan's, I'll at least have a tiny chance of getting through a rational conversation about my suspicions that doesn't happen through hiccupping, snotty tears.
Caroline opens the door, blonde curls cascading and work make-up refreshed, wearing a magenta vee-necked long sleeve and dark skinny jeans. She looks comfortable but still far too fancy for a low-key girl's night, which for all intents and purposes, could have taken place in pajamas. Luckily I know Caroline well enough to have anticipated the dress code and—despite my intense desire to remain as slovenly as I feel—chose my clothing appropriately.
"Hey! C'mon in!" she says, throwing her arms around me and squeezing me tightly before she pulls away and takes my reinforcements, her hair flying and almost getting caught in my lip gloss when she turns excitedly on her heel and leads the way into the apartment. She places the bag on the countertop and begins unloading its contents.
"So," she begins, looking pointedly up at me from under her raised eyebrows. "What's up, 'Lena?" she asks.
I have to smile. Caroline has never been one to beat around the bush and I love her for it.
"I take it your Evelyn viewing party-of-one wasn't the joyous affair it was at the office."
"Actually, I thought the Evelyn interview was great," I say honestly, taking a seat at one of the stools that face her on the opposite side of the island from where she's working.
"It was, right?" Caroline says enthusiastically, her whole demeanor going from concerned to bubbly in the blink of an eye. "Damon sounded so official up there, taking everybody's questions on the spot like a pro. He's a smarty-pants, that man of yours," she winks at me. "And methinks I might have caught a veiled mention or two of you, right?" she adds slyly.
I try for a smile, but feel it wobble when tears jump suddenly to the back of my eyes.
Caroline's face falls at my reaction and she drops the knife and bread, moving around the island towards me.
"Whoa, Elena, am I missing something? What's going on?" she says, her voice soft with concern as she slides up onto the stool beside me.
I press my eyes shut and swallow around the hard pressure growing in my throat, clearing it as best as I can so I can speak.
"The thing is, I'm actually not sure he meant me," I say.
"What are you talking about?" Caroline asks, with the cautious patience of someone who has just been informed that her toaster is sentient and has been quietly plotting the apocalypse. She reaches across the island to pour us two glasses of wine from the open bottle of Pinot already sitting on the countertop.
I pull my smartphone out of my purse, bringing up the page and handing it over. Her brow furrows slightly and I see her swallow hard, but she keeps her expression purposely even. She looks the pictures over for another long moment before she hands my phone back to me.
"These don't actually prove anything, you know that right?" she says. "These types of magazines are always creating stories out of nothing. They have a picture of Violet Affleck walking to school in the Hot Pics section, Elena. How reliable can they be?"
"Yeah but the pictures themselves are real," I insist. "And it's not just that, Care," I sigh, feeling my whole body deflate with the effort of trying to convince her of something I want so desperately to not be true. "He hasn't been returning my texts."
"Okay, but isn't that the point of this break you guys are on?" she says gently. "From what you told me, you made it sound like there was a lot riding on giving this break a legitimate try. He's probably just trying to keep up his end of the bargain and keep contact to a minimum like you agreed you would."
"Maybe, Care, but…I don't know," I admit, blowing out a dejected exhale that does nothing to lighten the thickness suffocating inside my chest. "It's hard to explain. He just seems different somehow. I mean, when we talk on the phone for work stuff everything is fine. But when we run out of book related things to say and the conversation comes back around to personal stuff it just gets kind of…awkward," I admit, rubbing at the headache starting to settle in my forehead with my fingers.
"And the thing that keeps bothering me" I suddenly remember, rushing on before Caroline can respond, "is that he told Evelyn that his relationship was 'new.' I'll admit, before I saw these pictures I thought he was talking about me." I can't help but flush embarrassedly at the memory. "But afterwards I was thinking about the interview and I had to ask myself if I could still realistically consider our relationship 'new.' I mean, we've been together for a few months now."
I shake my head dejectedly, losing the battle with the first of my tears as all of the evidence begins to settle and take shape in my mind. "I just don't know, Care. It always seemed like too much to ask, you know? For him to wait for me for two whole years," I say, struggling to speak clearly through the emotion roughening my voice. "And that was before he was this huge famous celebrity getting followed around to lunch dates with mysterious women by the paparazzi," I say, throwing up my free hand up before using it to scrubbing the wetness from my cheeks. "You saw how those girls in the audience reacted to him today. He could have his pick of any girl he wanted now. Why wouldn't he be considering keeping his options open?"
"Hold on, sweetie," Caroline says, squeezing my knee before she jumps off her stool and goes to retrieve a box of Kleenex for me.
"Thanks, Care," I say weakly before pulling one out and blowing my nose noisily.
"Can I say something, Elena?" Caroline says when I seem to be out of words. I nod, dabbing at my cheeks with more tissue.
"Even though I never got to see you guys together per se, I know Damon. And if he says he loves you, he means it." She reaches up to push my hair back behind my ear. "And more than that, he's not the type to string you along. If he did want to break things off which I seriously doubt is the case, there's no way he'd just stop returning your texts and take up with some random mystery chick just because he's some big-time famous guy now. He's an all-in type of guy, Elena. And he's all in with you."
I smile weakly, wanting to believe her so badly. And she's right. It's not fair of me to mistrust Damon simply because I'm feeling insecure.
Or because some tacky tabloid magazine snapped pictures of him with someone else. Or because he is too busy to return my texts.
Or because actually being with me anytime soon could result in his losing not just one career, but two.
I reach for my wine and take something more akin to a gulp than a sip.
"Thanks Care," I say, being purposely vague. "You're right, I shouldn't jump to conclusions. I think I'll feel a lot better once I talk to him."
"I'll bet you will too," she says, smiling with all the confidence I wish I felt. "If you want I can call him myself and give him the ol' sister smack-down," she adds mischievously. "I've been dying for opportunity to bust out my new privileges as an official Salvatore."
"Uh, thanks but no thanks," I chuckle sarcastically. "There's nothing that will make him fondly recall my love like sending his new sister to nag him about not texting me often enough." I roll my eyes.
"Alright, if you say so," she laughs. "Just let me know if you change your mind."
"What I would like to do is change the subject," I say, bringing my hands down on my knees with a decisive slap. "I believe the real purpose of this girl's night was to view a newly acquired wedding album, was it not?" I say, clapping my hands and rubbing them together expectantly.
"It was indeed," Caroline says, playfully, but I don't miss the way she gives my face one more critical look to check if I'm really okay. Whatever she sees must satisfy her enough to move on because she turns to jump off her stool. "It's just in Stefan's study, I'll go run and get it!" And she's off, bouncing happily down the hallway.
I release a deep exhale, trying to find the happy medium between relaxing my shoulders but not letting them slump. When everything from stiff to slouch feels foreign, I give up and move around the island to finish arranging the food on the big wooden cutting board, setting out the last of the salami and the Brie next to the bread.
"Oh hey, Elena!" I hear Caroline call from the office. The sound travels surprisingly well down the wide hallway. "Can you come in here real quick?" After a moment of quick deliberation, I decide to put the loaded cutting board in the fridge before grabbing our wine glasses and heading down the hall, just in case this takes longer than "real quick."
"What's up?" I ask when I reach the doorway. Caroline is sitting at Stefan's desk, her brow furrowed in concentration as she searches for something on Stefan's computer. I cross the room to the desk to set her wine in front of her, which she takes from my hands mid-motion with a grateful smile.
"I need you to tell me which dress you like best for Francesca's fundraiser next month. It's super formal and I can't decide if I should go with this dramatic, full-skirted one or the subtler but more sexy figure-hugging one." She looks up to give me a sly smile.
"Well I know you love a dress with some flair but I always like you in the more sultry stuff. It's a shame to hide that obnoxiously perfect figure of yours under all that fabric."
"Oh my God, Elena, look who's talking," Caroline says, rolling her eyes to hide her happy blush.
I set my drink down and drag one of the chairs that sits facing Caroline around the massive mahogany desk so I can sit beside her. Just then, I hear the front door open and the sound of Stefan's voice. He must be on the phone.
"Shoot, I never told him we were coming here instead of your place," Caroline groans. "He's been working late every other night this week, and of course tonight is the night he'd be home early," she says, throwing her hands up in exasperation. "I'll go tell him to—"
But she stops speaking mid-sentence, her eyes widening and then shooting to mine in shocked disbelief at the sound of the other voice that is coming from her living room.
Alaric's.
No one's spoken to him but Jenna since the night he outed Damon and me at The Square.
"Thanks again for agreeing to meet with me, Ric. I know things are a bit…tense right now, but I wanted to check in with you."
"You mean you wanted to know if I was planning to report your brother," Ric chuckles mirthlessly.
The hairs on the back of my neck stand up, my fingers tightening around the armrests of my chair. When I glance at Caroline, her eyes are still frozen open, her bottom lip trapped between her teeth.
"I take it you don't exactly share my views on the matter after all?"
"I wouldn't say that," Stefan says smoothly. "Whether or not we are looking at the same matter I think is the more important question. Care for a beer?"
"Spoken like a true lawyer," Ric laughs, more warmly this time. "No, but thank you." I hear the scuff of one of their dining room chairs as he takes his seat, another as Stefan takes his.
I look at Caroline and she looks at me, her face ashen.
"What do we do?" I mouth silently to her.
"I don't know," she mouths back.
And then there's no time to decide on a different course of action, because they start talking again.
And once they do, it's impossible not to listen.
Author's Note: Sorry for the cliffhanger but it had to be done! Be sure to click those Follow and Favorite buttons so you don't miss out on what's coming next! What on earth will Stefan say to Alaric?...hmmm?
I LOVED all of your thoughtful and honest and insightful and gushy and just all around FABULOUS reviews from the last chapter SO MUCH! I'd love to hear from you again, so PLEASE leave me a Review why don't you? Pretty please? It would make my week! My. Whole. Week.
Aside: Were you guys swooning and drooling over hot sexy tv-interview Damon like I was when I was writing this? Whew! *fans self*. The research for this chapter was a horrible slog I assure you. ;)
And of course, mention must be made of Trogdor19, snow-shoeing Queen of the snowy mountains, subject only to the Whiskey gods and an acute case of forget-to-eat-itus. My friend, I thank and salute thee. You are swift, selfless, and dedicated! And fear not, your karma is still alive and well and it's going to take a lot more than you trying to help me accomplish my New Years resolution to earn you a KARMASMASH. Besides, my ninja powers forbid it, therefore it shall not be.
Alright lovies! Hang in there…I'll do my best to get you the next chapter soon. In the meantime, have a great week!
XOXO,
Nightlightbright