The Forest for the Trees

I like being a PR liaison. I really didn't think I would in the beginning, but I do. Most of the time.

I'll admit that there are times when it's not a dream come true. There are times when some idiot thinks it's okay to skip a flight for a quickie with a ring rat. There are times when some moron thinks it's so incredibly intelligent to take an extra pain killer or two and then act like a bombed-out junkie on a plane or in a hotel lobby. There are times when someone, in a childish fit of stupidity, thinks they're whiny-ass is above the rules of professionalism. In those times, I gotta admit, I don't really love it.

These are the moments when it sucks to be dedicated to my job. It sucks to actually care if the front office thinks I'm good at what I do. Like when I'm in the middle of a really important dinner, and I get called away to get some damn, idiotic moron out of a bar fight before it could possibly make the Internet community's radar. These stupid dummies have no concept of the world outside their own heads. They have no idea that the person who has to come to their rescue might actually have a flippin' life of their own.

And ya know what the worst fuckin' part of this whole thing is? I didn't even really wanna be at that dinner at the moment my phone rang. I know everyone else was havin' a grand old time, but for me? For the fifth wheel? It was weird. Especially with Tatum sitting right across the table in all of her stunning glory. I didn't wanna be there, but I sure as hell didn't wanna leave before everyone else.

Of course, Randy's hands never really left me at dinner. Either his arm was around me, or his hand was on my thigh under the table, the whole time. He was there with me. But the suspicious, not-so-subtly insecure side of me is not so sure that gesture was genuine. I mean, yeah, he was easy-going and totally relaxed. Maybe too relaxed, though. And is it a total stretch to believe maybe his hand kept finding my thigh to assure me that his ex wasn't affecting him? So that maybe he could throw me off as to just how affected he really was?

And then boneheads Miz and Morrison had to open their stupid mouths in a stupid bar and start a stupid fight. And I had to pretend that I was fine leaving the fantastic four to catch up on years of repressed memories and emotions. And now, I'm going to lose the man I love to his perfectly imperfect ex, and it's all those idiot, third rate, champion wannabes' faults.

"Ugh," I exclaim, falling onto the bed of our hotel room at two in the morning, my hands covering my face. When Randy's warm body rolls toward me, I can't imagine anything better than laying down, curling into him, and forgetting this whole night ever happened. "I swear, if I have to listen to anymore blameless bitches, I'm gonna knock somebody out," I pout, slipping my legs under the covers.

An arm, and then one leg emerges from beneath the mountain of blankets. "I love ya, James," the deep voice slurs sleepily. "But I think my wife might object."

I screech and jump from the bed as John turns his face toward me in the dim light of the bedside lamp. Well, I try to jump up, but I get tangled in the covers, effectively falling to the floor and leaving John uncovered on the bed. Thankfully, he's still wearing his signature denim shorts, but I'm not sure where his shirt is. And judging from the foggy look in his eyes, he probably doesn't know, either.

Shovelling a handful of disheveled hair from my face, I just take a deep breath and try to collect myself. "What the hell are you doing in my bed, John?" I ask, casting a glance around to realize that it's two in the morning and my boyfriend is not here. Of course, I stay level headed and don't worry at all about where he might be right now.

"Hidin' out," he grumbles, struggling to sit as he wipes his massive hand over his face.

"Where's Randy?" I fire, almost before he finishes his answer. Okay, so maybe I'm a little bit worried.

John blinks and looks around the room. Normally, I would assume that he's thinking up some lie to cover for his friend, but he's drunk. And he's not exactly thinking all that clearly. So I'm choosing to assume he's just trying to remember who Randy is at the moment. "He left the restaurant. With Tatum." He squints toward the ceiling and then looks back at me. "Before dessert."

I left the restaurant at 9:30. We were done with dinner. Which means that Randy was probably out of there, with his ex, by 9:45. Which means that he's been out there with her for more than four hours. Doing God knows what. And I should trust him, I know, but come on now. You know Randy about as well as I do, right? And you've seen his history with Tatum. So, tell me, would you trust this whole scenario?

Of course, I wouldn't make a great PR representative if I couldn't mask my emotions and stay cool under pressure. Standing from the floor, I toss the covers back to John and head toward the mini-bar. Nothing a little, overpriced bottle of tequila can't fix. "Should I be worried about that?" I ask him as nonchalantly as I possibly can.

He just rolls off his side of the bed and pulls a tee shirt over his head. "About Randal and fair Tatum?" he asks, extending his hand as he walks toward me. "Nah," he shakes his head and accepts the bottle. Maria's gonna love me for this one. "They're," he makes a sweeping motion with his hand to finish his sentence, and I assume he means 'over.' But as he swigs from the bottle, I can't be sure. "You should not be worried about Randy and Tatum," he adds as he leans against the dresser and stares at his socks. Well, at one sock. I don't know where the other one is.

And I don't really care. "Okay," I take a deep breath and steal the bottle back. One, because I think I'm going to need it in order to ask my next question. And two, because I'm pretty sure he doesn't need it anymore. "I'll bite," I add when he wiggles his eyebrows in my direction. Taking one more shot of courage, I wipe a dribble from my lip and study him carefully. "What should I be worried about, John?"

He just purses his lips and shakes his head, eyes still fixed on the floor. "Same thing we all worry about, James," he says cryptically.

Um, okay? I know I worry about losing Randy to Tatum. I worry about screwing up at my job. I worry about cross-country trips with irrationally-spaced rest stops and gas stations. But I don't know what we all worry about. So I guess. "Death?" He shakes his head and narrows his eyes. "Sex with strangers?" This time, he smiles but just shakes his head again. "Public speaking?" I try one more time.

But John's done with the guessing game. Meeting my eye, he raises an eyebrow and speaks in a deep, announcer-like voice. "Worse. Maria."

"Maria? We all worry about your wife?"

John pushes off of the dresser and tucks his hands into his pockets. John's one of those guys who can visibly sober before your eyes. Sometimes it makes me wonder if he really has the problem his wife thinks he does, or if he just fakes it to piss her off. Even for someone who has seen alcoholism up close and personal, it's hard for me to tell with him. One minute, he's in a complete fog. The next, he's clear-eyed and prophetic. It's weird. And unsettling.

"For different reasons," he nods his chin once again as he withdraws his wallet from his back pocket. "You, though," he nods knowingly as if I should know what he's about to say, "should worry because she seems to think that getting Orton and Tatum back together is gonna fix all our problems." Pulling his room key from his wallet, he shrugs slightly. "And maybe achieve world peace. I'm not sure about that, though."

Of course Maria thinks that Randy and Tatum can fix whatever the hell is going on in her marriage. "Old friends. Old times," I mutter before taking another drink. Because, when Randy and Tatum were together? John and Maria were happy. They were solid. They were the normal ones. It makes sense that she would think reuniting the old lovers would set the world right again. I mean, not in the way that it actually makes any sense at all. But in the way that it makes Maria, the world is a fairy tale, sense.

John just shrugs, drops a kiss on my cheek, and lets himself out of the room. And I just sink to the bed and drain the rest of the tequila. It's ridiculous, isn't it? I mean, the only people who can fix John and Maria's problems are John and Maria, right? Even she has to know that, deep down, doesn't she? I mean, even though she succeeded in getting Randy and Tatum in the same place at the same time, that doesn't mean that she is going to be able to make sparks fly once again. Does it?

Where the hell is Randy, anyway?