Unforgettable 3 (Hollywood Love Story #3) (7 page)

Zoey

“L
ove is a disease for which there is no cure.” Mel once said that to a distraught Kurt in an episode of Brandon’s series, and now I know it’s true. Since coming back to LA, I haven’t left my bed. It’s been five long, sickening days. Every bone, every muscle, every cell is infected with him.

Trapped in a fluish haze, I drift in and out of sleep, and if it weren’t for Auntie Jo looking in on me and bringing me some homemade soup, the only thing I can manage to get down my throat and just barely, I wouldn’t know if it were morning, noon, or night. When I’m conscious, all I do is cry and think about him. I used to have fantasies, but now my mind is filled with painful memories. All the good times we had together play in my head. I can’t shut them down. Even when I drift off into a fitful sleep, he’s in my dreams. Kissing and fucking me. Holding me in his strong arms. Dancing and loving me. The melody of Mama’s favorite song, “Unforgettable,” links all the beautiful memories together like a never-ending music video. Oh, why can’t I forget? Amnesia would be God’s gift.

“Do you want to talk about it, honey?” Auntie Jo asks, the next time she treads lightly into my room with a tray in hand.

“Please, Auntie. I can’t. Not yet.” My voice is a hoarse whisper I don’t recognize. Forcing myself to sit up, I take the bowl of soup from her and take a few sips to satisfy her that I’m eating and won’t die. She has no clue my heart’s been broken by Brandon Taylor. All she knows is I’ve lost my job and I’ve contracted some flu from the rain. Pops knows the truth, and he’s promised me he won’t tell her until I do first. I may never.

Pops is as concerned about me as much as Jo is. For the fifth time this week, he stops by my room after coming home from work. The lights are off and I’m under the covers. I have no clue what time it is.

He sits down beside me on the edge of the bed. “Babycakes, it’s been almost a week. You’ve got to face reality again.”

“Pops, I can’t. He hurt me so much.”

“He called me today at the precinct.”

My heart jumps. I bolt to a sitting position. He’s back!

“He wants to talk to you. He says he’s been trying to reach you.”

I’ve had my cell phone turned off with his number blocked and have vowed to get a brand new number so he can never reach me. A frantic thought claws at me.

“Pops, did you tell him where I am?” My throat’s so raw it hurts to talk.

“No.”

I should sigh with relief, but I’m aching to see him. I just can’t. What would be the point? To torture myself? My heart’s endured enough pain to last a lifetime.

“Thanks, Pops,” I croak, verging on more tears. “Please don’t ever tell him my whereabouts. I never want to see him again. Never!”

The last words come out with a choked sob. Pops takes me in his brawny arms and lets me cry for as long as I need to. At least fifteen minutes pass, maybe more. It’s so hard to tell time in this dysfunctional, heartbroken state.

He smooths my damp, ratty hair that hasn’t been combed in days. Auntie Jo barges in. She must have heard my sobbing. Worry is etched on her face.

“Pete—”

Pops gently cuts her off. “She’s okay.”

She joins Pops on the bed, brushing my forehead, out of love and concern. She probably thinks I have a fever. I do, but it’s raging in my heart.

“Honey,” she says softly, “it’s just a job. I know you liked it, but there are so many you can get. You’re so smart and efficient. Who wouldn’t want to hire you? I bet you can even land another good position with a big star.”

Unable to talk, I nod my head weakly and sniffle. There’s only one star in the sky for me. But it’s fallen and lost its shine, leaving a burning hole in my heart.

Pops cups his hands on my quivering shoulders and looks deep into my watering eyes. “Babycakes, it’s time to tell Jo the truth about what’s going on.”

I swallow hard past the golf ball-sized lump in my throat, and finally, tearfully, I open up. “Auntie, I fell in love with Brandon Taylor. I did something I should have never done with him.”

“Oh, dear Lord!” She clasps a hand to her mouth. “You—”

I nod with a mixture of remorse and embarrassment.

“Sweetie, forget that I’m your mother and tell me everything!”

I just love Auntie Jo. Underneath that sweet demeanor, there’s a wild woman with a heart of gold. I tell her about our romantic evening, beginning with our beautiful candlelit dinner and continuing with our sensuous swim in the Mediterranean, leaving out explicit details about Brandon’s sexual prowess and proclivities, as she quietly hangs on to every word, her eyes wide and unblinking. I can’t tell what’s going through her head. It’s probably hard for her to believe that her plain Jane daughter had an affair with her idol.
People Magazine’s
“Sexiest Man Alive.” And the truth is it’s still surreal for me. Grateful that she asks me no questions, I flick my eyes to Pops for encouragement to go on. He nods and I continue.

“After the swim, we went back to his hotel suite…and then his horrible fiancée, Katrina, showed up.”

“Oh no!” gasps Auntie Jo.

“And to make a long story short, while I was waiting in my room for him to come back for me, he sent me an email and fired me.”

Just as I’m about to burst into more tears, Jo takes me in her loving arms and hugs me.

“Oh, you poor dear. I know exactly what you’re going through.”

“You do?” I stammer, expecting her to reprimand me for my foolishness.

“Yes. I had my heart broken too. And by a man I worked with—the owner of my beauty shop. I was secretly crazy about him. I worshipped him. Dreamt about him every minute of every day. And then he hired an assistant who was the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen. He was totally smitten by her, and within a month, they were engaged. I cried for days and even stayed home from work.”

I’m all ears. I never knew this. “What happened?”

“I had to leave my job. The pain was too great. I couldn’t face seeing him every day, knowing the man of my dreams could never be mine.”

“How did you get through it?” My voice is a little stronger.

Pops chimes in. “Yours truly.”

Auntie smiles and clasps his hand. “It’s true. I thought I could never love another man, but I healed. Then, Pete came into my life. Stepped into the new salon where I was working for a haircut and swept me off my feet. I’ve never looked back.”

Pops beams. “And she better not. It was the worst haircut I ever got because she was so smitten by Mr. Handsome here.”

Auntie Jo chuckles and gives him a peck on the cheek. “If you want to know my opinion, it was the
best
haircut I ever gave.”

Their sweet, loving exchange warms me, taking me out of my deep funk. Pops holds me in his intense gaze, the gaze of a detective who doesn’t beat around the bush. “You know, Babycakes, finding the right person is like digging for a clue to solve a crime. True love…it’s out there somewhere. You just gotta keep looking.”

Auntie chimes in. “There are a million people you can love and who will love you. It’s just a matter of finding one. Just one is all it takes.”

I thought I’d found him. But he didn’t love me back. I take a long, deep breath. Air fills me like helium. It’s time to pick up the pieces and start over again.

My stomach growls. “Auntie, what’s for dinner?”

Zoey

M
y heart will go on. Shattered pieces still beat. Over the next few weeks, I learn that there’s a truth to the
Titanic
love theme lyrics. While every night in my dreams I still see him, I recover from my heartbreak enough to resume a normal everyday existence. The heart is a mighty organ. Even broken, it can still pump life into you. Each day I grow stronger, and by the end of the month, I’ve found a place of my own to live—a small but charming one-bedroom apartment in Beachwood Canyon. Plus a new job—a masseuse at Posh, a high-end spa on Sunset. The timing was perfect. One of their therapists had just gone on maternity leave, and with my credentials, I was a shoe-in for the position. While I feel like I’ve regressed a little, I tell myself it’s only temporary until I figure out what I really want to do.

My new job is not fulfilling, but it helps pay the rent and keeps me from dipping into my savings. Though I only work in the afternoons and have weekends off, I don’t enjoy being holed up in a small massage room and physically exerting myself. Been there, done that. I didn’t like it the first time around. And I like it even less now. The clients, mostly super rich, are demanding and often ungrateful.

Once upon a time, I had a dream to become an actress. I enrolled in a few acting workshops after high school but abandoned them, discouraged that a full-figured girl like me couldn’t succeed. And hence, I went to an occupational school and became a certified masseuse. But working for Brandon and helping him with his lines gave me another taste of the craft. A yen. The more I despise my new job, the more the acting bug gnaws at me. I apply to several local acting schools—mentioning my former experience (I throw in the fact that I played Adelaide in my junior high production of
Guys and Dolls
to make my resumé look longer) and the fact I was the personal assistant to a major Hollywood star (I’m not allowed to disclose Brandon’s name because of our confidentially agreement), and include a headshot. Rejection after rejection. Disheartened, I’m about to give up when I get an invitation to audition for one of Hollywood’s most prestigious institutions. The Bella Stadler Academy of Acting!

My audition is on a Saturday. I wake up bright and early, shower, and dress. I choose simple jeans, sneakers, and a short sleeve crew-neck tee. My online research told me to dress conservatively and to
not
wear a skirt (my first choice) to avoid the possibility of pulling a Sharon Stone in
Basic Instinct
. Nope, that wouldn’t look too good, especially with my thighs. With the monologue I’ve chosen in a manila folder, I head over to the Academy which is located off Hollywood Boulevard, a mere ten minutes from my house. I have the lines memorized, but go over them in my head during the drive. My heart gallops with both anticipation and apprehension.
Lead your dreams and land them
. I so want to be accepted.

What I didn’t count on was the lack of parking spots and the congested traffic due to construction on every corner. The Bella Stadler Academy of Acting doesn’t come with valet parking. Every nearby meter is taken. Crap. The last thing I want is to be late for my audition. Anxiety pulses through me. Finally, after circling the school three times in stop and go traffic, I eye a van pulling out of a spot a few blocks away. I whip into it and fly out of my Mini, running to my destination so I won’t miss my audition. Somewhere between Yucca and Las Palmas, a rather shady area populated by drug dealers and addicts, I realize I’ve left my monologue in the car. Shit. I’ll have to live without it. There’s no time to go back for it.

The Bella Stadler Academy of Acting is a narrow, non-descript two-story red brick building sandwiched between a Greek yogurt joint and a deli in the middle of Las Palmas. You’d never know it was a prestigious acting school except by the name of the school on the marquis and the fact that there’s a long line of hopefuls that look my age lined up outside, all studying their monologues. Breathlessly, I survey them and a ball of intimidation curls in my gut. Everyone looks so Hollywood beautiful and stylish. Of course, no guy comes close to Brandon, but the girls are all tall, bronzed, wafer thin want-to-be starlets with lustrous manes that look like they belong in a L’Oréal commercial. Katrinas. My skin bristles at the thought of her. Maybe I should have dressed up more and worn something different. Going back home, however, is not an option.

“Um, uh, excuse me,” I ask a stunning Emma Stone lookalike, who has her nose buried in her audition piece. “What do I do?”

Shooting me a dirty look for breaking her concentration, she tells me I need to go inside and sign in at the reception desk. And then get in line. Her voice is as cold as dry ice. She immediately returns her attention to her audition piece. I check in and then head to the end of the line. I breathe in the intensely competitive air.

Finally, after almost two hours of waiting in the rising heat, it’s my turn. Butterflies flutter in my stomach and my heart’s racing.
You can do this, Zoey!
I’ve practiced my monologue a gazillion times, both aloud and in my head. I’ve got it down pat. The receptionist, a jovial effeminate man, tells me to head down the long corridor to Audition Room 3. My heart thumping, I take anxious steps until I’m there. I turn the doorknob, feeling like I’m about to jump out of a plane. Oh, please God, don’t let me forget to pull the chord of my parachute. I’ve got to make it through this and score a landing.

The high-ceiling audition room is a mini-theater, with a small stage and several rows of vintage, ruby-red velvet theater chairs facing it. A shocking, familiar throaty voice greets me as I take in my surroundings.

“Well, Miss Hart, I certainly hope you can do a lot better than the dilettantes I’ve seen thus far,” she huffs, scanning my pathetic resumé.

Oh my God! It’s legendary Bella Stadler herself! Brandon’s mentor! The beautiful woman I met at the Joshua Tree spa. She turns her head and my gaze meets hers. She’s seated in her wheelchair in an aisle at the end of the front row. Her crinkly, gray eyes sparkle at the sight of me. Instant recognition.