For years, I behaved as I was supposed to, and everything was perfectly fine. Now, in merely a few weeks, I’ve ruined everything. I’ve lost my home and forced Deiss to share his safe space. I’ve destroyed my reputation at work and made Mia and Booker uncomfortable by inserting myself into theirs. I’ve blown up our friend group. I’ve even lost my chance to collaborate with Zoe, which never would’ve happened if I hadn’t broken the pact like I’ve broken every other rule.
This plan of mine to live according to my own instincts has been a failure in every possible way. I have to stop. I’m not going to survive it if I don’t. None of us will.
“I’m so sorry.” I can feel the tears coming, but if I can keep them from breaching the surface, I know I can hide my desolation. “To both of you. I’ve betrayed your trust, and I don’t know how to make up for that. But I can start by moving out of the loft.”
Deiss’s face tightens. “Liv—”
“I heard from the manager of Bears in Captivity on Wednesday,” I say, cutting him off. “They’ve hired me to do their graphics, and I didn’t tell you. I didn’t think you’d want me to stay if I had other options. Because we both knew this was never going to last, didn’t we?”
I brace myself for one of his cavalier responses, but to my surprise, it doesn’t come. Instead, his chin tilts back like he’s taken a hit.
“Thank you for everything you’ve done for me,” I say. “It was a fun couple of weeks.” For Phoebe’s benefit, I add, “I’m sure our time together will only make our friendship stronger.”
Using every ounce of willpower I can muster, I stroll out of the shop and into the night.
CHAPTER 26
I spring for a room at an expensive hotel in Santa Monica while I’m looking for a new place to live. It’s a ridiculous decision, considering my accounts still haven’t been restored and my credit is limited to the one card the bank has issued to me, but it’s the kind of place the old Olivia would’ve been comfortable in, with white walls instead of the smorgasbord of colors that made up Deiss’s loft. It has a king-sized bed that I’ll sleep in alone.
I avoid the calls from the Bears in Captivity manager and return Marian Hammersmith’s call from when I was in St. Lulia. She sounds friendly, despite the fact that it’s taken me far too long to respond to her message. Rather than offering lunch again, she suggests I meet her in her office on Friday morning. Nervously, I agree.
When I go to buy new work clothes, I discover I no longer fit into my size. I stare at my body in the dressing room, trying to decide how many meals I’ll need to skip to get back into it. A prolonged juice fast will probably do it. But the longer I stand there, the harder it is to imagine a time when I liked my ribs poking through my skin. I look healthier now. My skin is glowing in a way I never was quite able to mimic with makeup. Resolutely, I ask the attendant to bring me the next size up. I leave with several options that will allow me to eat something other than a nutrition bar while wearing them.
I feel so elated on the walk back to the hotel that I change as soon as I get in and head back out for a run. It doesn’t feel the same without Deiss, though. I miss the sound of his steps next to me. I miss the way we’d get so wrapped up in a conversation that I’d be shocked when he’d slow in front of his building, thirty minutes gone in the blink of an eye.
Nights are difficult as well. As hard as I try to get my body back on its old schedule, it refuses to adjust. Nine o’clock hits, and it gets fidgety for decadent food and bad TV. My legs slide around the bed as I try to read, like they’re so used to tangling with Deiss’s that they can’t help searching for contact. When I turn out the light, I lie there, blinking in the darkness, unable to sleep.
It’s Thursday night that’s the worst, though. It’s the third Thursday of the month, and for the first time since we graduated seven years ago, my friends and I don’t meet up. Or maybe they’re out together somewhere, and they’ve just neglected to invite me. I haven’t heard from anyone since the concert Saturday night. Five of the longest days of my life.
I’ve texted Phoebe, telling her how sorry I am, but she hasn’t replied. I’ve texted Deiss, too—long, rambling messages full of apologies and declarations of love—but I haven’t sent them. I’m back on the rules, and they insist if a man wants to hear from you, he’ll reach out. And while my reading hasn’t unearthed any details on my particular situation, I can only trust that this includes the kind of scenario where you’ve outed a former child star and unleashed a torrent of amorous tweens on him.