He studies my face, his expression unreadable. “And can I ask if everything is all right now? Are you all right? Should I be worried?” He indicates my face.
I had almost forgotten how I must look to him. A pale Englishwoman covered in bruises and cuts telling him everything is just peachy.
“I wasn’t fine. But I am now, it’s all…resolved. None of it should be a problem anymore,” I reassure him gently. Because Marla and Emily are gone and in a few hours I will be too. I choose my next words carefully. “I’ve told the police about it. It’s all in their hands now. Nothing more for me to do.” Nick’s concern returns at the mention of police, so I reach for the first almost-truth I can find to reassure him. “It was just an overzealous stalker, you know, so. But nothing happened to me. I’m fine. No one got shot.” I offer a muted smile. “I’m sorry, Nick,” I repeat sincerely.
“Ah,” he says, that narrative seeming to make sense to him given the little he knows. “No. I’m sorry you thought you had to go through this whole thing alone. You’re all right now?” Another wave of guilt washes through me as I continue to tell lies by omission.
“Yes, I’m fine,” I say, waving away the evidence clearly visible on my bruised face. “The car crash was me. I mean…it was entirely my fault. I just wasn’t concentrating. And I knew there had been a problem with the car earlier but there’s just been too much going on out here. I wasn’t focusing. I’d just been to see her. I’d left her and I—” I break off as the image of her falling from me flashes through my mind. In a way I’m telling him the truth although hopefully my confession sounds more like a tired driver blaming herself for a car accident than anything else. I change tack, moving from facts to feelings because at least I don’t have to lie about those. “I need to go home. It’s been too much, out here. After Eyre everything’s just been crazy. And then George. And here I am—” I catch Nick’s subtle flinch at the mention of George’s name. It’s the first time I’ve mentioned the breakup though I’m absolutely certain he’s seen the photos of George with Naomi in the tabloids by now. I bluster on. “I was trying to run away from things, not just George but all of it, being alone, that life I was left with, like if I could just keep busy enough everything would be okay. I think I kept myself a little too busy. And now I just need to go home, you know. To cry, to settle, to get over him and heal properly—I really like you, Nick. I’m sorry it happened this way. I’m sorry this situation got so fucked up. I’m sorry I’m so fucked up.”
“Hey. Listen. This is Hollywood,” he counters, a slow smile building, “you’re going to have to trust me when I say you’re not the craziest person I’ve ever met, Mia. Hell, you’re not even the craziest person I’ve kissed.”
I laugh in spite of myself, my face pinching tight.
Emboldened he continues, “When you’re ready. When you’re back home and you’re thriving and happy and healed. When you want. Can I see you again? Back in London?”
My already haywire emotions reel off in every direction. It takes all of my willpower to hold it together. To hide my surprise, my happiness, my relief that I haven’t ruined whatever this is. He still likes me. Trusts me. Wants to see me. Even though he knows something very strange has happened, and he knows I’m weird and a bit broken, and that there are certain things about me that I can’t tell him just yet—somehow, somehow, he still likes me.
He mistakes my silence for something else and keeps talking.
“However stupid it sounds, I’ve genuinely never met anyone like you, Mia. You’ve got this rock-solid core, this strength inside you. People can see it. You know yourself. Do you know how rare that is? It’s something special.” He shakes his head, trying to find the words. “And whatever’s been going on. I know you’d tell me if telling me was important. Maybe I’m naive, or delusional, maybe, but I trust you that you know what you’re doing. You’ve got a good head on your shoulders. It’s funny, with you I always feel like we’re working toward something together, does that make sense? Like we’re always just picking up the same long conversation we’ve been having since we met—” He breaks off, suddenly self-conscious.