Wildest Dreams

7. Kendall

KENDALL

I clearly bumped my head and entered into some kind of twilight zone alternate universe. This really is a date.

“Why would you want to go out with me?” I blurt without thinking. I want to be charming, but I have no game. Like, at all.

He makes a face like he’s taken aback.

“I’m sorry,” I continue. “I mean, wouldn’t you rather hang out with someone like Marina Breton?”

“Absolutely not.” He shakes his head and laughs.

“But she’s perfect. I’m just…I don’t know.”

“Marina is crazy. There’s not a nice way to put it. I worked with her before and to say she was difficult is an understatement. She’s fake, self-absorbed, and obsessed with her image and career. I’d much rather hang out with you. You’re everything she’s not.”

I blush. “I’m sorry,” I say again. “I’m not good with compliments.”

“And you apologize too much.”

“Oh. I didn’t realize. I’m so—” He laughs as I catch myself. “You’re right.”

We each take another sip of our beer. I’m not normally a big drinker, but I’m taking gulps for the liquid courage. The after-work crowd is slowly trickling in, and people are staring at us as murmurs fill the room about the movie star in the back corner.

“Have you always lived in Bel Air?” I ask him.

“No. I grew up in LA, but it wasn’t close to Bel Air by any means. I had a single mom. She was a teacher, so she had a decent job, but we still struggled. We lived in an apartment in a sketchy neighborhood.”

I nod, picking at my nails under the table. I’m trying to act normal but I’m too nervous. “Is Pierre your real name? It sounds very French for a boy from Cali.” Now all I can think about is how he said Marina Breton is contrived, and I can’t help but feel like my tone has an artificial lilt. I keep telling myself to act normal, but I’m not sure I know how.

“No,” he says. “My mom was a total Francophile. She was a French teacher, actually. Our whole apartment was covered in cheap Eiffel Tower art she’d find at flea markets and craft stores. She came with me to the Cannes Film Festival the year before she died, and afterwards I took her to Paris for a week. It was her only trip to France and ended up being the best vacation of my life.”

His eyes mist as he clears his throat and looks out the windows towards the river. My heart melts. I’m surprised by how open he is. When we were married, Tucker was a closed book, his emotions locked in a safe, no key, at the bottom of the ocean. In fact, I don’t know any guys who are this transparent. Everything he’s thinking and feeling is written all over his face. It’s refreshing.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“There you go apologizing again.”

I half-laugh, half-sigh. “No, I mean about your mom.”

“Thank you. I miss her.”

He puts his drink down and leans back in his chair. I feel like I should change the subject. Dead mother is heavy topic for a first date—if this is a date. I’m still not entirely sure what’s happening right now.

“How did you get your start acting?” I twirl my glass nervously on the table, then catch myself and stop. I hate that I’m this fidgety.

“I was outgoing and everyone thought I was a cute kid, so Mom got me an agent and pushed me into it early on. I’ve been stuck ever since.”

I’m surprised by choice of words. He’s living a life most people would kill for. “Stuck? You don’t like it?”

“I like the craft,” he says, his eyes narrowing at the word craft . “I don’t like being a celebrity.”

“If you weren’t an actor, what would you do?”

He lifts his eyebrows. “Write a novel. Build furniture. Run an animal rescue. There are a lot of other things I could do. I’d like to just be for a while.” He takes another sip of his drink and looks off into space for second. “I do love dogs, though. That’s the first thing I’d do if I quit acting. If I had a whole pack of them running around my house, I’d be perfectly happy.”

“Do you have one now?”

“No, I’m too busy bouncing from project to project. It would end up being my assistant’s dog, and she’s a cat person.”

I’m picturing him rolling around in a field of wildflowers with about six golden retrievers and it’s the most adorable image. I sigh.

“If you hate it so much, why don’t you quit?” I ask.

“You mean get out of acting?” He kind of chuckles like I’ve lost my mind.

“Sure! It’s been done. Didn’t Doris Day do exactly the same thing? Quit Hollywood to rescue animals? Taylor Swift has a song about it.”

“I think she did, actually. It’s tempting. It’s just not easy when acting is all I’ve ever known. All of my friends are in the industry. I’m at the height of my career. Besides, if I changed my mind after the fact, I’d be screwed. Once you leave, it’s hard to break back in. People would think I’m nuts.”

“Maybe they’d be jealous.” I attempt a flirty tone, but I’m pretty sure I sound ridiculous.

He laughs. “Yeah, maybe.” He fingers his glass, wiping the sweat from the sides. “What about you? What’s your life story?”

I squirm in my seat. My life story is a failed marriage and a sad existence in a studio apartment watching murder shows. I’m not sure how to answer this question without killing the mood.

Then, as if on cue, I look up and see Tucker. He’s glaring right at me. I feel the blood drain from my face and my stomach ties itself in knots. I think I’m going to puke.

Pierre puts his hand on mine. “Are you okay?” he asks.

I snap out of it, realizing I had gone silent long enough to make it weird. “I’m sorry,” I said.

“Again with the apologies.” He smiles and it makes me laugh.

Well, if Pierre can be transparent with his wounds, I guess I can too. “You want to know my story? He just walked in.”

Pierre turns around and sees Tucker, who is standing behind a high-top table, completely unashamed of the fact that he’s staring at us with confusion and shock. No doubt Calista told him who my mystery man is as soon as he walked up to the bar. Part of me wants to run away. The other part is smug. I’m here with Pierre f-ing Chatham, as Patsy would say.

“The guy with the Dave Matthews shirt?” he asks.

“Yep. That’s my ex-husband.”

Pierre turns again as Whitney approaches Tucker and puts her arms around him. He nods in our direction and she sees me at the table with Pierre. If it weren’t for her cheap spray tan, the color would be draining from her face.

“And that’s the girl he left me for.”

Pierre smirks and looks back to me. “That guy? Really?” He shakes his head. “That’s a guy who peaked in high school and that girl reeks of desperation.”

I laugh. He’s right. Tucker has definitely seen better days. He’s weathered, and not in a sexy way. While he’s not overweight, he somehow looks bloated all the time. As far as Whitney is concerned… yeah. Pierre is right. Fake lashes, fake boobs, hair extensions, acrylic nails. The only thing real on her is the massive diamond on her left hand.

“Any guy who will go for a girl like that doesn’t deserve you.”

Pierre and I lock eyes for a long moment. For the first time in years, or maybe ever, I feel seen. Really, truly, honestly seen in a way that makes me excited and nervous. Like his eyes reach into my soul and strip me of my armor. I’ve known him for three days and it suddenly feels like a lifetime. I shudder and snap myself out of it.

“Well, it’s over now,” I say quietly, then clear my throat.

“Glad to hear it.”

I take another long sip of beer to finish it off.

“Another?” Pierre asks.

I nod.

When he gets up, I take the opportunity to truly absorb how dreamy he is. His hair is perfectly tousled, like he cares but not too much. He has olive skin that sets off eyes the color of the Gulf of Mexico. He looks like he stepped out of old Hollywood. It’s easy to understand why he’s a movie star. He’s almost too perfect.

Before he can get to the bar, he’s stopped by some girls who want selfies. He gracefully obliges, then gets our beer from Calista. Tucker and Whitney look incessantly from Pierre to me and back again, and though I try to ignore it, I really want to laugh.

Patsy would be loving this if she was here now.