Wildest Dreams

17. Kendall

KENDALL

D inner is wonderful once I get my little meltdown out of my system. I honestly don’t know why he’s putting up with me. I’m all over the place.

We leave the steakhouse and decide to go to Cattywampus. I thought about going back to my apartment, but I know where that will lead and I don’t know if I’m ready.

The walk to the brewery is heaven. The sun has gone down, the stars are out, and a warm June breeze is blowing over the river and into town.

Our table in the back corner is taken, as are all the rocking chairs on the porch. We settle at a high top in the middle of the huge room. I’ve never seen it this packed, especially with so many people I don’t recognize.

“A lot of the crew is here,” says Pierre after he orders our beers and meets me at the table. “Pussycat Blonde for you, Swamp Ass Stout for me.”

“Thank you.” I take a sip of my beer, wiping the foam from my upper lip. “I figured they were mostly movie people,” I say, looking around the room. “There are only a few faces I recognize.” Of course, two of the faces I do know are Tucker and Whitney.

Pierre spots them at the same time. “Do they ever leave?”

I chuckle. “I guess not. Honestly, I never come here unless I’m dropping off some tax stuff for the owner.”

“Oh well,” he says. “Don’t let them bother you. At least Marina isn’t here.”

“Yes, that would be…” I don’t have words for how uncomfortable that would be, so I simply make a face. She’s a model. Or was, anyway. I certainly am not. Never have been. Not even close.

For the next hour, we drink our beers, exchange stories from our childhood, and he tells me about his upcoming projects and all the new movies he wants to see, many starring his friends. He name-drops in such a casual way that I know he’s not doing it to be self-important, which only reminds me of our drastically different realities. He goes to catered parties at Jennifer Aniston’s house. The parties I’m used to involve a barn and a bonfire.

A few locals interrupt us while we talk to take selfies with Pierre, but for the most part everyone is polite and leaves him alone once they get their shot. He’s gracious and polite with each person, making sure to ask their names and tell them how happy he is to meet them. It must get old, but he doesn’t show it.

Then the inevitable happens.

Pierre is mid-sentence, telling me a story about doing his own stunt work in an action movie years ago, when all the color drains from his face. “Shit,” he says. “One of the crew members must’ve texted her.”

I know who he’s talking about before I even turn around.

Marina Breton. Former Victoria’s Secret angel. Cover of Vogue. Red carpet queen. Movie star. She may as well be seven feet tall. All legs in her beige miniskirt, flawless dark skin, hair flowing like she’s fresh from a high-end salon, and teeth white enough to blind the sun.

Her face lights up when she sees Pierre. She waves like he was expecting her. He immediately tenses up and looks around, aware of the fact that her dominating presence has drawn more attention to our table. He clears his throat and rubs his hands nervously on his thighs.

“Pierre!” she says as she gets to our table. She says it like we were expecting her, then tries to hug him. He looks stunned, instead awkwardly patting her on the back.

“What are you doing here?” he asks.

“I heard everyone from set is hanging out tonight. Of course I had to be here.” She scoots one of the barstools close to him and sits down at our table. She’s closer to him than I am. He moves his chair towards me.

“I’m in the middle of a date here, Marina.”

Not once does she look at me or acknowledge that I’m here. Even with him pointing out he is here with me, she pretends I don’t exist.

“God, I can’t wait to get back to California. The food here is awful. Not to mention the mosquitoes. I swear I’ll be eaten alive by the time this shoot wraps. I’m surprised we don’t all have yellow fever.”

“Marina—” Pierre is agitated, but obviously trying not to make a scene.

“I think our reunion scene went well today,” she says. “We have such good chemistry, don’t we, babe?”

She puts her hand on his arm and rubs his skin with her fingertips. He pulls away, holding my hand under the table and squeezing.

“No, I don’t think we do,” he says.

She laughs, maniacally, like a hungry monkey.

“You’re such a tease, Pierre. Always have been. That’s what I love about you.” With that, she put her arms around him and nuzzles his face with the tip of her nose.

I release Pierre’s hand and scoot back. Everyone in the room is staring at us, a few with their phones out. This is bizarre to watch, but it’s also downright humiliating to be a part of.

I take the last long sip of my beer, put my phone in my purse, and leave the table.

“Kendall!” Pierre calls as I walk away. He’s right behind me, but I don’t stop until I get to the door.

“I can’t apologize enough,” he says. “Let me close my tab and we’ll get out of here.”

I nod, then walk outside to wait. There’s a group of guys I recognize from high school sitting by the front door. Of course, they’re all chatting about Marina and how hot she is. They each talk themselves up, like they’re going to go ask her out, but none of them even leave the table. I roll my eyes. So typical.

Finally, Pierre comes outside. He takes my hand, which I accept, and we walk back to my apartment in silence.

“I wanted tonight to end differently,” he says, stopping at the door to my office. He faces me and puts his hands on my bare, crossed arms, rubbing them up and down.

I look down. “It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not.”

My gaze meets his. The streetlight behind me is reflected in his eyes, and he looks more handsome than ever. I wish I didn’t like him this much. During the whole walk from Cattywampus, I try to convince myself he needs someone like Marina, that I should end it and move on with my boring little life while he lives his big, fabulous celebrity life.

I’m ready to say good night, but one intense look from him draws me back in and, before I know it, I invite him inside for a drink.

“I’d love that,” he says, following me up the stairs.

I put my purse on an end table while he retrieves my wine glasses from above the stove. I only have one bottle, so I open it and pour us each a glass. We sit on the couch and I turn on the television, which is showing Friends reruns. I leave it there and sit back, leaning against Pierre. He puts his arm around me and I snuggle in closer, listening to his heartbeat.

After we finish our wine, he asks if I want him to go.

“No,” I say. “But if you stay, we keep our clothes on. I’m not ready for all that yet.”

Yet . The word slips past my lips before I realize the implication. If he catches it, he doesn’t say anything.

Instead, he simply nods. After watching a few more Friends episodes, we make our way to the bed and I fall asleep in his arms. It’s the first time I’ve shared a bed with someone since before I knew Tucker was cheating on me.

It’s also the first time since then that I’ve slept through the night.