Wildest Dreams

31. Kendall

KENDALL

M onths go by, and I still feel the void left by Pierre as acutely as I did in the days after he left.

I still haven’t talked to him. What’s the point? It would keep these feelings lingering for even longer than they already are. He’s probably moved on to another movie in another town with some beautiful starlet who will be comfortable going to parties with him at Jennifer Aniston’s house.

I avoid social media completely on the off-chance a gossip site will post a photo of him. If I see him right now, my heart will break into a million pieces.

So, I focus on me. I read romance novels. I watch murder shows. I hang out with my girlfriends and go to Patsy’s kids’ soccer games. I even take a few trips to Florida to see my parents, which always turns into me dodging questions about Pierre.

The holidays approach and Patsy decorates the office with a Christmas tree. I even put one up at my house, along with some porcelain snowmen and lights along the front porch rail.

The day before I’m set to leave for my parents’ house to celebrate the holidays with them, Patsy comes into my office. She’s wearing a Santa hat with a red and white striped dress and is holding her phone.

“I know we don’t talk about Pierre,” she says, “which is weird, but I thought this was sweet and wanted to make sure you see it.”

“What?” I ask, and she hands me her phone. It’s a celebrity gossip column site—all bright colors, sensational headlines, and the most unflattering photos of famous people they can find. It’s trashy, several notches below TMZ. “What am I looking at?”

“You don’t see the headline at the top?”

WTF IS A CATTYWAMPUS?!?!?!?

I burst out laughing and click on it. It’s photo after photo of Pierre out and about wearing the Cattywampus t-shirt I gave him. There are shots of him grocery shopping, shots of him on Jimmy Kimmel’s couch, shots of him in a director’s chair with a movie poster behind him, all wearing that shirt.

The article is, of course, ridiculous. They’re speculating on what it means and whether it’s some kind of cry for help from the notoriously private Pierre Chatham. They wonder if it’s a clothing line he’s starting, or a liquor brand.

“Does he not own any other clothes?” the article asks. “Perhaps he’s so devastated after the leak of the sex tape of Marina Breton with a certain rapper-turned-music-mogul he can no longer muster the strength to change his clothes. Only he knows, and he’s not talking.”

I laugh hard enough that my eyes well up with tears. “I didn’t know about Marina’s sex tape,” I say.

“Oh, honey. It’s been all over the news.”

“What news? Who cares about that?”

“By ‘news,’ I mean social media. Most people care more about that than they do the real news.”

“Sad but true.”

“Back to the point.”

“Which is?”

“Pierre is wearing the shirt you gave him all over LA. He doesn’t wear anything else. Have you talked to him?”

“No. His texts finally tapered off when I stopped responding.”

“He’s clearly thinking about you.”

“Maybe his laundry lady or whatever servant he has is on vacation.”

Patsy rolls her eyes. “You’re impossible, Kendall Abbey.”

She has a point. Maybe it is some sort of message. Pierre is thoughtful and intentional. He’s not going to grab a shirt off the floor and go to an interview on television. Maybe he does miss me.

I sit back down at my desk and lay my head on the hard wooden surface. All at once, I’m flooded with a desire to reach out to him.

This is bad. So bad.

* * *

T he holiday in Florida passes in a haze. Every moment I think of Pierre. I imagine him watching Elf in my parents’ living room, talking to my dad outside at the grill, opening presents with us and taking selfies by the tree. I miss him. It’s as simple as that.

I return to Magnolia Row a few days after Christmas. I dread New Year’s Eve, but at least I’m not getting pressure from anyone to go to a party. Patsy is hosting a swarm of little boys for a massive kids’ sleepover that night, and Micah and Sistine both want to stay in.

So, I stock my fridge with champagne and decide to spend the evening alone. Drunk.

I sip sip sip while flipping the channels back and forth between all the different New Year’s specials on cable. Before I know it, I’m two bottles in and it’s midnight.

I look at my phone. In the fog of too much bubbly, I pick it up, scroll until I find Pierre’s name, and send a text.

It’s midnight in Alabama. Wherever you are, I hope you’re having a wonderful New Year’s Eve.

As soon as I send it, I feel pathetic and want to crawl under the coffee table. I stand, stumble to my bedroom, and crash on top of my comforter, leaving my phone in the living room.