And the moment to approach him is lost when I hear him mutter again. “Pick up the fucking phone.” I can hear his feet pacing on the wooden floors. Ten steps, then a pause, and then ten steps back.
His voice is muffled when he speaks next. I think he says a name but wherever he’s paced to, I can’t hear it clearly. And there’s something deep, down inside of me that suddenly is dreading whatever is going on.
“Haven’t you caused enough trouble?” His anger is palpable. The threat so apparent that I feel sorry for whoever is on the other end of the phone. His chuckle is a mixture of sarcasm and fury. “The charade’s over. I’m not doing this anymore . . . No. That’s bullshit and you know it . . . I was trying to be the nice guy. Trying to help you out. Help you save face at my expense . . . And you know what? I’m so done. So over your constant crap to feed your need for attention. I turn my phone off for a few days and when I don’t respond, you pull this bullshit? Fuck the money. Fuck the movie . . . My image? I don’t give a shit about my image. I wouldn’t have agreed to this if I had. But you know what? I care about hers. And everything else about her . . . No. You used her. Just like you’ve used me. But you used her without asking. Without thinking about how your little slip of the tongue to save yourself from the heat was going to fuck her over. You threw her into the goddamn fire to save your selfish self.”
His voice escalates in pitch, in anger, in exasperation, with each and every word he speaks and all I can do is stand against the wall where I’ve moved into the hall and wait. I hope Hayes hasn’t missed something major to do with a movie or a premiere or whatever the hell actors worry about while being here.
And yet at the same time, intuition tells me this conversation has something to do with me. I’m not sure how that’s even possible and yet I do.
“Well it backfired. Big time . . . You did it without permission. You leaked the comment. Let people assume what they wanted and you never once thought about anyone but you. Fucking typical, now isn’t it? Must have not been getting enough attention and so you went and . . . NO!” His voice thunders into the house, echoing off the floors and down the hallway. “I loved you, Jenna. But this? This is why I’m over you. Why I’m done selling my soul to keep your secrets and fuck my life up in the process. Fuck the non-disclosure. Let them pull it. Let them sue me. See if I care . . .”
Hayes keeps speaking but I don’t hear any of it because all I keep hearing is I love you, Jenna. Or was it loved? The phrase repeats over and over and over in my head. Those three words he didn’t say to me.
I love you, Jenna.
But he did to her.
My feet move on their own. My heart so full it was ready to burst ten minutes ago now feeling like it will implode.
Rage like I’ve never felt before pounds through my veins. Not since that night on the Schilling farm when I saw Danny Middleton forcing himself on Saylor have I been this livid.
It all comes back to Saylor, doesn’t it?
Jenna drones on in my ear yet I don’t hear her bullshit. Can’t listen to another one of her endless self-serving lies. It’s amazing how she used to mean something to me.
And now she means nothing. Nothing except the reason Saylor may walk the other way.
And to think I’m the dumb-shit who went along with this idea. Signed the damn NDA and got roped into her bullshit. But in the end, none of it fucking matters because she screwed me anyway.
“I had to do it. There was press snooping around and so I threw them a few hints to throw them off.”
A few hints? More like Here’s Saylor. She’s the homewrecker, served on a goddamn platter.
“I loved you, Jenna. But this? This is why I’m over you. Why I’m done selling my soul to keep your secrets and fuck my life up in the process.”
“You can’t mean that.” Panic fills her voice. “What about my dad? What about the film? You signed a—”
“Fuck the non-disclosure. Let them pull it. Let them sue me. See if I care.” I pace the room, free hand pulling down on the back of my neck as my mind reels an endless loop.
“NO! Please, I can’t fix it but I’ll make it up to you . . .”
When I turn to pace back toward the kitchen, I come face to face with Saylor. Her hair is piled on top of her head, her pink lips are parted, and her cheeks flushed.
But her eyes are swimming with an ocean of hurt.
Oh, fuck. She knows.
“Saylor.” I throw my phone onto the counter without a thought to Jenna still spewing her bullshit excuses.
“I love you, Jenna?”
Fuck me. Of all the things I said, it’s par for the course she heard that one the loudest. She’s most likely already made it to be something other than how I meant it. And before I can even answer her unspoken question, her shoulders have squared. She’s on the defensive.