Chapter 16

Chapter Sixteen

Tallula

S till shaken up by the reckless driver, I head toward Mara's house but then double back because her hands are full. I don't have to add my problems to her plate. No, the woman needs a jumbo platter for everything she has going on. I don't know how she does it all.

I don't have any other friends to call or reach out to. If anyone is wondering, yep, it's lonely at the top. Not that I'm very high up, but I guess this results from always playing a role and never quite being myself. I didn't discern that my friends were fake like everything else in my life and now I'm alone.

Except for Moink. She makes good company, but on a chilly night, she needs me to keep her warm. I give her an assuring pet, relieved now that the car isn't following us.

Maneuvering back onto the road, I may as well head back to Pigs in a Blanket. Maybe Thelma is awake. She'll likely listen to my tale of woe-is-me if not to offer consolation. It'll also give her an arsenal of material to chat about at the salon tomorrow.

When I turn off Metairie Road and onto Main Street, the lights of the Coffee Loft sign glow invitingly. Betsy wasn't wrong, I do stash an extra beignet bun just in case someone special comes in who is having a bad day, celebrating something...or Jesse.

Yes, fine. I save a jumbo beignet bun for Jesse.

Or, in this instance, me.

Parking in front, I crack the window so Moink has fresh air. It's a crisp night, so I tuck her blanket around her safety seat, assuring her I'll be right back. Then I hurry inside.

The comforting scent of coffee and the lingering sweet, buttery, cinnamon in the air is a wonderful combination. My nerves settle slightly.

Before I go to the drawer where I stashed my beignet bun, I notice one of the bulbs on the string of orange and white lights that's part of our festive autumn décor is out. I wiggle it and it glows back to life. Jesse helped me hang them. He may have been judging my parents' house, but I've never had the sense he looks down on me because of where I came from or who I am—not even when he calls me princess. A rosy warmth dusts my cheeks. Maybe he thinks of me as his princess. With a little bounce in my step, I rather like that idea.

As for my princess treasure, I'm flat broke and will likely be in debt when I shell out the money to restore my parents' lawn, clean the fountain, and repaint the front door.

From outside, the screech of tires reminds me why I stopped in here. My chest tightens and I tell myself the driver was probably just a drunk who was lost. Hopefully, the police SUV caught up with them and they're off the road so they don't harm anyone or themselves.

I grab the beignet bun from my secret stashing spot and walk past the autumn display, wishing there was fall music like there's Christmas music. I know a composer who works in the film industry. I'll make the suggestion. We should have popular songs for all seasons.

Thinking about what kind of song one of Betsy's gnomes would sing, I lock up the coffee loft.

From behind, a male voice slurs, "There you are."

I jump and whirl around.

Peter stands a few paces away. He looks ragged like he could use a day at the spa.

"Here I am? What are you doing here?" I ask.

"I'm here to bring you home."

Looking from side to side, I blurt, "I am home. Well, not here. This is where I work. I'm staying at Pigs in a Blanket." As soon as these words are out, I realize how Podunk they sound. How very country bumpkin—everything I tried to escape. And that I shouldn't have told him where I live.

Like fall leaves dancing through the sky, finding a place to land, I realize maybe I wasn't wrong. Perhaps this is home. Hollywood and Peter certainly are not .

He glowers and his hands form fists. I slip to the side, nearly falling into a wax myrtle bush.

"Why haven't you been returning my calls or texts?"

"Because I have nothing to say to you."

"You. Are. Coming. With. Me," he thunders as if channeling the Donny Wicks character when confronting an enemy.

"No. I'm. Not," I say, echoing him.

He reaches for my arm and I snatch it away.

"Now, Llula. I'm not playing games."

"Don't call me that. My name is Tallula. And wasn't it all a game, anyway?"

"You want to talk about games? Your little escapades around town with all my stuff were real fun, huh?"

"What has gotten into you?"

His nostrils flare. "The director cut me from the Donny Wicks role."

"I'm sorry to hear that, but what does it have to do with me?"

"He said my personal life was a liability."

"That's not my problem."

"If I can show him we're still together, then I can get my spot back. That's my role, Llula."

"It's Tallula. You decided we weren't together when you chose not to inform me that our marriage license paperwork wasn't filed correctly. When it turned into a sham."

As if inflamed by my comment, he lunges at me. I'm half in a bush and don't have a weapon, so I throw the beignet bun at his head .

At the same time, sirens wail and three police cruisers light up the night.

Peter wavers slightly on his feet. My old BMW is half on the sidewalk. I don't smell alcohol, so I'm guessing he drove all the way here from Los Angeles and hasn't slept much.

Jesse and the other deputies rush toward us.

Peter, nearly cornered says, "This is your last chance, Llula. Come home with me so I can have my career back."

"Do not threaten her," Jesse says in a steely tone.

Peter takes a swing at him. Jesse doesn't waver as the other officers restrain my ex. I can't help but feel like I'm on a movie set, except this is real life.

"Llula, you're making a mistake. You're finished. Done. Washed up."

Shaking my head, I stand my ground, "Your argument isn't very compelling, Peter. And don't call me Llula. My name is Tallula," I repeat.

Two of the police officers arrest him.

Ignoring them, Peter doesn't give up. "So, you just want to stew in this little nothing, nowhere town? Turns out you fit right in."

"It's called real life. You should try it sometime."

"Real life, blah, blah, blah," he says in a mocking tone then lists all the roles I didn't get, shining a spotlight on my shortcomings.

I have a stark realization that my Hollywood world collides with my new small-town reality. I want to play the strong female character, but Peter does a good job of making me feel insignificant. I shrink as his eyes rove over my body as if he's looking for my weakness, the chink in my armor.

Scoffing, he says, "Leave LA and it looks like you had a make-under."

"Yeah, a real glow down. No need to rub it in," I mutter. My insecurities flood back. I was trying to be strong. To say what Mara would've—like I was playing the role of a confident woman.

But this is real life and I'm nothing special.

Jesse angles himself between Peter and me even though he's now in handcuffs. I catch snatches of the reasons for the arrest listed by another deputy. Reckless driving, destruction of public property, endangerment, assault against a police officer, and car theft.

That's quite a rap sheet, and he's not even playing Donny Wicks.

Is Peter part of the Bling Ring? No, he couldn't be.

Jesse bellows, "Do not speak to Tallula that way. Show some respect." Turning to me, he says, "Go home, Princess."

Peter spits, "I knew you were cheating on me."

"I was not. You cheated on me." With five women, it turns out.

"Then how do you two know each other?" Peter asks as the officers cart him away.

Glancing at Jesse, I say, "We were in detention together once."

"In jail? I knew she was a criminal. She robbed me of everything I'm worth. You'll be hearing from my lawyers." Peter's voice fades as he's put into the back of the police car.

I could argue that I let him keep everything except one credit card so I could get home, but it's not worth it. Though, there's that word again. Home. Is Hogwash home?

My mind doesn't want it to be, but my heart beats out a different tune.

"What a creep. That guy is delusional," Jesse says, seething.

Turning to Jesse I said, "Thank you for coming to my rescue."

Turning his sideways smile on me, he says, "Looks like the beignet bun saved the day."

"It just stunned him. You were the real hero. Thank you and sorry to have dragged you into my messy life. Wish I could say this is a movie."

The corner of Jesse's eyes crinkle. "Nah, I prefer the real thing. And I'd like to say that I was just doing my job, but that's not the whole story."

I lift my gaze to his, wondering just what that is.

"If you don't mind me wading into your mess, as you called it, or if you want to get it cleaned up a bit and find some room for a guy who likes tea, you know where to find me. I'm not going anywhere."

My internal heart "like" icon flashes red and warmth floods me. My lips part but words don't form. I'm afraid of what this could mean.

With a respectful tip of his hat and a sparkle in his eyes, Jesse goes back to work.

I can't help but wonder whether Jesse meant he likes tea, as in the beverage, or something else. T, as in me.