23. Anthony

Chapter 23

Anthony

Considering Simone collapsed at a public event, it was no surprise that word spread like a wildfire. By the time we arrived at the hospital at a quarter to midnight, news vans swarmed and cameramen lurked outside the hospital entrance like circling vultures.

“Want to find a side entrance?” I asked as we approached the mob.

“This is fine,” Jesse said flatly. “They’ll move.”

They did move…closer to the car. Once someone caught a glimpse of Jesse, we were surrounded. They backed off enough to keep me from running over anyone’s feet, but a side mirror clipped a microphone, which didn’t seem to faze the reporter in the slightest. I didn’t guess Jesse was in the mood for jokes about the zombie apocalypse, but I swore these idiots reminded me of a pack of zombies pawing and groaning around a bunch of survivors. One glance at Jesse’s expressionless, ashen face, and I kept that comment to myself.

I slowed Ranya’s car to a stop in front of the emergency room entrance. Now that the car wasn’t moving, they were even more aggressive. I was surprised no one jumped up on the hood or something, the fuckers, and I wondered if we should have stayed in Malibu for the twenty or thirty minutes it would have taken for Jesse’s private security to join us.

No matter. We were here now.

Of course, the reporters backed off to allow us to open the car doors. After all, they couldn’t talk to Jesse through glass and steel. I got out first, handed the keys off to Ranya so she could park the car, and went around to Jesse’s side.

“Back off,” I barked at the gathered reporters. “Give the man some room.”

They took a collective half step—and that was being generous—back, and I opened Jesse’s door. As soon as he stepped out, the noise and activity around us intensified like a nest of pissed-off hornets. Cameras flashed and microphones waved and voices bombarded us, dozens of people shouting over each other to ask Jesse a million questions, but he ignored them. He ducked his head, and I put an arm around his shoulders—making it obvious I was shielding him, not being affectionate—as we hurried into the hospital.

As soon as we walked through the door, people noticed. Jesse’s face wasn’t hard to pick out of a crowd, and patients and staff alike whispered behind their hands. The triage nurse’s eyes widened, but bless her heart, she stayed professional and, after checking the computer, quickly directed Jesse to the next floor.

The triage nurse must have called upstairs, because when we stepped off the elevator, the doctor assigned to Simone was waiting for us .

“How is she?” Jesse asked, and I swore I could hear his heart pounding.

The doctor glanced at Simone’s chart. “She’s stable, but I’d like to keep her overnight for observation.”

The color drained from Jesse’s face. “How bad…I mean, what’s…” He closed his eyes and took a breath. “How bad is it?”

“She’s not in any apparent immediate danger,” the doctor said. “But she’s severely dehydrated and her blood pressure is quite low. Keeping her overnight is just a precaution.”

Jesse exhaled. “Can I see her?”

“Of course.”

“She’s asleep.” Dean’s voice broke in, turning all our heads. “She tried to stay awake until you got here, but…”

Jesse swallowed. “I won’t wake her then. She needs to rest. How was she feeling when she was awake?”

“Better.” Dean paused. “She…the fact that you were on your way helped.”

“Did it?” Jesse whispered.

Simone’s bodyguard nodded. “Seemed to make her feel better.”

Jesse exhaled. “Thanks. Listen, it’s late. You don’t have to stay. If you want to take the rest of the night—”

“I’d, um, I’d prefer to stay.”

“Are you sure?” Jesse gestured at the door. “The hospital has their own security to—”

The two men locked eyes. Neither spoke; neither moved.

Then Jesse nodded. “All right. I’ll make sure the night staff knows you’ll be staying.”

“Thank you,” Dean said quietly.

The doctor left to make his rounds, and Jesse asked the charge nurse to let us know when Simone was awake. In the meantime, we moved to the deserted waiting area at the end of the hall.

Jesse sank into a chair. He rested his elbows on his knees and let his face fall into his hands, and I thought he whispered a string of profanity into the mostly quiet room.

I held on to the armrest just to keep myself from putting a gentle hand between his shoulder blades. “You all right?” I asked. Christ, that sounded so useless and stupid.

“I don’t know. Fuck, I just don’t know. God, she’s run herself into the ground for a campaign for a man who’s going to leave her, and I didn’t even have the decency to be in the same city with her when she finally buckled.”

Dean shifted in his chair. His lips tightened into a thin, straight line, and he focused on the tank of tropical fish rather than looking at me or Jesse .

Footsteps and a familiar jingle came down the hall, and I looked up as Ranya stepped into the waiting area. She jumped when she saw Jesse, and looked at me.

“Is she—”

“She’s sleeping,” I said. “We’re just staying out here until she’s awake.”

“Oh.” Her shoulders dropped. “Good, good. And she’s doing all right?”

I nodded. “They’re keeping her overnight for observation.”

“That’s good.” Ranya took the chair on Jesse’s other side and put a hand on his shoulder. “Hey, you okay?”

Jesse nodded but didn’t speak.

“Come here.” She hugged him, and he sank against her. At least someone could offer him some physical comfort. Fuck, I had never felt so damned useless in all my life.

But what could I do?

Around five in the morning, after the four of us had each been through every magazine on every table, watched the fish swim hypnotic ovals around the tank, and channel-surfed a few hundred times just in case something interesting was on, a nurse appeared in the doorway.

“Mr. Cameron?”

Jesse had been nodding off but snapped to attention. “Yes?”

“Your wife is awake,” she said. “She’d like to see you.”

“Thank you.” Jesse stood. He and Dean exchanged another look, and when Jesse gave a slight nod, Dean rose too.

As the two of them followed the nurse to Simone’s room, I leaned back in my chair and exhaled. It hurt like hell not being able to be openly supportive in any capacity beyond Jesse’s campaign manager. I also didn’t want to rub anything in Simone’s face. Even if she’d given us her blessing, she didn’t need this right now, so I stayed out of her room and out of her sight. I probably shouldn’t have even stayed here; the campaign was still ongoing even if Jesse was here, and there were calls to make, polls to pore over, and staffers to be assigned to hundreds of tasks. Most of that could be done by phone or e-mail, though, and I couldn’t bring myself to leave. Maybe I couldn’t be openly supportive like I wanted to be, maybe I felt more useless than I ever had in my life, but I needed to be here .

Out of sheer boredom and frustration, I picked up the remote and clicked through the channels again. Big shock: Jesse and Simone were all over the news.

“ Simone Lancaster is said to be in satisfactory condition after her health scare at the Coastal Environmental Activists’s dinner last night and is expected to be released within the next twelve hours, ” an anchor said, and the screen shifted to footage of a worried Jesse striding into the hospital. “ Upon learning of his wife’s collapse last night, Jesse Cameron rushed from his home in Malibu to San Diego to be at his wife’s side and, for the time being, has canceled his appearances for the next seventy-two hours, including postponing the greatly anticipated interview with Patricia Barton. ”

The anchor appeared on the screen again. “ While those close to the couple have had little comment, dozens of questions have arisen. Is Simone’s collapse merely the result of exhaustion? Or is there more? Some say her recent extreme weight loss and notorious eating disorder are to blame. Others suspect a not-yet-announced pregnancy, even an undisclosed drug addiction. Still more speculate that the A-list actress, dissatisfied with playing a supporting role for her campaigning husband, may be seeking attention by— ”

I clicked off the television.

“Ugh, thank you,” Ranya muttered. “I don’t know how he lives with those people”—she gestured at the TV—“commenting on every move he makes.”

I shook my head. “No idea. I think I’d have committed a felony by now.”

She laughed. “Yeah, really.”

I drummed my fingers on the armrest. Glanced at the fish. At the magazines I’d already read. At the darkened television that promised either more mindless bullshit or speculation about Jesse and Simone. Fish. Magazines. Television. Couldn’t. Sit. Still.

“I need a smoke,” I said and damn near jumped out of my chair.

“Have one for me, will you?” Ranya called after me.

In spite of myself, I laughed and turned around just long enough to give her a thumbs-up. She smiled, then buried her attention in a magazine.

There was a terrace at the opposite end of the hall, and judging by the ashtrays and lack of NO SMOKING signs, tobacco wasn’t forbidden out here. Not that I gave a shit. I usually paid attention to antismoking laws, but today? Today anyone who told me not to smoke could go fuck themselves.

I fished the pack out of my pocket before I even reached the door, and by the time I’d stepped outside, I already had my lighter out, ready to bring the cigarette in my mouth to life.

I paced back and forth on the terrace, smoking and thinking, smoking and thinking. I made myself focus on the campaign. Calls I needed to make. Schedules that needed adjusting. Staffers who could be assigned to this or that task. Events coming up. Percentage points. Polls. Jesse. Jesse. Jesse.

Holding my cigarette between two fingers, I rubbed my forehead with the heel of my hand and blew out a stream of gray smoke. The nicotine was helping. Slowly. Barely. Not a hell of a lot. But at least I was doing something. Not that pacing and smoking were productive, but it beat the hell out of sitting and not smoking.

I crushed the exhausted cigarette butt in the ashtray and then pulled another from the pack, not even realizing what I was doing until the fresh one was in my hand. I paused, staring at the cigarette between my fingers. Did I give in and smoke it now? Or did I wait? Two in a row? There’d been an awful lot of that lately. As the distance shrank between now and November, there would be more moments like this, even in a normal campaign. And this wasn’t a normal campaign, was it?

Why did I even bother resisting? This election was going to drive me to chain-smoking. That was all there was to it. With as much as I had on my mind today and as little sleep as I’d had, I didn’t care, and I lit that cigarette the fuck up.

The door opened behind me. I glanced back in case it was Ranya, but to my surprise, it was Jesse. He had dark circles under his eyes, and his shoulders sagged. The campaign had worn him down just like it wore us all down, but today he was the very picture of stressed and exhausted.

“Hey,” I said.

“Hey.” He managed a weak smile. “Just needed some air.”

I held up my cigarette. “Same here.”

“Guess even that’s better than the air in there.” He gestured over his shoulder at the hospital.

“No shit.” I tapped the ashes in the ashtray. “How’s she doing?”

Jesse leaned on the railing, looking out at the garden below us instead of at me. “She’ll be fine. Just tired, dehydrated.” He pursed his lips. “They want to keep her for a few more hours. Maybe even one more night.”

“Why?”

He shrugged. “Observation. Make sure she’s recovering. Blood pressure. Money. Fuck if I know.”

I said nothing and took another drag off my cigarette. The fatigue must have been wearing on him if he couldn’t or wouldn’t quote the doctors verbatim; I was dead on my feet, so I could only imagine how exhausted he was.

“What about you?” I asked.

He looked at me. “Hmm?”

“Are you doing okay?”

He sighed and faced the garden again. “Yeah. I just…” Closing his eyes, he forced out a breath. “Fuck, I am so…”

“Jesse,” I said, keeping my voice low. “This isn’t your fault.”

“Isn’t it?” His tone held a mixture of pain and anger, and when he looked at me again, his eyes were wet.

“No, it isn’t,” I said, wishing we were someplace private so I could offer even the most basic platonic physical comfort.

“Yeah, well…” He trailed off, looking out at the scenery with unfocused eyes for a long moment. Then he cleared his throat. “Whatever the cause, she refuses to reduce her involvement in the campaign. I’ve tried to talk her out of it, but she won’t hear of it.”

“If it’s for her health, though… ”

He laughed dryly. “You try convincing her.” The weak humor in his expression dimmed. “She knows what caused this. She said when she came to, she knew exactly what had happened.”

“Eating disorder?”

Jesse winced and nodded. “The thing is, it’s spiraled out of control. Worse than it has in a long time. She is absolutely emphatic that we don’t give the media the opportunity to call her weak or accuse her of doing this to get out of being involved in the campaign, or for attention.”

I cringed and didn’t tell him they were already on top of that particular theory.

He rubbed his eyes. “She wants to get back out on the road with us as soon as the doctors give her the green light.”

“Okay, but wanting to bounce back like that is easier said than done.”

“You don’t know Simone,” he said. “Honestly, as much as it scares the hell out of me to have her doing anything in the near future, getting her back in the saddle is probably the best thing for her.”

I blinked. “Are you insane?”

“I know her,” he said quietly. “She needs to feel like she’s not being handled with kid gloves, or else that downward spiral is just going to continue.”

“Okay, but there is a time and a place for kid gloves.”

“Yeah, and that time and place is not when Simone is in this state of mind.”

I released a sharp breath. “Jesse, this isn’t—”

“I know my wife, damn it,” he snapped.

Our eyes met. He didn’t speak. I couldn’t.

I turned and crushed my cigarette in the ashtray with more force than was necessary.

Jesse tapped his fingers on the railing. “God. I’m sorry, Anthony. I didn’t—”

“Don’t worry about it.” I faced him. Before he could apologize again, I took a step toward him, barely resisting the urge to reach for his arm. “You’re stressed. More than you probably thought you would be on this campaign.”

He looked me in the eye. “I am, but I didn’t mean to imply—”

“You didn’t. It’s okay.” I glanced around. Certain we were alone, I put a hand on his shoulder, and that shoulder sagged beneath my touch.

Jesse closed his eyes and exhaled.

When he looked at me again, I nodded toward the building behind him. “Go be with Simone. She needs you.”

“Thanks,” he said, barely whispering. “And I’m sorry for what I said.”

“I know,” I said. “Don’t worry about it. ”

We held each other’s gazes for a moment. What I wouldn’t have given to be able to pull him into a gentle, reassuring kiss right then, but I couldn’t and it tore me up like he couldn’t possibly know.

Without another word, Jesse went inside to be with his wife.

As soon as the door shut behind him, I pulled out another cigarette.

Just as I suspected, in the days following Simone’s collapse and her release from the hospital, Jesse lunged into the lead in the polls. For the first time in my career, soaring approval ratings and spectacular poll results left me with a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. I questioned every percentage point Jesse gained, wondering if it was Simone’s ordeal that had given him that edge. And how much of that ordeal was a result of Jesse and me? Of course the campaign itself had taken its toll, but deep down I was sure Jesse and I had contributed to her condition more than either of us wanted to admit. More than even she would admit.

And just as Jesse said she would, Simone insisted on hitting the ground running after she was released. He’d persuaded the doctors to withhold the green light for at least a few days, but within a week, she was back in the public eye, carrying the torch for her husband. The media scrutinized everything about her, from her paleness to her obvious fatigue, but for the most part, people rallied around her.

As much as I’d been reluctant to agree to put her back on the tour schedule so quickly, Jesse was right: getting back in the saddle was good for her. Though she was still tired and more on the fragile side than I would have liked, every minute she spent visiting with voters and appearing by her husband’s side definitely raised her spirits. I was still careful to look over the schedules and make sure she didn’t overdo it, of course, but I wasn’t quite so inclined to panic if she was double or even triple booked.

And with the election coming up quickly, double and triple booking were the name of the game. I was exhausted; I couldn’t imagine how she felt.

After yet another gala dinner—God, those things got old—everyone retired to the hotel. I went to my room to go over polls and see what the media had to say, and Roger hovered over my shoulder while I checked the various new sites to keep up on the latest word on the street.

Video after video showed reporters speculating on the state of the Lancaster-Cameron marriage, on Simone’s health, and where Jesse stood in terms of public opinion. Overall things were looking good. There was no shortage of commentary on Simone’s eating disorder and the possibility of an underlying drug problem or unannounced pregnancy, but the couple had handled this situation well. His image as a devoted husband—which ate at his conscience and mine—had done nothing but good things to his numbers since her hospitalization.

“ Stress over his wife’s ill health and recent hospitalization have clearly taken their toll on Democratic front-runner Jesse Cameron, ” a news anchor said. “ The doting husband, upon being asked about Simone, was barely able to contain his emotions. ”

The screen switched to the clip of Jesse getting choked up during an interview he’d insisted on doing shortly after Simone was hospitalized. I didn’t think he was ready, not when he was emotionally raw and the particular interviewer had all the tact of a sleep-deprived wolverine, but he went ahead with it. And just as that interviewer always did, she needled at his wounds until he finally cracked, providing the perfect tug-at-the-heartstrings clip for newscasters to play over and over and over again:

“ My wife has always been good to me, ” Jesse said in the clip. “ I can’t imagine how anyone could think she would be the reason I’m passionate about anti-spousal abuse legislation. Not even… She’s always— ” He paused, dropping his gaze and swallowing hard. Then he looked at the camera, and his voice shook as he said, “ Simone has always been better to me than I deserve, better than I ever could have asked for. ”

The anchor reappeared. “ Polls have shown a dramatic uptick in Cameron’s already solid ratings, giving him a strong lead over GOP candidate John Casey. ”

“Ah, I had a feeling that would happen,” Roger said.

“Of course it did,” I muttered. “The people like Jesse better than Casey. Canceling appearances doesn’t always bode well for gaining favor from voters, but under the circumstances…”

“Precisely.” His tone gave me pause.

I looked up and searched his smug, knowing expression. “What exactly are you getting at, Roger?”

He chuckled. “Oh, come on now, Anthony. You remember when Donna was ill, don’t you?”

Something twisted beneath my ribs. “Of…course I do.”

“So I’m sure you remember what happened to the polls shortly after she took a turn for the worse.” He gestured at the screen. “Voters are nothing if not consistent.”

My heart dropped.

“Simone will handle it just fine,” Roger’s voice echoed in my ears. “You worry too much about her, son.”

“I know her,” Jesse had replied. “I don’t want this to stress her out more than it already has.”

“She’s a grown woman.” Roger made a dismissive gesture. “And besides, she’s used to red carpet events, meeting fans, all of that. This won’t be much different.”

I moistened my parched lips. “You knew. You knew from the get-go that this would be too much for her. ”

He smiled, gave that JFK head tilt that made me want to choke him. “I knew Simone, yes. Her issues are as predictable as the tides, and for all he claims to be homosexual, my nephew would move heaven and earth to keep her happy.”

“To keep her safe , yes.” My jaw ached as I clenched my teeth. “And ‘claiming’ to be homosexual? What the fuck are you—”

“His personal issues aren’t your concern,” he snapped.

I pinched the bridge of my nose and exhaled sharply. “Then why the hell did you put those problems front and fucking center and make them everyone’s concern? As it is, you may have sabotaged him from the beginning by drawing so goddamned much attention to his marriage, but why? Especially when you knew chances were good Simone would buckle under the stress?”

“She is, and has been from the beginning, just fine .” He inclined his head. “And she’s told me time and again how much she wants to help Jesse’s campaign.”

“Not at the expense of her health,” I snapped.

“The end justifies the means, Anthony,” he said. “You’ve been in this business long enough to know that elections are cutthroat.”

“Not that cutthroat. Not when I’m on board, anyway.”

“I didn’t expect you to like it,” he said with a shrug and a smug sneer. “But now you can see the results”—he gestured at my laptop—“so you—”

“ Fuck the results, Roger. I’m not in this to have people get hurt in exchange for percentage points. It was bad enough you drew so goddamned much attention to their marriage, but—”

“Their marriage has given Jesse an edge over his competition,” Roger snarled.

“It’s a sham ,” I threw back. “He’s gaining favor based on a lie.”

“And what politician hasn’t?”

I stared at Roger. He wasn’t the first slimy politician I’d dealt with, but this was his own nephew. His nephew and my lover, damn it, not to mention the man whose campaign I’d agreed to run.

“You do realize he could be impeached, right?” I asked through clenched teeth. “After he’s elected, if the public catches wind that he misrepresented himself like that.”

“I do, yes.” Roger folded his arms across his chest. “Which means the public won’t catch wind of it.”

“What do you expect Jesse to do? Just stay in the closet for his entire career?”

“If he wishes to have a career in politics,” Roger said, his tone icy, “yes. I do.” And damn if he didn’t look so fucking pleased with himself.

I threw up my hands. “So he’s gay, Roger. So the fuck what?”

“It’s inappropriate,” Roger growled .

“Inappropriate?” I blinked. “Who are you to decide that?” Before he could answer, I put up a hand. “You know what? I don’t even want to hear it. But you listen to me, you son of a bitch. You want to groom him for a political career? Fine.” I stabbed a finger in his direction. “But you have no business sabotaging his personal life. You’ve asked him to choose between a political career and being able to—”

“He made his choice when he decided to forego women for men ,” he snapped. “But he wants to work in politics, and if he wants to maintain the image he’s created, which includes being a devoted, committed husband”—Roger grinned—“then he’ll wisely continue to act as such.”

I swallowed. “You did this on purpose. You set it up so Simone would have a breakdown and Jesse would have no choice but to stay closeted for…fuck, for years .”

“He chose this career path,” Roger said coolly. “I advised him to do the right thing for his career.”

“You advised him to do what he had to do to keep your name pristine,” I snarled. “You…you used her emotional problems to further your nephew’s campaign? As something to improve Jesse’s public goddamned image and keep him in the closet? Did you think about how this would affect her? Even once? You had to know what kind of toll this would take on her. Fuck, Roger, what if Simone had done permanent damage? What if she’d had a goddamned heart attack?”

He laughed and gestured dismissively. “She isn’t foolish enough to kill herself over her ‘issues.’” He emphasized the last word with a sneer of contempt and disgust. “Simone has used all that nonsense to manipulate my nephew and those around her. She knows exactly what she’s doing.”

My jaw dropped. I clenched my fists at my sides to keep from reaching out and strangling him, but then realized I was now conveniently poised to throw a long overdue punch into his smug face. I quickly uncurled my fists. Which meant I could strangle him.

I forced out a breath and took a step back. “I…I’m done with this conversation.”

Roger called after me. I couldn’t for the life of me repeat what he’d said even before the slamming door cut him off. All I could do was get out of this room, out of this hotel, and…out. Just out of here. So I could think. Clear my head. Process what he’d told me, what I’d completely missed from day one of this campaign.

The elevator took its sweet time getting to this floor, but the doors finally opened and I stepped inside. I pressed the button for the ground floor, then hit the “close doors” button. It usually annoyed me when people hit a button repeatedly, since it didn’t actually help things happen faster, but this time I couldn’t help stabbing it a few times and cursing when the doors stayed open for long, maddening seconds .

Eventually they closed, and I leaned against the wall. I rubbed my eyes with my thumb and forefinger as the conversation replayed over and over in my head. I needed a smoke. I needed to smoke the whole pack. Maybe two. I didn’t even care if I started chain-smoking; I just needed way too much nicotine.

The elevator dumped me out on the bottom floor, and I hurried out of the hotel and into the parking lot. My mouth was dry as I numbly dug my cigarettes and lighter out of my pockets, and when I tried to light the cigarette, my hands shook. Flicking my lighter, a smooth motion I’d perfected years ago, took three tries, and the third was barely successful. I took a drag, held it, then released it into the cool evening air.

I’d seen and heard it all in politics, but this? From a man I respected, and at the expense of Jesse and especially Simone? With my help?

I cringed, guilt burning hotter in my chest than the smoke in my throat.

Simone was an innocent in all of this. She’d bent over backward to help this campaign, and I wouldn’t have her jeopardizing her health for the benefit of the election again. If Roger got to gloat about Simone’s ill health improving Jesse’s standings in the polls, so be it. He could take that up with God. I would not allow this election to harm her any further than it already had, and I had no doubt Jesse would agree.

And he’d also want to kick Roger off the campaign. Keep the bastard as far from Simone and everyone else as possible. Keep him away from me so I didn’t choke him.

But we couldn’t. Voters may not have given two shits if Roger endorsed his nephew, but if he suddenly didn’t endorse him or was suddenly absent from the campaign trail, they would notice.

I suppose we could cite his health problems. I tapped my cigarette and watched a couple of glowing coals swirl their way to the pavement. Hell, maybe that would gain us another sympathy lead. Imagine how much the polls would jump if the man fucking croaked.

No, we were stuck with Roger. I’d just keep a tight leash on him and advise Jesse to take campaign advice from me and me alone.

Just like he had from the beginning. When I’d agreed with Roger and kept Simone out on the campaign trail. Kept her in the spotlight, in the public eye, until she’d collapsed.

I exhaled sharply.

Anyone sabotaged my candidate’s campaign, there was hell to pay. That was a given. I worked too fucking hard for someone to kill a candidate’s chances before the election. But that wasn’t what had me worked up now. I was torn between going back to the room where I’d left Roger and ripping him a new one or saying to hell with public images and going up to Jesse’s room. The professional fury was tepid irritation compared to the deeper, hotter rage burning in my chest. The fierce need to protect Jesse. Not the need to defend my candidate and keep my work from going down the toilet, the need to protect him . Jesse. My lover.

And with that fury came more deep, caustic guilt. I hadn’t caught on to Roger’s MO, and unwittingly or not, I’d been a part of this. All of it. From the beginning. I was as cutthroat as any campaign manager, but not when people actually got hurt.

I dropped my half-smoked cigarette to the pavement and crushed it under my shoe. I pulled out my phone and scrolled to Jesse’s number. For a long moment, I just stared at his name, my thumb hovering over the Send button. I wasn’t even sure what I needed to say or why I was suddenly so desperate to talk to him, but I was. My mind was such a scattered mess of anger and guilt, I couldn’t think straight. All I could think was that I needed to talk to him. See him. Something.

I hit Send.

And waited.