“I don’t feel that way. I don’t have an eating disorder,” I insist, now worried what she might do if she really thinks this to be true. Would she hospitalize me? “Look.” I lick my lips, knowing I have to level with her before this goes any further. “I…Levi and I aren’t together right now and I guess…I guess I’ve just been feeling a little out of sorts.”
“So you’re depressed.”
“Yeah, maybe. I guess so.” I know so, but for some reason, I feel this deep sense of shame in admitting it. Like I’m defective or grossly abnormal. I worry that she might think I’m a bad mother because I’m not taking care of myself the way I know I should be.
“That’s a perfectly normal response to what you’re going through,” she assures me, her expression softening in a way that reminds me of my mother. “I can arrange for you to talk to someone if you’d like.”
“No.” I shake my head adamantly. “That’s not something I want or need to get into.”
I can tell that she doesn’t approve, but she presses on. “Well, there aren’t many medications I can give you, so here’s my advice. Talk to someone, regularly, and make sure you get out of the house often. Go to the park, take walks, and enjoy the scenery. You’d be surprised what a healthy dose of nature can do for the mood. And, for the sake of that little one, you need to start eating more, even if you don’t feel like it. I can’t stress that enough.”
She’s right. I know she is. I take the doctor’s advice and schedule my follow-up appointment, telling myself that I have to do better. I can’t allow my emotions to rule me. It’s as I’m walking through the waiting room on my way out that I catch the images on the wall mounted television.
The sound has been muted, but I don’t need it. There, on the screen, is a video clip of Levi leaving a night club with his model ex-girlfriend the media attempted to tie to him only weeks ago. A wave of nausea rolls through me and I glance around at the few women in the room. They’re busy reading magazines or fiddling with their cell phones.
Thank God. No one knows the heartache I’m feeling right now. Ducking my head, I rush out of there, desperate to go home and lock myself away.
30
I’ve been trying to call Vista for a week, but she won’t pick up the damn phone. I know why she’s not answering—she saw the news. She saw me with Calista.
The media are a bunch of savage dickheads with nothing better to do than to try and tear people down. Now it’s more bullshit and more fires I have to put out. They saw her and me together and assumed we were an item.
That couldn’t be further from the truth.
Calista and I are…well, I wouldn’t call us friends exactly. More like two ships passing in the night. We’d hook up whenever we happened to be in the same city at the same time. It wasn’t anything more than that, and we were both cool with it. But all that’s over now.
So even though we’re not friends, we’re also not enemies.
I was doing an appearance at Boulevard3 when I ran into her. We shared a couple drinks and talked a bit, caught up. We ended up getting pretty deep. I confided in her about Vista and the baby, and she told me that I was fucking up a good thing. I informed her that Vista was the one who told me not to come back, and she quickly reminded me that she also said not to leave. I’ll never figure women out. They say one thing and mean another. In the long run, though, she helped me open my eyes to what an asshole I’ve been, and now I think I can finally see where Vista is coming from.
She was testing me, and I failed. Miserably.
I was pissed off at her for shutting me down. No one, aside from my father, has ever told me to get my head out of my ass and be a man. Which, I guess, is why I took it so wrong. Vista reminded me of my father, harping in my ear, and I resented her for it.
When I left, I had convinced myself that I was doing what was best for her and the baby. With me out of the picture, they could be normal. But that’s not the case. They’re no safer from the media than I am. If anything, they’re even more vulnerable. At least I can outrun it. All it takes is hopping on a plane.
I’ve been telling her and myself that I’m working my way back to her, all I need to do is tie up some loose ends, make good on my commitments so I can come home. But the truth is, that’s not what I’ve been doing at all.
Talking with Calista has opened my eyes wide. She made me see that what I’ve really been doing is running. All this time, I’ve been the dickhole who’s ruining Vista’s life.
Even my father, bastard that he is, had enough of a moral compass to stick around and raise me.
I send one more call through, begging Vista in my mind to pick up the damn phone. Now that my blinders are off, it feels as if the distance is eating me alive. Every second that passes, it’s as if I can literally feel myself losing her.
I can’t fucking lose her.
Vista is the only real thing I’ve ever had in my life. She’s the only person who’s ever taken the time to really get to know me and accepted me for who I am, warts and all, something my own parents couldn’t manage to do.
With her, I have a family, and I refuse to let it go without a fight.
“Three minute warning.”
I glance up at the stagehand or whatever he is and nod. I’m doing another fucking interview. This one is for Jimmy Kimmel. It used to be that I would blow a gasket, I was so excited to do shit like this. This time, nothing. It’s like I’m on autopilot. None of this registers. I’m just going through the motions, blindly following instructions as they’re dished out.
It’s Kimmel for crissake! I should be a nervous wreck, and instead, I’m thinking about ditching out and jumping on the first plane back to Ohio. Vista is taking up every thought in my head. I just need her to pick up the phone so I can explain. I need her to know that I choose her. I need her to know that I love her and I haven’t given up on us.
“Mr. Black,” the stagehand hisses as if this isn’t the first time he’s called my name, “you’re on.”
Standing, I straighten my suit jacket and follow up to the edge of the curtains. He waves me forward and I walk out onto the stage following the general intro music and screaming fans. Kimmel stands and shakes my hand, and then I sit in the chair closest to his desk.
“How are you?” he asks as the audience winds down.
As soon as I tell him I’m good, the audience roars louder than before. He chuckles. I chuckle. Then we get on with the interview.
“I think the ladies here tonight are a little excited to see you, Levi.”
They roar again and I grin at them, playing up the part of the sexy bad boy they crave so much.
“Does this ever get old for you?’
“Nah, how could it? Isn’t it every man’s fantasy to have so many beautiful women love him?” They scream again, catcalling me. We go back and forth a few more times, riling up the audience, before Kimmel digs in.
“You’ve been making headlines lately,” he informs me as he leads the conversation into deeper waters. “Is it true you’re going to be a father?”
I nod hesitantly but no less proud. “Yeah, yeah. A little less than two months to go.”
“That’s wonderful. Congratulations.” I thank him accordingly, already sensing where the line of questioning is headed—the same place it always does. “Now we all know the tabloids have a propensity for stretching the truth. So why don’t we clear something up tonight.” I nod for him to go ahead. I’m ready. Leaning into one arm, he tilts his head and says, “Some people are claiming you’re dating your sister. In fact, they’re claiming your sister is actually the mother of your child. Is there any truth to that?”
I am so fucking glad that David and Lara’s divorce was finalized yesterday. Now I can speak with total truth and without having to dance around definitions. “No, that’s not true.” And then I toss in for good measure, “Vista and I were never related.”