In an exclusive, two-hour interview with Katie Couric, Ransom Reed spoke candidly about his experience with mental illness and substance abuse. When asked about the accident involving his then publicist, Heidi DuCane, which sparked his decision to seek help, he said that he “regret(s) what happened that day. It’s something that will stay with me for the rest of my life. And if I could go back and do it all again, I would have done anything . . . anything to save her.”
Chapter Thirty-two
You ever think about what people will say about you once you’re gone? Of course, at your funeral, it’s pretty much a given that they’ll say nice things. They’d have to. Standing in front of your closest friends, family, and colleagues to reiterate just what a cheating, lying whore you were would be entirely too awkward.
I had wondered what Tucker would say in my eulogy. Would he miss me? Were his last memories of us together fond? Did he still love me right up to the end? Or would he have realized that me getting hit by a car was the best thing that had ever happened to him?
He’d have a fresh start, a second shot at life. Maybe a chance to pursue his passion. After what we’d gone through and what he’d done—committing a dozen different shades of malpractice—he’d get to retire early and focus his talents on something new. Maybe take the life insurance money and invest in a little record store uptown or something. He’d also get another shot at love with someone who didn’t work tirelessly long hours and shared his love of chicken enchiladas. Someone he could seek out quaint, little vintage shops with and spend Sundays in pajamas, listening to jazz and eating pancakes. Someone who loved and desired him just as he was.
I wouldn’t be surprised if he moved on quickly after my passing. Tucker is a catch. He’s gorgeous, obviously, with a body that hasn’t yet been cursed by time. He’s affectionate, compassionate, a great listener, and a passionate kisser. He cares for people deeply, maybe more than he should. And he always puts the needs of others over his own.
My husband is a good man—the best man. And any woman would be lucky to call him hers.
And I am.
Lying on your back 24/7 for six weeks straight will provide you with plenty of time to think. Actually, that’s all I had for several days. Just my thoughts. I didn’t have use of my limbs until the swelling on my spine had subsided enough so they could operate, and even then, both arms and both legs were broken. And my jaw had to be wired shut after doctors fused the bones back together with the help of a metal plate and screws. My eyes were so badly bruised from twin shattered eye sockets, so even seeing was problematic. Actually the only thing that I hadn’t broken on my face was my nose. Go figure. So at least I could breathe, even though it hurt like a bitch with broken ribs.
I was a hot mess. Truly. When they showed me pictures of what I looked like when paramedics scraped me off the road, I cried. No one was supposed to survive that type of carnage, yet somehow, I had. I thought my fate would parallel Sebastian’s of Cruel Intentions. I thought I would leave my loved ones with only my memory, and the urge to rip one another apart once the truth had come to light. But no dice. I lived. And I’m not sure who was more disturbed by that revelation—them or me.
I certainly wasn’t surprised that Tucker was right there beside me when I had awoken three days later. I wasn’t even shocked by how glad I was that he had been there for me—unmovable, unshakable. He slept at the hospital in an uncomfortable little chair that barely reclined. He ate gross hospital food when he ate at all. And he washed up in the sink of my hospital bathroom. Justice brought him clean clothes, and Ally made sure he got some nourishment. She was a wreck. That surprised me too. I never knew she cared about me that much. I never knew any of them did.
However, the thing that stunned me, almost to tears, was the fact that Ransom never came. Not even once. And it wasn’t that Tucker had refused him entrance and then lied to me. He just never came. I held out hope for a few days, thinking he just wanted to be sure I was out of the woods. But after days turned to weeks, and weeks turned into a month and a half, I realized that he just wasn’t coming. Things had gotten ugly and he bailed. He left me, even after begging me not to leave him.
Oh, the irony.
I later learned that he had entered rehab a couple weeks after my accident. Something about “mental distress” and “exhaustion.” Fucking famous people. Who the hell goes to rehab for exhaustion? It’s called a nap. If you’re tired, go the fuck to sleep.
We all knew the truth, as eye-roll-inducing as the spin was. Ransom had hit rock bottom, and it was either go to rehab or face scrutiny for being involved in my accident. It was a smart move, something I would have suggested had I still been his publicist. But I wasn’t, and I’m not. I’m not his anything.
I’d like to think that Ransom’s absence from my bedside was his way of giving me a gift. I lied to him right before the car hit me. We weren’t good together. We were bad—toxic even. We would hurt everyone we care about if we kept on like that. So maybe he was doing what I had failed to do a long time ago. He was cutting himself out of my life. He was letting me heal with my husband and friends. And he was going to get himself healthy and move on.
In my mind, that’s what he did, and that’s what I’ll remember. That’s what I felt in my heart when I said goodbye to him. And that’s what I would have stated in his eulogy. Ransom is dead to me, but not in a bad way. But in a very final way. We came, we saw, we loved, and we left. He isn’t meant to be a part of my life, and I’m not supposed to be a part of his, in any capacity. It was real. It was fun. But it wasn’t always real fun.
Learning how to walk, write, feed myself, tie a bow, cross my legs, and throw a ball again thankfully occupied most of my time. It was a grueling twenty-two weeks of physical therapy every day to regain usage of my limbs. I’m pretty much back to normal, although I walk with a slight limp. And wearing heels is out for at least a few more years. They might as well toss me in the casket now.
Tucker was incredible throughout it all. Of course he was. And I don’t say that with resentment. He was amazing to me—encouraging, positive, and patient. I had a lot of bad days. There were times when I had given up altogether and would just crumple on the floor and cry. And Tucker . . . he’d get right on that dingy linoleum with me and hold me close as I cried and cursed and hated everyone who could walk without issue. He didn’t try to tell me how to feel. He didn’t make me feel guilty for my irrational envy. And he didn’t take it personally every time I tried to push him away permanently, telling him that we should get a divorce. He let me feel my anger. He let me be afraid. Probably because he was afraid too.
That time spent on the floors and beds of hospitals reminded me of why I fell in love with Tuck in the first place. Back in undergrad, when I had shed that fear and rage from my attack, he let me own it. He never tried to make me feel differently. And it just felt so damn good to be heard and understood.
He really was a great doctor. Despite what he facilitated in an attempt to help both Ransom and me, his heart was in the right place. Crazy but true. And maybe Ransom saw it too . . . maybe he realized that the only way for us to all heal from the wreckage was to say goodbye for good.
Chapter Thirty-three
It’s been a long time coming, but I am finally able to get back to work. And oddly enough, we’ve been busier than ever. I promoted Tamara to Social Media Manager as soon as I returned, considering how well she kept the ship running in my absence. I hate to lose her, but once upon a time, someone gave me a shot after proving myself. And she has gone above and beyond proving herself. Plus, it’s downright hilarious watching her boss around her own assistant.