Page 38 of Play the Part (Marsford Bay #2)
CONNIE
I ’m readying myself to leave the theatre, sliding my laptop into my purse when my phone buzzes on my office desk.
After a week of silence, I don’t expect it to be Huxley.
Even though he hasn’t posted any more incriminating pictures since Saturday, I’m now assuming he’s moved on to the next flavor of the month.
And I pretend not to care.
I also pretend my meltdown on Monday never happened. It’s so embarrassing to recall that I’m actively trying to gaslight myself into thinking I made the whole thing up.
That wasn’t me. You’ve got the wrong girl.
Nothing to see here.
But the way my heart pinches when I see Oliver’s name on my phone screen and not Huxley’s proves that there’s still a small piece of me holding on to hope. And it tastes bittersweet on my tongue.
Plans tonight? Let me take you out.
I sneer at his casual message. As if I haven’t ignored him all week. The last time we spoke was at that diner last Friday. But it hasn’t been without incessant effort to link up on his part.
Typically, I’d sigh loudly and move on with my day, but today, I hesitate. I’m not sure what about this specific moment has me reconsidering my usual M.O.
Maybe it’s the confusing waft of loneliness stinking up my office. Or the lasso of nostalgia tugging on my bruised heart as I consider that maybe , potentially , I should let him plead his case again. My long exhale sounds like defeat as I finally decide to reply this time.
Fine. Harvest. 8 pm
I deliberately arrive at the restaurant fifteen minutes late. Oliver begged to pick me up at the hotel, but I still refuse to let him know where I’m staying.
Harvest is a Michelin-starred restaurant known for using only local ingredients, and I specifically chose it for its respect for their guests’ privacy.
There’s far less of a chance for enamored fans to flock to our table than, say, at the Olive Garden.
Not that Oliver would be caught dead eating in a chain restaurant—or eating carbs for that matter.
I spot his black sculpted hair and polished but casual outfit before I even walk up to the ma?tre d’.
I carefully watch him from across the room, busy flashing his Hollywood smile to the server as she tops off his water.
He looks infuriatingly beautiful, even now when the memories of his affairs should make him look repulsive.
I quickly fix my expression from the bitterness currently burning my cheeks to effortlessly social as I smile at the ma?tre d’ and point towards my ex.
“Mr. Campisi is expecting me.”
“Yes, of course, miss, come right in,” he replies with a small nod and wide smile.
I thank him and give him my coat before walking into the dining room. Harvest has quite the industrial decor, with open ceilings and uncovered beams. It would feel impersonal if the food and service wasn’t so damn impressive.
When Oliver finally sees me walk up to the table, he stands up to greet me. He tries to kiss my cheek, but I stop him with two manicured fingers to the chest. He steps back with a smile as if he thinks I’m just playing coy.
“You look drop-dead gorgeous, as always,” he says while pulling out my chair. “Is that Prada?”
He’s referring to my black long-sleeved dress.
“Yves Saint Laurent,” I respond dryly. “Vintage.”
He sits down in front of me and nods thoughtfully as if what I just said was some kind of philosophical musing that requires some further internal reflection.
“Well, it looks great on you — you’ve always had an eye for that kind of stuff.”
Every word out of his mouth is already annoying me, and I feel my frustration and disdain for him spike.
This was a bad idea.
Luckily, our server reappears to fill my water glass, and I don’t even give her a chance to ask if I’d like anything before I order some much-needed alcohol.
“We’ll have a bottle of Louis Roederer Cristal, thank you.” My tone is a bit too curt, but I try to save it with a wide, beaming smile.
She simply smiles back and nods. “Of course. I’ll get that for you right away.”
When my attention falls back on Oliver, his smile has turned slightly uncomfortable.
“What?” I say as I pick up the menu.
“I’m sober now … remember?”
Shit. It did slip my mind. Guilt prickles my nape, but I don’t let it show. I shrug.
“I’ll drink it all myself then.” My voice is dry and callous.
Unfortunately for me, my lingering feelings for him have my empathy for his very real addiction begin to filter through the cracks of the wall I’ve put up.
“Will it bother you?” My tone is much softer this time.
His smile is genuine as he shakes his head, and my heart thaws a thin layer of ice.
“Besides, I need to get used to it, especially in a place like LA.”
“Yeah, well,” I say before taking a sip of water. “You know you’re not legally bound to attend every Hollywood party you’re invited to.”
He leans into his chair, his laugh smooth and velvety. “Touché.” He pins me with his stare. “Might I remind you who I attended most of those parties with?”
Despite myself, I laugh at his slight dig, and he does too. There’s a certain ease that settles between us, only possible because of all our shared memories.
The majority of them were good.
And that’s what hurts the most.
My smile slowly fades as we stare at one another.
His expression turns serious, too, seemingly guessing where my mind went.
I hate that I can see real pain in his eyes.
I hate that he’s only human. With flaws, and addictions, and excuses, and propensity for fucking up.
I hate that I once loved him. And I hate that I’m not sure if that love is entirely gone in the first place.
The server returns with the bottle of Louis Roederer and a champagne stand chilled with ice that she carefully places beside the table without a sound.
We fall silent, the tense moment not gone but lingering here with us, unwilling to dissipate. I wordlessly thank the server as she opens the bottle and then gently correct her when she places two flutes down.
“Just one, thank you.”
She doesn’t skip a beat and pours me a glass before swiping the second flute off the table and stepping away.
It’s finally just us two again, and the tension has turned into this anthropomorphic entity with agency and a will all to itself. It sits between us on the table, cross-legged and patient, ready to wait all evening for us to speak what’s actually on our minds.
It’s Oliver who first takes pity on it.
“I’m so fucking sorry, Connie.”
Melancholy turns to anger, and I cross my arms.
“You’ve said that already.”
“I don’t know how I’ll ever forgive myself.”
“So don’t.” I lift the flute to my lips but lash out a few more choice words before taking a sip. “You can carry that guilt for the rest of your life for all I care.”
He says nothing. Just nods. It’s barely visible, as if silently agreeing with what I’ve just said.
“You were the best thing that ever happened to me.”
He says it so quietly, like it’s meant for only him to hear. His words feel like swallowing razors.
I lean into the table and lower my voice.
“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” I hiss.
He shrugs and shakes his head.
“It’s just the truth.” He licks his lips as if he’s deliberating on his next words. “You know … I was planning to ask you to marry me.”
“Okay well now you’re just pissing me off.” He opens his mouth to talk again, and I cut him off. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore. If you don’t want me to stand up and leave you alone at this table, change the fucking subject.”
My heart is beating fast. I’ve lost my appetite, but I manage to stay seated. Somehow, I find a way to collect myself after downing all the champagne in my flute.
The server returns to take our order, and I can barely see straight, my heightened emotions wreaking havoc inside of me. Oliver orders for us both, his smile practiced and charismatic.
We spend the rest of our meal skirting around potential landmines. He catches me up on the latest Hollywood insider gossip. And I tell him about the Remington.
When the night is over, he offers to drive me home. I refuse again . And while we wait for my Uber, I let him press his lips to my cheek. It must be because of the entire bottle of champagne I just drank.
“I’m flying back to LA tomorrow for a meeting, but I’ll be back next week.”
“Don’t come back next week,” I reply dryly.
I avoid eye contact and pretend to look down the street for my ride. Oliver is unbothered by my attitude and grins.
“I’ll be back next week,” he repeats. “Maybe you can show me around the Remington? I can sit in on a rehearsal or something.”
A car pulls up in front of us, and I look back over to my ex. He stares back, waiting for an answer, his expression genuine and expectant.
I give him a half-nod. “Maybe.”