Rugged(66)

Granted, Flint McKay and I aren’t in the same room at this particular moment. Unlike most wrecked relationships, I can fast forward past him if I feel like it. Seeing his gorgeous, infuriating face is part of the daily torture of editing Season One of Rustic Renovations. I’d love to take a powder on this one, but being the producer and the creator of this whole enterprise, I’m a little stuck. So I stand here, right behind Juan, and mumble places to cut while I stare at a man I can’t have.

Every night when I go home, get into my PJs, and watch trashy television to turn off my brain, I tell myself that tomorrow it’s going to be fine. Tomorrow I won’t feel anything. Tomorrow is another day, said with conviction as I picture myself silhouetted against an old Hollywood backdrop while dramatic music swells. And when that tomorrow fails to deliver, I have to go home depressed and tell myself it’ll be the next tomorrow.

“Can we cut right here?” Suze asks, knocking me out of my dreary headspace and returning me to the cramped editing room that smells like Carl’s Jr. and B.O.

Juan, the mohawked USC Film School grad who’s in charge of both stitching this show together and the oppressive smell, groans in frustration and rubs his bloodshot eyes as Suze points to Flint, bending down to pick something up. “If we go straight from this into the part where he’s helping lift the wall, we get the sense of effort without the whole sweaty, grunting mess.”

Sweaty. Grunting. Thank you, Suze, for making me think of Flint-related sex. I take a sip of sullen coffee and try not to remember the bed-shaking athleticism of our past encounters. Knock it off, Laurel. She’s stepped in because she knows you need help focusing. She doesn’t have to be co-editing this right now. It’s a favor. Be grateful.

“Laurel, what do you think?” Suze asks, looking at me with interest. Juan swivels around in his chair, scratching his little chin beard.

“Yeah, you tell me. We making art or just trying to show this guy’s deltoids?” he asks, chugging from the hugest can of Red Bull I’ve ever seen. Ick. Then again, maybe I need one of those.

“Both. Maybe,” I say, sighing and crouching down. “But I’m with Suze on this one. Let’s make the illusion as graceful as we can.”

Juan shrugs. “Your call. It’ll be hilarious when all the housewives of America think it’s this easy. See them tottering around in their overpriced heels, trying to drywall with the best of them.” He grunts and hits a few keys on his keyboard.

“You’ve been working in reality TV too long, Juan,” I snap, tossing my empty coffee cup in the trashcan. “Most housewives would kill for a pair of overpriced heels. Like actual shoe-murder.”

Nobody laughs at my joke. Probably because my stress and heartache is turning me into bitchy-Laurel instead of funny, overworked, slightly-crazed-yet-also-fun Laurel.

“Sorry,” I mutter. The room’s still uncomfortably quiet.

“Want to step outside a minute?” Suze asks me. Her pursed lips have that je ne sais quois quality that says ‘Do it or I’ll drag you.’ We duck into the hallway, closing the door so Juan can work in peace. “So. How’ve you been?” Suze doesn’t ask what the hell is wrong with me, or why I’m ranting about housewives killing people, both of which she’s entitled to do. Instead she eyes me carefully, smiling gently, being a good, conscientious friend. Which is lovely. Except that good, conscientious people are kind of my kryptonite right now. Kindness makes my throat swell up, like shellfish.

“Well, Valentine’s Day has come and gone, and I didn’t implode or go on a chainsaw rampage or adopt twenty-seven cats,” I say, crossing my arms.

“Always a plus.” Suze sighs. “Look, what happened just now…”

“I’m not at my best,” I mutter, cheeks heating up. She nods.

“I’d have to agree with that statement.” Trust Suze to be blunt. It’s what I love about her. “Look, if there’s anything we can do—”

“My best was a few months ago,” I interrupt harshly. God, it’s almost the beginning of March. Three months have passed since I last saw Flint. Since I found out our entire relationship had existed for the sole purpose of keeping his bed warm until Charlotte, my doppelganger and his ex-girlfriend—wait, no, his ex-fiancée, how on Earth could I forget that tasty little detail—came back into his life. Until she responded to the siren song of the gorgeous house he’d designed and built just for her, which he’d used my show to get done.

Used me to get done.

Maybe twenty-seven cats isn’t a terrible idea after all.

“Laurel? Come back to me,” Suze says, snapping her fingers in my face, making me blink. “See, this is what worries me.” She sighs. “I say something, you look off into the middle distance and think, and then I have to wait in this awkward silence. This time I think you were even mumbling to yourself.”

Was I? Okay, that’s not good. No need to go full Hollywood crazy before I’ve reached the executive pay grade. I sigh and push my hair out of my face.

“Anything you’re burning to know?” I ask as I lean my shoulder against the wall and itch the back of my thigh with my stiletto heel. I think I’m getting a blister, too. Maybe I should just call it a year and go home.

“Have you talked to Flint? Since…” Suze trails off, waiting for me to fill in the blank. Oh, I can fill it. I can fill it with a lot of curse words and kicking the shit out of the walls, but I don’t think that’s what she wants right now.