One More Time(27)

“Yes, but in a good way. He’ll be using you too. It all works out.”

“Maybe it could even help me with the role,” I say, but as I do, another thought enters my mind. It’s a little devilish, and a little selfish, and I know Walter will eat it right up. “Honestly,” I confess, “I might not have it as good as Tanner ever again. Don’t I deserve the best sex of my life for just a few months? And then at the end, I get to be the one to walk away like the whole thing was no big deal.”

“Now you’re getting messy and risky,” Walter warns. “I’m starting to have second thoughts. Let me mull it over a bit more. Now, tell me the real business--any cute guys in Wardrobe or Makeup that I need to fly out and meet?”

I spend the next quarter of an hour entertaining Walter with tales from the set, then I wrap things up in time to get ready for my call time. We’re in the middle of goodbyes when my phone pings with a message.

It’s from Tanner.

Sad your side of the bed was empty this morning.

I smile a devilish smile.

“Do not reply to that text that is clearly from Tanner without my approval!” Walter commands.

“Don’t worry,” I say, “I’m not going to reply at all. Not until I’m sure about what happens next.”

After I hang up with Walter, I throw on the hotel’s fabulously plush terrycloth robe, pull my hair into a ponytail, and then settle onto the chaise in the sitting area for a little brainstorming session with the black and white striped notebook my mom gave me for a birthday gift.

On the top of a blank page I write: New Rules for Tanner and Jenna.

I look at the headline, then tear out that page and start over.

This time I write: New Rules for Jenna.

Tanner James is not going to control my life again. This time, I’m going to be the one in the driver’s seat.





10





Tanner





There’s no way in hell Jenna is going to be here when I open my eyes. That was the last thought I had before I fell asleep. I usually love being right.

Not this time.

I ended up spending the better part of the morning lounging around the hotel room wasting a shitload of time flipping through the movie channels. Finally I gave up on the idea that Jenna might come back and hit the gym. I thought about nothing else during my time on the treadmill, nor during my weights, and by the time I got back up to my shower, I was eaten up with need.

I jerked off in the shower, but it wasn’t anywhere close to the real thing.

Afterward I texted her, but got no response. But then, I’d understand if she was freaking out. After all, so far every single time she’s drawn a line, we’ve hopped right over it. Or in the case of last night, fucked it out of existence altogether.

I pull on a pair of Calvins and flip through the room service menu, idly thinking about eggs. Idly thinking about Jenna. She used to love a posh hotel room, and she lived for room service.

“What could possibly be more decadent than eating in bed, and not being the one to clean up the crumbs after?” she’d always said. “This is how to live.”

And boy, did we used to live.

Jenna and I used to have a ridiculous tradition of ordering two breakfasts apiece and then sharing, creating our own little buffet so we wouldn’t have to leave our bubble. At first, between her modeling gigs in New York, Paris and London plus my shooting schedule there were months where the only time we saw each other was for a 48-hour fling in a hotel room followed by that gargantuan breakfast. Toward the end, that had changed, but the tradition remained. Jenna used to say that we had the kind of sex that worked off enough calories to make our heaping platefuls null and void.

She was right.

Last night was maybe even a tad conservative for us, only going two rounds instead of the four we could do a decade ago. But, we were younger then. Still, I wouldn’t mind the challenge.

I glance at my phone about five more times, giving her plenty of chances to remember that we should be eating right about now, but she never texts back. I start multiple messages inviting her to breakfast, but I delete every one. I don’t want to be desperate.

So instead I just order one breakfast. And I limit the carbs. And I’m bummed.

As I wait for my western omelet with a side of fruit, I vow to stop fiddling with my phone and finally tune back in to what’s on the TV: fucking TMI. A pang hits my stomach like a quick gut punch. TMI is the show that ended my relationship with Jenna. If I were the kind of guy who believed in signs, I’d say this is definitely one—but would it be good or bad?

Would this be my cue to finally tell her the truth from back then, or a message saying that it’s already over before it’s begun? And was last night an indication that something new truly has begun? I don’t want to presume, especially with the unanswered text situation, but I can’t imagine that we won’t find ourselves in bed together again. And again.

And then what?

My mind finally flips away from thoughts of what’s next with Jenna, but it heads over to the memory of what happened ten years ago.

I was on set with the sequel to The Jet in LA while Jenna was walking fall Fashion Week in Manhattan. It was one of those long stretches where we were apart. We’d been apart a lot that summer and into the fall. She’d booked a giant contract with Marissa’s Closet and started flying around the world to shoot lingerie ads in what felt like every castle in Europe. I was stuck in LA training for the next installment of the movie.