Unforgettable: Book Three (A Hollywood Love Story #3)(17)

After a stimulating acting class in the morning and my last massage client in the early evening, I head over to Pops and Jo’s house in Culver City. With the ridiculous rush hour traffic, it’s almost an hour drive. I flip on the radio and my heart fists.

“Unforgettable”—the Nat and Natalie version—is playing. A torrent of emotions hits me as tears trickle down my cheeks. I think of Mama. I think of him. To make matters even worse, I pass a gigantic billboard promoting the season finale of Kurt Kussler with a three dimensional Brandon aiming his gun. On the other side of the street is one of Katrina, practically naked and clutching Gucci, promoting her live televised wedding to Brandon at the end of the month. I’m so emotionally distraught I run a red light and narrowly miss being hit by another car. An angry horn blasts in my ears as I pull over to catch my breath. Trembling and teary-eyed, I turn off the radio. But I can’t turn off my emotions. I can’t f*cking forget him. I can hardly breathe.

Despite my unstable condition, I manage to make it to my parents’ house. After parking on the street, I ring the doorbell. The front door swings open and a loud “Surprise! Happy Birthday!” resounds in my ears. My jaw crashes to the floor. Oh my God! Jeffrey and Chaz are here too! I thought they both were away on business—Jeffrey in San Francisco for a billionaire’s son’s bar mitzvah and his fashion designer fiancé Chaz in D.C. for a trunk show, but they’ve both flown in for my birthday. And to top things off, my event-planner brother has decked out the house with Mylar balloons and a glittery disco ball for my silver birthday. Stevie Wonder’s “Happy Birthday” blasts on the stereo system as I run up to give them each a big hug. The frown I was wearing earlier is replaced by a smile. I love them both. They’ve been so instrumental in my healing process. They loathe Brandon as much as I do, calling him every pejorative name in the book of gay insults, from douchebag to bitch.


I’m simply wowed. The dining room table is spectacular, draped with shimmering silver fabric upon which exotic white flowers in tall silver vases and silver candleholders are artfully arranged. We all take a seat. Just Pops is missing.

“Where’s Pops?” I ask Jo, looking her way with admiration. God bless her. After telling her about the Brandon affair, she swore off Kurt Kussler, which was a huge, selfless sacrifice, considering how much she loved the series, especially this season’s episodes. So looking forward to the season finale, she even donated her signed DVD collection and photo to Out of the Closet, a local charitable thrift store. The bottom line: she wants nothing to do with the man who broke my heart.

Before she can respond to my question, I hear a car pull into the driveway.

Jo smiles. “That must be him now.”

Two minutes later, Pops, still wearing his ubiquitous trench coat, joins us. He’s carrying a huge flat carton. It must measure four feet by six.

“What’s that?” I ask him as he sets it down against a wall.

He plunks down in the vacant chair at the head of the table. “It’s something for you. It came to my office today.”

I knit my brows. “Who’s it from?”

Draping his coat on the back of the chair, he shrugs his shoulders. “No idea. There’s no return address.”

“Open it! Open it!” singsongs Jeffrey who loves surprises.

“Maybe it’s from a secret admirer,” chimes in Chaz.

I let out a little laugh. “I don’t think so.” There is one guy in my acting classes who seems to like me, but he has no clue today’s my birthday. Nor does he know where Pops works.

“C’mon, Zoester, open it!” urges my impatient brother.

“Okay, okay.” With my sharp meat knife in hand, I amble over to the huge package and slice through the center seam with the blade’s serrated edge. The hissing sound of the splitting cardboard gives me goosebumps. With the long slit I’ve made in the box, I’m able to peek inside. My eyes grow wide and my breath hitches in my throat. I’m totally taken aback.

Oh my God! It’s the Kurt Kussler poster I left behind at Brandon’s place. Except now it’s in a brand new frame with glass and it’s signed.

?

Brandon Taylor

My emotions teeter between rage and anguish, the latter winning by a landslide. Bile rises in my throat.

The f*cking, f*cking egotistical bastard. How could he do this? Torture me, make me suffer on my birthday? Though it was on my resumé, he never acknowledged it before. In fact, he made me work straight through it. The f*cker. The sadistic f*cker. How dare he put himself in my face? My lungs constricting, I blink back traitorous tears.

Jo’s sweet voice intercepts my emotional turmoil. “Honey, what is it?”

Her query can read two ways. What’s inside the box? Or what’s going on inside me? I opt for the former interpretation.

“Um…it’s just a poster I ordered from Crate & Barrel for my new apartment,” I stutter. “I-I had it sent to Pops’s office just in case I wasn’t home.”

“Ooh! I want to see it,” croons Jeffrey.

“Yeah. C’mon, show and tell,” coos Chaz.

I meet Pops’s discerning gaze. His keen mind can cut through bullshit like a knife. He knows I’m lying up my ass.

“Um, uh, I’d like to keep it in the box. I don’t want it to get messed up in my car.”