Page 68 of The Cruiser
ChapterTwenty-Four
“Good morning,Sylvie. Is the restaurant closed? The doors are locked.”
The young blonde at the front desk smiles apologetically, all dimples and pink cheeks. “Oui, just for today. They need to do some maintenance in the kitchen. Would you like me to order you something from the bakery nearby and have it delivered to your room? It might take thirty minutes or so.”
“That's fine. Can I work in the restaurant while I wait?” I woke up late and need to catch up on some emails before lunch. I’ve brought my laptop with me and I'm ready to go.
"I don't see why not," she says, after giving it some thought. "The maintenance crew is delayed. I'll let you know when your food arrives."
She jots down my order—cappuccino and croissant for the win—and a bellman arrives to escort me into L'Orange Verte. The lobby restaurant has the tropical feel of a Caribbean beachside home with high ceilings, palm trees in wooden planters, and unstuffy decor perfect for whiling away the afternoon with a pina colada and nothing on the agenda. Unfortunately, it's too early for day drinking and my to-do list is a mile long. It's also windy this morning, so I take a seat at one of the inside tables and fire up my laptop. I ignore the flood of emails from my mother, but Derek’s single email catches my attention. Hard to miss the all-caps headline.
FIFTY REASONS WHY YOU KILLED OUR MARRIAGE.
What follows is a dense, darkly angry spew of vitriol that glows harsh on the screen. It guts me, reading it. That he actually took the time to list my inadequacies, real or perceived. Reading my failure as a woman and wife in tidy bullet points makes me wonder how long he carried all this inside him. He ends with: I’m seeing a lawyer this week. I’m not getting thrown out of my own house. Prepare for battle.
Battle? Derek’s always had a dictatorial streak, par for the course as a first AD, but he toned it down at home. If this is what I’m coming home to, maybe I’ll reconsider extending my trip.
Or never return.
My phone starts to ring, and the sudden sound makes me jump. It’s Morgan. I tamp down the rise of hurt in my throat and manage a cheery hello.
“Where are you?” His voice is blacker than coal.
“Down in the restaurant, working. Are you—”
“I’ll be right there.”
The line goes dead and I stare at my phone, confused. Although shaken when I got home last night from the casino, I fell asleep with a shimmer all over my body, courtesy of Morgan’s late text: Thank you … for everything.
I replied this morning, Same.
He didn’t respond, and now he sounds pissed. Like really pissed. Like maybe the Khaled deal isn’t going to happen and maybe I have something to do with it. I don’t have time to consider all the possibilities because Morgan storms into the restaurant seconds later, eyes lit up with fury.
“Why didn’t you tell me what happened in Genoa?” he demands. “At the awards show.”
Shitty shit. He knows. It’s written all over his face. But how?
As if reading my mind, he whips out his phone, waits for the facial recognition, and shoves the grainy black and white video so it’s just inches from my face. “I knew you were lying,” he says.
The problem in today’s world is cameras. Everywhere you go, someone, somewhere, is filming you. And there I am on the patio of the hotel, cornered by Renan and fighting back.
I meet his eyes, barely. “I’m sorry. It was your night. The award … I didn’t want to—”
“Fuck the award!” He flings one of the chairs as if it’s balsa wood and not heavy oak, and it crashes into another table, sending place settings flying like missiles. “How do you think I felt watching this?”
Distress distorts his face and I’ve no idea how to handle his intensity. He’s so in my personal space there’s hardly room to breathe. I push out of my chair to stand and position myself behind it as protection. “The last thing we need is word getting out about that on one of the biggest nights of your career. Think about it.”
“Mon Dieu!” he bellows, throwing up his hands in rage. “Your way of thinking is insanity. Image over safety? Didn’t you learn anything from the party? He is cruel. He can hurt you.” He snatches a water glass off the table, hurling it across the room. “Stop being so fucking American.”
“What does that mean?” I ask, taken aback.
He sweeps back his bangs with an agitated hand gesture. “It means you don’t have to be strong and tough and deal with shit like this on your own. I was there. I could’ve helped. And you ran away from me.”
His voice wavers, and not once has even my own mother had the same look on her face. I’m trembling, getting hit from all sides. In the empty restaurant, it feels like I’m alone on a stage, not ready for the show, but the curtain is pulling back regardless.
The morning wasn’t supposed to be like this.
“You’re right,” I finally say. “I should have said something. Despite what everyone thinks, I’m not perfect. I don’t always do the right thing.”
