Daphne gasped, pulling back. Her hand went to her breast. “You’re abandoning me?”
Pain flitted over his broad face. “That’s not it at all. We knew this was a short-term deal, Daphne. I’m here to help you pick your life back up and put the pieces together. You’re doing great, and so we need to cut the cord soon.”
“I see.” The knot in her throat felt enormous. “So what, you’re just going to go back to LA?”
He rubbed his shaved head awkwardly. “There’s another client lined up for me. Currently in rehab, but should get out in February.”
She felt like crying. “So you’re leaving me. Like everyone else does.”
He didn’t even smile. Didn’t even try. He looked as miserable as she felt. “You’re strong, Daphne. I’m not sure you need me anymore. The choices you’ve been making lately? They’re good ones. You’ve been focused on your music. Your workouts are excellent. Your eating is on point. You’ve been working on repairing your relationship with your family. All of these are great things, Daphne. When you removed yourself from the club, that showed me you were ready.” The look on his big face was gentle. “You don’t need me anymore.”
Was he crazy? The thought of him leaving her, of waking up and not spending the day with him, felt like punishment. It wasn’t that she’d miss the workouts, or the nagging about carrots. She’d miss his unflagging support, his determination, his attempts to be stern even when she did her best to get a smile out of him. She’d miss their push-pull relationship. She’d miss those rare moments when he touched her hand, or the quiet evenings when they just talked for hours.
She was losing her best friend and the person she was closest to in the world, all because she finally had her act together. It didn’t seem fair. “So what will it take to make you stay with me for another year? A relapse? Should I go buy some coke and snort it? Or is weed enough of a gateway drug? What about a beer?” The words felt ugly and bitter as she said them, but she couldn’t seem to stop. “Or how about a chocolate bar? A fucking cupcake? Because I’ve been good and clean and clearly all it’s going to get me in the end is nothing!”
The look on his face was incredibly sad, and she immediately regretted the words. “You don’t mean that, Daphne. You can’t be clean because I want you to be. You have to be clean because you choose to be.”
“I know! I fucking know!” She pinched the bridge of her nose. Her head hurt. Hell, her heart hurt worse. She was ready to cry, but she couldn’t without redoing her makeup. If there was one thing she’d learned after years of being in show business, it was how to hold back the tears.
“I wasn’t trying to hurt you, Daphne—” He reached for her.
She shook her head and jerked away. “Forget it, Wesley. Never mind. I have a party to go to tonight.” She adjusted the ill-fitting dress. “One that may or may not have obscene quantities of chocolate. Wanna be my date tonight, too?”
The somber look he gave her broke her heart. “You think I should?”
“I think if you’re not, you won’t be able to know if I’m any good. And I don’t have much of an incentive to be good at the moment, it seems.” She whirled around and stomped away.
He caught her hand and stopped her after a few paces. “Daph—”
“Stop it, Wesley.” Dammit, she really was going to cry at this rate.
“You’re making this about me,” he said. “It’s not about me. It’s not about eating chocolate or doing drugs to get back at me because I can’t kiss you. It needs to be about love.” When her eyebrows went up, he pointed at his chest. “Not for this person.” He reached out and tapped her breastbone. “For this person. When was the last time you loved her, Daphne?”
Shit, now she really was going to cry. She wrestled her hand out of his grip. “Don’t need more of your life coach bullshit right now, thanks,” she said hoarsely. “See you later. Or not. Feel free to leave since we’re done here.”
“I’ll still be your date tomorrow.”
“Whatever.”
This time when she walked away, he let her go. And somehow that made things worse.
For this person. When was the last time you loved her, Daphne?
God. Why did everything he say hit like a cannonball? When was the last time she loved herself? She passed a mirror as she grabbed her coat, heading out of the apartment. She looked good, she supposed. But all she saw were the freckles that had given endless makeup artists issues. She saw the fine, limp hair that had made costume designers demand she wear wigs. She saw the figure that was too thick—and now too muscled—to be anything but heavily photoshopped on an album cover. She saw a thin upper lip that needed injections, a jawline that a producer had once told her made her face look more like an egg than anything. She saw tits that weren’t big enough for the actor she’d dated once, and a stomach that was far too big for the producer she’d slept with for a few months. She saw bared arms that the tabloids would have a field day with if they showed a bit of jiggle, and thighs that had strong quads but would probably be photoshopped into one of those ‘worst bikini bodies’ issues if they ever made it to the light of day.
Daphne touched her face, thoughtful and sad. When had she stopped seeing a person in the mirror and started seeing just a bunch of broken parts? Why couldn’t she just love the music and have it be about that anymore?