Daphne curled one weight obediently, ignoring his second request.
“Daphne,” he warned as she continued to flex the weights silently. “This is part of our agreement.” He pointed at her and then himself. “We work out problems. We don’t bottle them up, remember?”
She gave him a snarl. “I’m just tired, okay? I’m tired of weights and working out and eating Bibb lettuce instead of Chinese takeout and I’m tired of everyone being on my ass twenty-four-seven.” She thrust the weights back at him. “I’m tired of fucking Christmas music and tired of Manhattan. I’m tired of all of this shit and I want to go back to California. I hate it here. I hate working out, and I really, really want a fucking cigarette.”
The moment the words left her mouth, she felt like an asshole. She’d lashed out at him when he was just trying to help her.
Wesley just watched her, the expression on his face impassive.
Shit. She took one of the weights back from his hands. “I know, I’m being a dick and you can’t wait to get rid of me.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to say it. I chase everyone away.”
He shook his head. “You were an addict. That’s different.”
“Yeah? Tell that to my family.” The light laugh she tried to produce ended up being choked and ugly. “It’s a week until Christmas and my sister’s getting married and do you think one of them has even called me? They don’t even want a damn wedding gift from me, I’m such a mess.”
“You were a mess,” he corrected. “You’re on the road to recovery.”
“Yeah, whee. Six months in rehab and another six clean. A whole fucking year.” She twirled a finger and then began to do curls with the other weight. “I know they’re just waiting for me to slip up again.”
“But you won’t. You’re stronger than that.”
His utter confidence in her made her want to cry. “Come on, Wesley. You know me better than that. I’m not strong. I whine and bitch and the only reason I’m doing good is because you’re here at my side constantly to slap my hand when I reach for bad things.”
“That’s not true—”
“It is true,” she exploded again. “That’s your job, remember?”
“It’s not me, Daphne. You’re a lot stronger than you realize.” He put his hand over hers, where she gripped the weight. “And I’m not always going to be here.”
“I know.” That made her want to cry, too. The thought of Wesley leaving made her feel all kinds of hollow. Not because she needed him, but because she liked him. He was the one person in the world that hadn’t given up on her. The one person in her life that looked at her like she wasn’t a piece of shit.
“You need to believe that you’re strong,” he told her gently, his thumb caressing her bare, sweaty arm. “You’re Daphne Petty. You’ve sold twenty million albums and have had five number-one hits. You sell out concerts everywhere you go. People are dying for your next record. That means something.”
Did it? She’d done all that while coked out of her mind. “It doesn’t mean anything if the world hates you.”
“I don’t hate you.”
A sexual flush moved through her, and she became acutely aware of Wesley’s hand on her arm . . . and the fact that she hadn’t had sex in a year. “You’re paid to not hate me.”
“That has nothing to do with it,” Wesley said, his hard mouth turning up at the corner. “And I bet your sisters don’t hate you. You said you pushed them away, didn’t you? So why not reach out to them again? Bring them holiday gifts.”
“They don’t want to see me.”
“You don’t know that. And you’ll never know that unless you extend the olive branch.”
She considered it for a long moment, then looked up at him. “What about your family? Do you need time off for Christmas?”
“We can talk about that later.” The look on his face became that one she’d learned to dread during their workouts. “And since you’re not in the mood to do arm curls, let’s do more burpees.”
Daphne groaned aloud. “Fucking torturer.”
Why on earth was she falling in love with this man? She must be crazy.
***
Gretchen: I need a bridesmaid check-in. How are we all doing and does anyone have a peanut allergy?
Audrey: Oh boy. You’re gonna lose your mind before we hit the big day, aren’t you?
Gretchen: Don’t be ridiculous. Anyone else?
Taylor: Um, I have an allergy to olives.
Gretchen: There won’t be any olives in anything I’m baking, I promise. And it’s normal for a girl to check in on her bridal party! We have the bachelorette party in 3 days. Which . . . I should probably bake something for.
Greer: Wait, wait. Why are you baking, Gretchen? What happened to the lovely baker we just signed on last week? You paid him an enormous fee!
Gretchen: There was a croquembouche disaster.
Brontë: Croque-what?
Greer: Oh no, Gretchen. More firings? You can’t cater the entire wedding yourself!
Edie: Gretchen, honey, you’re going to give yourself a nervous breakdown before the wedding.
Gretchen: That’s everyone except . . . wait, who are we missing? Someone’s gone radio silent on me!
Gretchen: RED ALERT. RED ALERT.
Gretchen: Who are we missing?
Gretchen: Oh my god, I swear I’m going to have a nervous breakdown if someone doesn’t chime in soon.