A Safe Space (Someone Else's Fairytale Book 4) (35 page)

Later on that day, he calls and leaves a message on my phone. “Just thinking about you. I’ll talk to you later.”

On Facebook the next day: “Hey Lizzie, hope you’re doing all right?”

Via text message the day after:

Devon:
Sorry I didn’t get to talk to you this morning at the gym. See you tomorrow?

On my voicemail the day after that: “Hi, Lizzie. Sorry if I’m annoying you. I just want to talk.”

That shames me enough to call him back.

“Lizzie?” he answers.

“Hey.”

“How are you?”

“Pretty much the same as this morning.”

“Okay. Listen, I don’t know if you want me to leave you alone or—”

“No,” I say. “That’s not it.”

“No?”

“I really have been busy.”

“Sure. So does that mean you don’t have time to go get a meal sometime? Or even just hang out?”

“I’m sorry. I’ve got fifty million more lines to record for this video game and then probably three weeks of detox, clearing the voices out of my head afterwards.”

“And I can’t help with that?”

Lizzie
, I think,
you’re over the line now. You’re being rude
. Surely I can think of something safe to do with him.

“All right,” I relent. “How brave are you?”

“What do you mean?”

“I have a red-carpet event next Saturday. Let me rent you a tux?”

“Which of those is supposed to require the bravery?”

I laugh. “The red carpet. I promise I won’t rent you a purple leisure suit or anything.”

“So hang on—you want me to be seen with you in public, where pictures might get taken?”

“Yeah…well… So we’d just be there as friends. There will be media and tons of other people and… Maybe we shouldn’t—”
Crap
, I think. Someone in the media will match him up to that kissing picture sooner or later. What was I thinking?

“Yeah, of course I’ll go with you,” he says hastily. “As a friend. I’m good with that.”

It’d be too rude to back out now. “All right. I’ll get you the details tomorrow morning.”

“Okay.” His voice is brighter. “Cool.”

On Saturday, he seems completely at ease on the red carpet, his hand on the small of my back as we walk into the charity fundraiser gala I’m a guest at. The photographers show more interest in me than I expected as I pose for photo after photo. Devon hangs back.

“And who’s this?” they ask.

Without hesitation, he says, “I’m a friend. We met through her charity work years ago.”

“Just a friend?” a woman with a recording device asks.

Devon blinks as if this is the weirdest question he’s ever heard. “Yeah…”

Even I’m convinced that the very idea of him being more than a friend is absurd. I breathe a sigh of relief. We’re probably safe from rumors based in any kind of fact. Once we’re inside the hotel ballroom where the event is being held, I smile up at him.

“Did I do okay?” he asks.

I nod. “Yeah. Perfect.”

He looks down at me. “You look beautiful.”

My face flushes warm. I’m in a dusky-rose, off-the-shoulder gown with white-crystal embellishments, and compared to how normal people dress, it is totally over the top. My heels are four inches high, which makes me only slightly shorter than he is.

“Thanks.” I scan the tables for our place cards.

Devon takes in the crowd as he follows me. “Okay, so is this normal?” he asks in a low voice. “The tables are set up so that everyone can stare at you eating?”

“Sometimes.” I find our seats and we slide into them.

“Sorry in advance if I eat with the wrong fork or anything,” he says, surveying the table settings.

“Start from the outside and work your way in.”

“Right.”

“And I will
totally
ditch you if you get it wrong.”

He smiles at me with that twinkle in his eye. “Gotcha.”

The first speaker gets up and coughs into the microphone and everyone turns to face him.

I grip the edge of my seat with one hand as I pivot to see the stage.

“Welcome, everyone,” the speaker begins. “Welcome to the fifth annual…”

His voice doesn’t actually trail off, I don’t think. I just lose my focus because I feel Devon’s hand brush against the backs of my fingers.

I turn to look at him.

He freezes.

I look past him at the crowd.

Everyone in the room bursts into applause, and even though I don’t know what they’re clapping about, I lift my hand away from his and join in.

He follows suit and, for the rest of the event, keeps his hands to himself.

On the ride home, Devon is withdrawn. He stares out the window and fidgets as if he’s just been the victim of some kind of public prank.

I have my shoes off and drive my car barefoot. It’s too hard to do in heels.

Is this it?
I wonder. I
s this him deciding I’m not worth the trouble?

He isn’t smirking or telling me that we’ve had a misunderstanding though. He looks hurt by it all, which I realize is him not over me just yet.

I shouldn’t be happy about this, but I am. My heart is stubbornly optimistic.

“Hey,” I say to him.

He turns to look at me.

“The problem isn’t that I’m not interested in you.”

He says nothing, but he does sit up a little straighter.

“If I wasn’t sure about you or I kind of liked you, I’d totally be on board with a date or two.”

Still no response from him.

“The problem is that I really like you.”

He smiles a small, sad smile. “It’s mutual.”

“And I wish I could just take your word for it. But you broke my heart into a million pieces, and I don’t want to go through that again.”

“Sure.”

“So I’m sorry if you felt like I rejected you today.”

He shrugs. “Today was just a reminder that you’re totally out of my league. You’re from a whole different world.”

“I’m not out of your league. Today, you just got to see how ridiculous and weird the whole fame circus is.”

He chuckles. “Well, that too. Listen, if I have to call you every day for a year to convince you that I’m serious, I will, but I don’t want to feel like I’m harassing you.”

I wish there was a way to tell him that, in his presence, I feel like glass, and every kind word and smile from him starts a new crack spreading through me, so I wonder if there will be anything left when he figures out that he doesn’t want a relationship. I look like I’m holding it together because I’m an actress. I never let people with power over me see what’s beneath the surface because that just gives them more power.

The next day on my voicemail:

“Hey, Lizzie. Just me again. Talk to you later?”

Two days later:

“Hey, Lizzie. Just me. Hope you’re doing okay.”