Page 27 of King of Hollywood
I was so close to heading over there, caution be damned, and bodily separating them—that I was forced to resort to drastic measures.
I called Winnie.
“What do you want?” Winnie’s voice was a welcome irritation. This feeling was at least more familiar than the riot of angry, all-encompassing bitterness that had been eating me alive for hours now.
“He has a date over.” Wow. I sounded awful.
I didn’t need to say Felix’s name for her to know who I was talking about.
Winnie paused, to process. As she should. This was horrific. Awful. Horrible. The worst thing that had ever happened. Something rustled on the other end of the line that sounded a lot like her awful beast—Buddy. “Felix has a date over?” She repeated carefully.
“Yes.” God, why was she repeating it?
“Oh, honey.” There was so much pity in that single phrase I nearly threw my phone against the wall.
“Do not ‘Oh, honey’ me. This means nothing. We’re not…dating. We haven’t! Not even once. I barely asked him out.” I was trying to convince myself, more than her, and I hated how obvious that was—and also how manic I sounded. “He can date whoever he wants to date, it doesn’t mean our date won’t happen—or that he won’t find it special. Or that he’ll compare me to the mystery man. Oh god, I need to get him flowers. I have to get him flowers! If I don’t, I’ll already be losing. I can’t lose, Winnifred. I can’t. I hate it. You know I hate it. I hate losing almost as much as I hate pickles. Do you think they’re kissing? Oh god. No. No, no, no, no.”
“Some people like to kiss.”
“You bitch. How could you say that to me?”
“I’m just saying—” Winnie laughed, though her tone softened. “It’s okay. There’s no need to panic. It’s not like he’s over there getting married two days before your date. Maybe he planned this before you asked him?” She offered, obviously trying to make me feel better—and wisely ignoring my current downward spiral.
“Maybe,” I chewed on my lip, pacing my kitchen because it had the best view across the street. The car was still there. “But why? Why must he date at all?”
“If he didn’t date, he wouldn’t have said yes to you.” She was right and I hated her for it.
“But he was so reluctant—”
“…Yes…” Winnie sighed, “but he said yes, didn’t he?”
“Then, is it just me he was reluctant with?”
“I don’t know, Marshall.”
My ego had never taken a hit quite like this.
“I…” Fuck. I sat down, chair scraping. The lights were on in Felix’s teetering horror mansion of a home. “I don’t understand.”
“I know you don’t, buddy.” Winnie’s voice was uncharacteristically gentle. “You know what I think would help?”
“What?” Why was the stranger’s car still there? Christ. It was eleven p.m.. That was far too late for visitors. If they were having sex I was going to—I don’t know what. Scream? Burn the house down? Bodily separate them with a yardstick? Slice Felix’s date’s throat open—then move Felix across the country and lock him away where no one could ever ogle him ever again. Somewhere so far away even Amazon couldn’t deliver more stupid hats to him.
“Why don’t you ask him?” Winnie’s voice somehow filtered through my murderous, kidnapping plans.
“Ask…him?” That…hadn’t occurred to me.
“Or, you know, you could just kill the dude. Get rid of the competition.” Winnie was joking. I knew she was joking—because she was not a member of The Club. Not the literal club, or any sort of metaphorical murder club thereof. But that didn’t make her suggestion any less appealing.
I didn’t need to talk to Felix.
Ha!
Talking.
Fuck that.
No thank you.