Page 7 of Your Play to Call

Critics always come out in full force during times like this, but this time, the noise was deafening. Everywhere I turned, there was a tabloid askingWhen Will Enough Be Enough for Willow?orHas Willow Run Out of Men to date?

Whether it was magazines, blogs, or people shouting the same questions whenever I stepped outside, I couldn't escape it. Mentally, I needed a break. I needed to spend time with myself to figure out if I was worth staying for.

So, I did something Dexter would’ve been proud of. I hid. I desperately needed to do some soul searching.

I retreated to the first house I ever bought. It’s nestled in the woods, about an hour from the city. The tree line serves as a much-needed, makeshift fence before the actual security perimeter. I was only 18 when I purchased this place, and we took every precaution to conceal my identity. Right from the beginning, I knew I needed a place that was just for me.

I wanted the ability to be somewhere no one knew about. I craved writing new music in peace, without anyone charting my every move in and out of the studios in the city. It’s been a saving grace these last five months.

As soon as Dexter left his key and closed our apartment door for the last time, I packed my bags, and snuck out the back. The paparazzi had no idea I’d left.

I hired a new assistant, Emilie, to help me day to day. She brings groceries and anything I need from the city. Since there’s no previous business tying us together, the press has no idea she’s part of my team—she’s one of my favorite parts of this whole thing.

Emilie, twenty-five and an ambitious college graduate from Michigan, took an unconventional path to graduate—she lived a little and did it on her own timeline. During the interview, I asked where she was from, and she showed me with her hands. Believe it or not, Michigan is legit shaped like a mitten. It was then and there I knew I wanted to hire her. She was the perfect pick to help me pull this off.

I needed to process this loss. The stability and comfort I knew—gone. The hope and promise of the future—non-existent.

Emilie and I hit it off right away, just like I knew we would. We have this way of bouncing between being friends and being professionals. Her knack of knowing what I want, before I want it, makes it easy.

Well, except for now.

“Dress is steamed and ready,” Emilie says, standing between the patio chair, which I’m lounging in, and the pool. It’s the end of July and it feels like summer has just started.

“Won’t be necessary. Not going.” I shimmy my shoulders, tipping my face to the sun.

I did commit to attend tonight’s award show, but things change.

Emilie launches into her spiel, one that sounds like she practiced, similar to what I heard from Claire.

I hope it looks like I’m paying enough attention, but I’ve zoned all the way out. Instead, I watch the sun glimmer off the pool.

"Are you even listening?" Emilie cuts in, tossing a patio pillow towards me.

"I mean, sort of." I laugh and put the pillow in my lap. "Listen, it has nothing to do with you. I just don’t want to go.” I’m smiling and careful enough. I aim to be gentle because she’s only trying to do her job.

Emilie throws her hands up before putting them on her hips, shifting her weight to one leg. "Can I say something? Something borderline unprofessional?" she presses.

I lean forward, definitely interested, and give her a nod—the green light to continue.

"I hate to be the one to call this out, but this, this right here—" She uses her hands to point to me and the empty house behind her. “—isexactlywhat Dexter wanted."

Ouch.

When I don’t react, she continues. “You’d be perfect for him now. Locked up in your big house. The public is a thing of the past. You don’t go anywhere or do anything. I don’t understand it.”

Part of me wants to tell her the truth. How the thought of getting close to anyone else makes me almost physically ill. How I’m sick of being left behind. How I can’t take another hit.

I'm surprised it took her this long to bring this up. It’s no secret I’m doing what Dexter wanted me to do, even though it was out of the question when we were together. I had hoped his love for me would outweigh the discomfort of dealing with the paparazzi and life in the public eye. It hurts that it didn’t.

Even if I’ve thought this, it’s always different hearing it from someone else.

In this moment, like so many these last few months, I’m thankful for her. I like how she gives me the occasional push.

“I didn’t know you when you were with him, but I know enough to know you’re letting him win,” she says, going for the jugular.

My head jolts back in response. I press my lips together, trying to gather my thoughts, the ones that tell me, in my bones, she’s right. Tucking my hair behind my ears, longer than it’s been in years, I clap my hands under my chin.

“Fine.” Emilie eyebrows raise as her eyes go wide. She freezes like she’s a statue on my patio. “But you have to come with me.” She gives me a thumbs up before running inside to get ready.