As the intensity of the Jungle of Us shoot finally came to an end, Clay found himself resurfacing into a bitter, lonely reality.
It was hard for him to recognize the man who overreacted to the viral photograph. It seemed like the actions of Illusion Clay, the invented one. The very thing he was afraid of happening—Illusion Clay taking over his life—had happened.
He’d been a controlling dick. He’d blown it.
But it’d been weeks. Even though he missed Zia, the best thing he could do for her was leave her alone. When the flirty makeup artist put her hand on his thigh at the wrap party, he leaned in, feigning interest. But then he remembered Zia pretending to be a makeup artist when she returned his wallet. How easy it had been between them, how thrilling. And the spark he’d been hoping to breathe into a cleansing fire with the actual makeup artist promptly went out.
Now, back in New York, the penthouse felt huge and empty. An assistant, some eager undergrad sent to pick him up at the airport, helped Clay with his luggage, chattering about the week’s schedule of meetings and phone calls and appearances and invites. Clay only half listened, inspecting the fridge. Nothing but condiments. The prospect of ordering groceries and cooking for one felt depressing. Outside the city was washed gray. It used to feel cozy when it rained, full of candles and lamp light and the smell of her essential oils…
“Is there anything else I can do for you, Mr. Russo?” The assistant stood by the elevator, blinking behind Coke-bottle glasses.
“No. Thanks.”
“Call if you need. Oh, this came,” he added. “Special delivery. From your dry cleaner.”
Clay’s heart paused.
From your dry cleaner, that was their joke, that was theirs!
He spun around so fast he almost lost his balance.
The assistant was holding a tux on a coat hanger, wrapped in flimsy dry-cleaning plastic.
Oh. Right, that tux, the one he wore to Dave’s wedding. He’d finally gotten around to getting it cleaned. It was literally a special delivery from his actual dry cleaner.
The assistant looked at the suit. “Were you expecting something else?”
He’d met Zia wearing that tux. They’d almost kissed for the first time when she was buttoning up the wine-stained shirt. Clay hung the suit up, not sure whether to laugh or cry. There was only one person he wanted to tell that story to. One person he hadn’t spoken to in six long weeks.
One person whose heart-wrenching voice mails he’d listened to no less than one hundred times.
Something stronger than lust was surging through him, building in his chest. He called.
“The number you’ve called has been disconnected. Please hang up and try again.”
He felt his pulse all the way down to his fingertips. He scrolled through his contacts until he found Darlene’s number. She picked up on the second ring, sounding surprised and slightly suspicious. “Clay.”
“Hey, Darlene. Long time. I was, um, looking for Zia. Her number’s disconnected.”
There was a pause. “She just left.”
A puff of relief. She still existed: Darlene had just seen her. “Well, when will she be back? And do you have her new number?”
“She just left for the airport.”
A siren sounded in Clay’s head. He stopped pacing, rooted to the spot. “Where’s she going?”
Darlene hesitated. “Papua New Guinea.”
The ground fell away. “What? When? Why?”
“I’m not sure I should tell you.”
“Please.”
There was another excruciating pause. “She took one of her volunteer coordinator jobs there. There was a hurricane— Wow, you really have impeccable timing, Clay.”
“Text me her flight number.”
Silence. It sounded like Darlene was driving, the wet squelch of the windshield wipers moving rhythmically against glass, Jimi Hendrix playing low.
“Darlene, I messed up. I let Illusion Clay—it’s hard to explain but I need to see her. Apologize. For everything.”
Darlene sighed. “I’ll text you. But if you hurt her like that again, I will end you.”
“Sounds good.” Clay hung up and whirled around. He had to put on shoes, call his driver, grab a jacket—
Wait. He came to a halt. Shook his head. Took a breath.
He wasn’t really doing this. Was he really doing this? Running to the airport to get back the woman he loved?
And there it was: the woman he loved.
“Russo,” he groaned, thumping his forehead with the heel of his hand. “You’re such an idiot.” He stabbed a call to his new assistant. “I need a plane ticket. To anywhere. Leaving from”—he checked Darlene’s text—“uh, I don’t know. Wherever Flight HA51 is leaving from.”
The assistant babbled some questions.
“I don’t know what airport!” Clay shoved his foot into a sneaker, hopping around on one leg. “I’ll forward you a text. Wait, can I do that?”
The assistant kept blathering.
“I don’t care about frequent flyer miles!” He had the shoe on the wrong foot. He almost lost his balance as he tried to switch it, the phone still jammed under one ear. The comic absurdity of it all struck him. He had a wild urge to laugh. “No, I don’t need luggage! No, don’t come back!”
In the three separate films where he’d done a run-for-your-love scene, there had never been any logistics. But this is what he wanted to remember—the messy, confusing, silly thrill of it. The parts of his life that were just for him. And just for her.