Vanessa Booke: Bound to You

I’ve been trying to avoid the “goodbye” conversation for the past week. I sort of sprang moving across the country on mom and she’s still upset with me. Despite the fact that I’m 24, she still acts like an overprotective mother bear. I’m pretty sure the only reason she hasn’t locked me in my room is because my father convinced her to be civil with me while he’s away. He’s a truck driver, and most weeks he’s driving up to Northern California, delivering barrels of wine to local restaurants.

For the past week, my mother’s been trying to convince me not to leave Los Angeles. She’s told, asked, and even pleaded with me to stay. There’s no convincing her that this is the right move, and there’s no convincing me that it isn’t. Dad always tells me that I got my stubbornness from her. I think he might be right. We’re both relentless in our nature.

“I know you’re worried,” I say, grabbing the last pile of outfits off my bed and stuffing my phone back into my pocket. There isn’t enough time in the world to try to explain to her why I needed to leave California ASAP.

“Of course I am. I don’t understand why you’re moving across the world?”

“Don’t exaggerate.”

“I’m not, I think you should stay and find work here. You won’t like it in New York.”

“This is a great opportunity. I’m surprised you’re against it, you always told me to go for my dreams,” I say. “And you were always the one saying how living in New York was such a big deal for you when you were my age.”

“I think it’s great you’re going after your dreams, Rebecca, but I just wish that meant you living in Los Angeles. How do you know if you’ll even like New York?”

It’s true. I’ve never been to New York City. I’ve only seen it in pictures, movies, my mother’s old postcards, and reruns of Sex and the City . But the thought of going somewhere new is exciting. I need it. Staying in California means facing reality, and my reality is I’m recently single, because my boyfriend of three years cheated on me with his TV co-star. I’ve permanently set Miles’ ringtone to Puddle of Mudd’s She Hates Me.

It doesn’t help that every inch of this state reminds me of him; from the concert at the Roxy in West Hollywood where we had our first date, to the Getty Museum where he asked me to be his girlfriend, to Malibu Beach where he proposed. There’s no getting around him. And the worst part is – I miss him.

“Carol is offering me a couch to crash on until I find work. Her cousin Ken gave me a great reference at StoneHaven Publishing. He’s an Associate Editor there.”

“Carol Livingston?” she asks.

“Yes, you remember her, right? She was my college roommate at UCLA.”

“What is she doing in New York?”

“She does freelance public relations. She works with a lot of big name clients.”

Carol graduated two years before me and she moved to New York right away. It didn’t take long for her to find her niche. She’s great at what she does, and now she’s making the big bucks. After she left, we never lost touch. She kept inviting me to come to New York, but I could never make it because of school. Despite the thousands of miles between us, we stayed best friends. I called her for advice on moving to NY. She didn’t hesitate for a second. Within a few minutes I received a text confirming a booking for a flight from LAX to the JFK airport. She had paid for my airfare.

“What about graduate school?” my mother says, pulling out my acceptance letter from my dresser.

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that.” I grab the letter from her and stuff it back inside. “I don’t know if I’m still going.”

“Is this because of Miles?”

Just hearing his name sends my heart flip-flopping. It’s hard keeping things from my mother. She’s good at reading me – too good. I hadn’t explained my fiancé’s absence, but there’s never a good way of telling someone that the person you were planning to marry cheated on you – get ready for the fire and pitchforks.

The sound of buzzing echoes from the front door all the way to the back of the house. I’m not expecting anyone... I look up at my mother, and the slight smirk on her face gives me the feeling that she is.

“I wonder who that is,” she says nonchalantly.

“Mother, who did you invite over?”

“Just a friend,” she says as she quickly slips away.

I watch her hurry down the stairs, halfway running. She hates keeping visitors waiting. As I step down the stairs, I spot a headful of brown hair peeking through the side of the doorway. The voice at the door is low, almost a whisper. Who the hell is my mother talking to?

“I’m so glad you came,” my mother gushes. “Rebecca will be so happy to see you. I haven’t seen you around very much.”

My heart stops at the sight of Miles standing on our front porch. From the look of his outfit, he must be on his way to the set for Future Outlaw . He’s wearing jeans, cowboy boots, and a green plaid shirt.

What the hell is he doing here?

He looks good, too good. It’s hard not to take notice of his tan skin and hazel eyes. They remind me of honey. Deep down inside I was hoping he looked as shitty as I feel, but I’m SOL. His eyes catch mine as I make my way down the stairs.

“Becca, it’s good to see you.” The warmth in his voice sends chills down my skin as it washes over me. My heart hammers in my chest with a chaotic beat. It’s hard to pretend like everything’s okay. The scent of cedar and aftershave tickles my nose as he steps closer.

“I’ll leave you two alone,” my mother says, scurrying off into the kitchen.

“Mrs. Gellar, it was nice to see you,” he says, taking his hat off and bowing. It’s like I’m transported back in time. I hate the way he charms women – even my mother isn’t immune to his ways. Miles takes my hand and pulls me to the door. The gesture sends a shock through me and I pull back instantaneously. We haven’t touched since the day I found him in bed with Scarlett Jones, Hollywood’s sexiest starlet. On my way home the other day I saw that she had made this month’s cover of Maxim . It took every amount of strength I had not to fling the stack of magazines off the grocery rack. I was so close .

“What do you want, Miles?” I try my best to sound apathetic. I don’t want him to know I care. I want him to think I’ve moved on because I have. Or at least that’s what I keep telling myself.

“Becca, can we talk? Alone?” he says with pleading eyes. I hate when uses his sad-puppy-dog-eyes on me. It would be so much easier to hate him if he wasn’t so good looking. Not that looks are everything, but Miles is blessed with abundance. It’s like God puts men like him on this earth to taunt me.

“I really don’t think there’s anything for you to say.” Miles smirks as I put my hand on my hip. He used to say that I was sexy when I was mad.

“Would you just give me a chance to at least talk to you?” I step back as he tries to close the space between us. His presence is overwhelming. I hold back tears as a rush of sadness washes over me. We’ve known each other for so many years. How do you just cut someone like that from your life? Being alone with my ex-fiancé is probably not a good idea, but my curiosity always gets the best of me.

“Are you going to tell me how you didn’t mean to fuck her?” I can taste the bitterness of my words, but I don’t care if I hurt him. I want him to hurt.

“Becca…”

“Fine, let’s go outside. My mom doesn’t know what’s going on.”

“You still haven’t told her?” he says in a hopeful tone.

Miles and I sit inside his red Ford pickup truck staring out over the view of downtown Los Angeles. The sky is surprisingly clear of smog. It’s a rarity out here. My parents’ house is situated on a hill that has a beautiful view of the city. It reminds me of the view from Mulholland Drive. We used to love going up there. We’d drive up, pull off on the side of the road, and mess around. The few times I’ve driven up since we broke up have been heartbreaking. The scenery no longer brings me happy memories. Only tears.