The Real You

Lurking In the Shadows

The bitch hung up on me!

That, ladies and gentlemen, was the first and only rational thought that materialized in the forefront of my mind as I heard the dull 'click' of the phone-call being ended.

A quickfire of other questions followed.

Who was she? Why was she answering Alan's phone? What did she mean by 'he's busy' ? Was it his supposed friend from last night? If so, what the hell was she doing in his apartment at eight-o-clock in the morning? Should I call again? What would Alan have to say about this? Was there any way this wouldn't turn into some sort of angry confrontation?

As those questions roamed freely through my head I had inadvertently dragged myself out of bed and was now pacing my bedroom. At this pace I was going to wear a path in the carpet. But in my mind the choice had already been made and I knew what to do. So instead of continuing this useless endeavor of over-thinking and over-analyzing everything, I headed to my closet in search of a pair of yoga pants and a sweatshirt, hurrying to put on some sneakers while making a wild dash for my purse in search of the keys to my little suicide wreck. I didn't nearly drive that piece of junk enough. It was my precious, and yet I hadn't driven my little azure beetle in weeks.

Now seemed as good a time as any.

My legs where on auto-pilot as I made my way down to the garage and scrambled into my tiny car. The engine hiccuped pathetically and groaned and growled a few times before catching on, but after nearly flooding the engine as I turned the keys and floored the gas, it finally sputtered to life.

I peeled out of the underground garage like the demons of hell were chasing me. Maybe they were, dressed up as my worst fears and insecurities. My mind was still rambling, and I couldn't really make sense of anything. My head was pounding with what was left of my massive hangover, although the effects of the alcohol were slowly dissipating, replaced by the cold fear that was settling in the pit of my stomach like a block of ice.

As I drove towards Alan's house, one single question kept demanding my attention:

He wouldn't cheat.....would he?

The logical and rational part of me was telling me I was being ridiculous. Outrageous. That Alan would do no such thing. I trusted him. Implicitly. After the whole debacle at the movie set I'd decided to trust him wholeheartedly, and not doubt his words. And yet, he hadn't said anything.

Because another woman answered his Goddamn cellphone, that's why!

As my subconscious threw that accusation right at my face I flinched, throwing the car into a sharp left as I nearly missed the entrance road to Alan's neighborhood. Could I trust him? Could I really? He'd made me promise we'd give eachother time to explain, to give us an opportunity to be truthful towards one another, and yet my heart and soul ached with the thought of him with someone else.

When had I grown to care for him so much? When had my whole fangirl admiration turned into genuine affection and my childhood crush developed into feelings I was now afraid to put into words? My head was still trying to wrap itself around the fact that I was about to admit to myself that I was falling for my favorite actor,. when I pulled up across the street from Alan's house.