He called one night too, late. After 3:00 a.m. When I answered, he said nothing. But I could hear him breathing.

“Jack? Hey, you there?”

Breathing.

“Jack, you okay?”

Heavy breathing.

“Seriously? That’s what you called me for?”

Groan.

Yeah, I may have let him finish. I mean, come on. And I did only a few things on my end, just a few. But we never spoke. He never said a word. I cried afterward.

So are we or aren’t we? Seriously, someone please clue me in.

I kept tabs on him as much as I could through the Google stalking and the little bits Holly knew. He’d finally responded to her, signed on to do the next Time movie, and then went back to not answering his phone when she called. She eventually got him on the line, told him she wasn’t going to work with him this way and that if he wanted another manager he could find one. He relented but let her know in no uncertain terms that he was on a break until the Time sequel started shooting this fall. He didn’t want to do any interviews, he wasn’t doing any TV appearances, and he essentially wanted to be left alone until he had to do promotion for Soldier Boy, to which he’d already agreed to do.

He wanted to be left alone, wanted to do his thing and not apologize for it, and that was it. He was like Howard Hughes meets Charlie Sheen, with a side of Dylan McKay. So Holly did what he asked and didn’t point out that his behavior was beginning to garner him a reputation, that it could cost him future jobs. She knew if he fired her, there would be a huge line of people interested in representing him—he was still a very much in demand movie star. And in her way, even if they weren’t speaking, as long as she worked with him she could still keep the tiniest of eyes on him. And in the tiniest of ways, it made me feel better.

And through the tiniest of hints, I believed he was also letting me know he didn’t want me to contact him. He knew Holly well enough to know that she’d tell me everything, let me know he was okay but she’d also relay that he didn’t want anyone contacting him. So I didn’t.

And it was killing me. Because in the middle of all of this—this drama surrounding Jack and how he was choosing to deal with the pressure—I got left out in the cold. I lost my boyfriend. I was pissed, sure, but I was hurt, and more than that, I was lonely.

Seriously lonely. I missed the fuck out of Jack. My house felt too big, my bed felt too wide, and every time I saw a bag of Chex Mix, my heart broke a little more. Like the melba toasts at the bottom of the bag, I was broken into pieces. And kind of tossed aside like the pretzels no one wanted.

I longed to be able to share with him what was going on with me, how I had my own pressures and problems to deal with, not to mention needing someone to celebrate these successes as they happened. I’d lost my biggest cheerleader, my shower partner, and the guy who made me laugh louder and moan deeper than anyone else ever could, all at the same time. And oh my God, it hurt.

The street blurred in front of me as tears made their way from the pit of my stomach and out through my eyeballs. I pulled over as soon as I could, wracked with sobs as I let it wash over me: the overwhelming sadness mixed with my very real fear that it was over and my George would not be holding my boobies up in the shower ever again. I cried until I was hoarse, until my eyes were puffy and swollen, until I looked like I’d been hit in the face with a shovel and then backhoed with mascara goo.

But even in this moment, my radar was up, and when I saw a tan sedan turning around on the side street, I gulped my emotion down and pulled back out into traffic. I wiped my nose on my sleeve like a kid would do and hoped like hell it was just a tan sedan filled with normal people and not vultures and their cameras . . . who would sell a story with a title like “The Redhead Breaks Down.”

Are they or aren’t they? Could you be broken up and not know it? Could you be broken up even if you were still in love with him and you were pretty sure he was still in love with you too? I had no answers.

I lost the sedan in traffic and made my way back up into the canyons. I’d google Jack as soon as I got home to make sure nothing new was going on. Ironic that the same tan sedans I hated were also the only way I knew what he was doing, how he was doing. I was buying into the system that contributed to the very issues he was having so much trouble dealing with. And watching him deteriorate, watching him make an ass of himself? It was really hard.

Michael came over for dinner that night. He wanted to run through some ideas about making changes for a few of the later episodes. Now that we had a full season of thirteen episodes to work with, he was able to really delve into some of the other characters, making it a true ensemble piece.

Did any other lead actress have such a close relationship with the creator and head writer of the show? Probably not, but they probably also didn’t have the history Michael and I had. Since Jack left, Michael had stepped even more into the role of big brother. He checked in with me sometimes even more often than Holly, who was going to try to stop by after work as well. These two. They were keeping me busy, keeping me occupied. It was sweet, really.

As he tore lettuce for a salad, Michael told me about an incident during their vacation in Fiji, the “someplace tropical” he had hinted at.

“So this poor girl, who had just spilled an entire tray of mai tais all over the place, was just trying to clean up—clean up the table, clean up the floor, and clean up, well, my lap.”

“Your lap?” I laughed, reaching over him to grab the tongs.

“Yeah, it kind of went, well, all over my pants.” He grinned, turning red.

“And let me guess, when she went in to clean, Holly had something to say about it?”

“She really did. She was not having it.” He laughed and grabbed an avocado to slice for the salad. I watched him for a moment, his smile continuing as he thought about it and about the girl he was in love with. God, I missed that look. For the second time today, tears sprang to my eyes, and I turned away, not wanting Michael to see me upset. The timer went off on the oven and, wiping my eyes a bit, I grabbed the oven mitts to take out the chicken I was roasting.

“You need help with that?” he asked.

“Nope I got it,” I said, keeping my face turned away. I pulled out the dish, but eyes blurred, I caught the edge of the oven, my hand slipped, and down went the chicken. I tried to catch it, but missed, and the casserole dish shattered on the floor.

“Son of a bitch!” I stared at the mess at my feet. Throwing the mitts aside, I kicked the chicken, stomping my feet. “Son of a bitch!” I slammed the oven door and turned in a circle, repeating the same curse over and over again. Tears streamed down my face, and the chicken was now chicken hash under my shoes as I vented and raged. That poor chicken—it had no idea. “I just feel . . . so goddamned . . . helpless! It’s like he’s driving toward a cliff, and I can’t do a thing about it,” I sputtered, sinking to the floor and looking up at Michael, who was holding the salad and watching me unravel.

He put down the salad. “Aw, Grace, I know.” He pulled me up from the floor and wrapped his arms around me. I literally cried on his shoulder, ankle-deep in chicken and temporary insanity and scared to death. Through my sobs I heard the clicking of heels across the floor and looked up to see Holly. She looked at us, looked at the mess, and smiled ruefully.

“Well, fruitcake, looks like we’re ordering in tonight.”

I might have cried on her shoulder as well.