by Stacey Kade
But now, today, to go out and play that scene, one that feels entirely too close to home—I don’t know if I have the strength.
Except I have to. I’m a professional. And beyond that, I refuse to leave Eric any further in the lurch than I already am.
I close my eyes tighter behind the eye pads, trying to focus on nothing more than the coolness of them against my skin. If I can’t stop crying, they won’t do much good.
“It’s okay,” Josie whispers. “Just take a couple of deep breaths.”
I try, but it’s hard to focus on anything right now but the clamoring in my head and heart.
The dull roar of noise, conversation and the moving of equipment coming from the living room grows louder for a moment and then drops down.
We must be close to ready. I take a deep breath and then another, trying to clear my mind. I can be Evie, I can do this. I’m certainly feeling some of the same emotions. But kissing Eric, even as Cory, I … he will taste like Eric to me, he will smell like Eric, and how will I stop myself from curling into him, from begging him to not give up on me, even when he has no reason to believe?
Home. He is home, and that means even more to someone like me—someone like him, too. Neither of us has ever known what it’s like to have a person or a place that just accepts us for who we are. And now I’m destroying that for both of us.
Hot tears dampen the eye pads and then slip down my cheeks.
“Josie,” someone hisses behind me. From the door, most likely.
I start to turn around, but Josie stays me with her hand on my shoulder. “Just a second. I’ll be back.”
The conversation is murmured at first, but the other person’s excitement—I think it’s Lydia, one of the PAs/interns—eventually comes through, raising her voice to the point where I can hear it.
“No, I’m telling you, that’s what he said. We’ll be paid anyway, but it’s a wrap.”
Yanking the eye pads off my face, I twist around in my seat. “What?” It comes out too harshly.
Lydia jolts, clearly caught off guard. “Oh. Um. We’re wrapping today? I guess? Eric just said that we’re done, and we’ll be paid through next week?”
Rawley’s contract buy-out.
“No.” I stand up. “No.”
My mother intervenes, stepping between the door and me. “Oh.” She tuts over my swollen eyes, touching the sides gently. “It’s for the best, Calista. Really. Now you’ll have the weekend to prepare for Monday, and I think you’ll see that more clearly when you’re winning an Emmy for Best Guest—”
I jerk away from her, and suddenly any patience I had for my mother, any feeling of debt or obligation, is just gone, evaporated in the heat of my anger. “For the best. For the best. Are you fucking kidding me?”
“Calista,” she says, shocked.
“What kind of delusion are you living in? This is not the bathroom where we’re practicing our acceptance speeches anymore, Mom. There’s not going to be an Emmy. Rawley Stone is going to fire me the first second he can.”
Her face flushes red. “He certainly will if you can’t control your negativity like I’ve always—”
“Because that’s worked out so well for you,” I snap. “You want me to imitate you? Which part? Where you’re dependent on your kids for a living? Where you’re losing your house because you can’t hold on to reality long enough to make sure the bills are actually paid instead of planning for a star-studded future that never shows up? Or how about the part where you wasted all of your money and then stole mine, too?”
Her breath catches sharply in her throat. “I didn’t steal anything, I—”
“Thank you, Mom, for not aborting me. For not abandoning me like my anonymous father. Is that what you want to hear?”
The room around me goes deathly silent.
“Well, okay, thank you,” I say. “Thank you for letting me live, for feeding me and keeping me alive. Oh, wait, except I was paying for all of that by the time I was, what, six? Seven? I think you’ve been well compensated to make up for those years now. And thank you for paying for my rehab when I screwed up, because, yeah, I did. My first time on my own, I blew it. Big time. Except, oh, wait, that wasn’t my mother loving me, wanting the best for me, that was my manager looking out for her best interests.”
Lori is pale now, but her chin is tipped up in a defiant way I recognize from the mirror. “Calista, I never—”
“So, if it’s a job, you’re fired. You’re fired as my manager. You are fired as my mother. I cannot do this anymore. You have destroyed and taken from me until there is nothing left.” The last words are wrenched out of me. “I am done. We are done.”
I turn to Zinnia. Her mouth is partially open in shock, her eyes wide with tears, the pages in her hands crumpled. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Zinn.” The lump in my throat chokes me and it takes me a second to continue. “I can’t anymore. And you shouldn’t, either. We are not her toys, her playthings to live out the fantasy life she always wished she had. Stand up for yourself. Please. I should have done it sooner.”
I start for the living room. I need to find Eric. I don’t know if I can fix this, but I have to stop it from being ruined any more than it already is.
“I don’t want you to be me,” my mother says in a tight voice. “I never wanted that. I want you to be better than me.”
“Good,” I say, pushing past her with determination. “On that we agree.”
She gasps, but makes no attempt to stop me.
Out in the living room, everyone is taking equipment down, packing it away. There’s no sign of Eric.
I stop one of the sound guys. “Where is he? Where’s Eric?”
He shakes his head. “Told us to shut everything down and then he took off.”
I squeeze past a cart full of lighting equipment and bolt for the hall.
It’s empty, and so is the elevator up to Eric’s floor.
My heart hammering in my chest, I bang on the door to Eric’s condo until my fist aches from it.
“Come on, come on,” I murmur.
Bitsy is going crazy on the other side, throwing herself at the door, barking, scratching and panting. But he doesn’t answer.
If he were in there, he would stop her. He wouldn’t let Bitsy hurt herself. As much as she drives him crazy, he loves her. It’s easy to see in how he takes care of her.
Takes care of her.
I sink to the floor in front of the door. He takes care of the people—and animals—he loves. That’s what Eric does when he has the opportunity—which isn’t often, given how infrequently he lets himself care. That’s a defensive measure on his part. If he doesn’t care, he can’t be hurt or rejected. And those are feelings he’s been dealing with pretty much since birth thanks to his messed-up family dynamics.
It’s not about control for him. That is—was—my mother’s way, not his.
Even his strong-arm method to get me on board with Fly Girl was more about trying to make up for what he saw as his past sins against me. Not the best approach, but he wasn’t wrong. He recognized that I was hiding at Blake—from my mom, from taking risks—even before I did. And he felt responsible for putting me in that situation, for the accident that led to my addiction and retreat, for the end of my career.
He was trying to take care of me. Just as he always has, from the very first day we met.
I pull my knees to my chest and rest my forehead on them.
Parts of this mess could be undone. Eric has to come home eventually. I might, might be able to talk him into continuing Fly Girl. Maybe. But the rest of it? No. That’s over.
Wrapping my arms around my knees, I squeeze them tighter against me as if that will help fill the hole in the middle of me, where my heart used to be.
Nothing has changed. I would still be dependent on him or my mom. I would have no plan, no … what did he say? No idea how to be a person.
He was right about that.
But I don’t know how to change that. I d
on’t even have a place to go for the night. I won’t go home with Lori, and waiting here for Eric …
I shake my head. He’ll never see me differently now. I’ve burned that bridge and salted the earth behind me.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, against my hip, and I throw myself sideways to get at it.
Please, please, please.
But it’s just another text from Beth. A smiley-face emoji followed by a turkey and then the sick-looking emoji. How’s it going? So sick of leftovers and my family. Ready to be back “home” in Ryland.
I start to type a banal response—okay. Me, too.—because how the hell am I supposed to explain everything that’s happened? There aren’t enough emojis in the world.
Inside the condo, Bitsy finally calms down enough to curl up, panting. I can see her little shadow in the crack under the door.
Right there, right on the other side of that door, I was home. That’s what I want to type to Beth.
But it’s too late.
And now I just want … I want oblivion. I want to just be gone. Like this place never existed, like this week never happened.
The good news is with the money in the account that Eric helped me set up, I know exactly how I can do that.
I say goodbye silently to Bitsy and the rooms beyond, to the future Eric and I might have had, and then I push myself to my feet.
30
ERIC
It is surprisingly hard to find an open bar in Hollywood at ten in the morning. Places that serve mimosas or Bloody Marys, yeah, but an anonymous, shitty bar where you can get wasted on cheap whiskey (because the cheapness is part of the punishment) without anyone looking twice at you? That’s a real trick.
But I manage it because hey, I’m not a quitter.
I probably should be supervising the end of the shoot, making sure equipment gets returned, that nothing is lost or damaged. Hell, that someone remembers to shut the door of the condo that we were using behind them.
But I don’t care. What’s the point? I’ll just send the bills to my dad. Again.
He won. He got what he wanted. And he can afford to take the hit. Plus, it’ll make everything in his world right if I’m the screw up. Again.
As the bartender delivers my fourth shot, my phone, lying next to my keys on the sticky wooden bar in front of me, lights up.
Chase.
What the hell? Nope.
I send the call to voicemail, down my shot and signal for another.
Chase calls back almost instantly, and I send it to voicemail again. This is fun.
A moment later, a text flashes across my screen, also from Chase. Pick up, asshole. I know you’re there. I’m trying to apologize.
So when he calls again, I answer. “Apology not accepted because you were right and have nothing to apologize for. Go away.” I hang up.
He calls back, and I answer because at this point, it’s clear he’s just going to keep calling.
“What’s wrong with you?” he asks.
“Everything or nothing,” I say. “Depends on who you ask. I think most people are in the everything camp today.” Chase probably is.
Calista definitely is.
She thinks I’m like Lori.
Maybe I am. I did manipulate her into coming here. But I wasn’t trying to hurt her. I was trying to help her.
Of course, Lori probably thinks that, too. About herself, not me.
And some part of me worries that Calista is right, that maybe I just pushed her away—the only person who has ever cared about the real me, even the messed-up version—because of my dad. Because I was afraid of letting my dad win. And in pushing her away, didn’t I let him win anyway? A different point, but the same game.
Game over now.
“Are you drunk?” Chase asks, his voice creased with worry, and I realize belatedly that I just said all of that out loud.
Chase doesn’t wait for me to answer. “Where are you?” he asks impatiently. “What bar?”
“How did you know—”
“Alcoholic, remember? And we used to be friends. Plus, you’re slurring worse than that night at our first Comic Con, and I can hear the pool game in the background.”
I turn around. Sure enough, there’s a pool table and a game in progress, with all the requisite clinks and cracks of the balls colliding. Huh.
“Good ears, man,” I say to him in sincere admiration. “That’s fucking impressive. How’d you … how did you even—”
“Where are you?” he repeats.
“I … don’t know. Don’t remember the name. Why? You want to join me? Hookers and cocaine again?” I snicker. This makes the man on the other end of the bar look up from his drink to glare at me. I might be being a little loud. It’s hard to tell.
Chase sighs. “You know she wasn’t a hooker and … never mind. I’m coming to get you.” He doesn’t sound happy about it.
“No! I don’t want any of your … holier-than-thou lectures.” I’m a little impressed with myself for remembering “holier than thou.” “I know that you’re better than me. I don’t need to hear it all again. I messed up. I lost it all. Hurt Calista, just like you said. And Rawley wins again. But you know, I think … I think the lesson is … is not to make better decisions. But just that it’s not worth trying at all. I think. Just easier to be Rawley’s fuck-up kid with no responsibility. No caring, no—”
“Give your phone to the bartender,” Chase says.
I’m already pulling the phone away from my ear before it occurs to me to ask. “Why?”
“I want to buy you a drink,” Chase says. “You need something to drown yourself in besides self-pity.”
“Fuck you,” I say automatically.
“I’m serious. Give him or her the phone, and I’ll buy you another of what you’re having.”
This sounds entirely logical. I give my phone to the bartender. His shirt says John. But it’s a bowling shirt. And this is a bar. I think John may not even be his real name.
The bartender says something to Chase. Then he hands the phone back to me and pours another shot with a grimace.
“But I owe you a drink,” I say to Chase. “I owe you many drinks for the shit that I said. For what I did. Except you don’t drink anymore.” I frown, trying to work through the logic of that.
“Uh-huh. We’ll figure something out. Maybe you can give me back my car. The one you took from me in that card game.” I hear the jingle of keys and the rustle of movement on Chase’s end.
Not-John pushes the shot toward me. I take it and swallow the warmth in one go.
“But you wrecked mine in the wreck,” I point out, and then immediately feel like shit for bringing up the accident. “I am sorry. I shouldn’t have lied to you. That was stupid. But you, you and Calista…” Uh-oh, Calista comes out sounding like Calishta. That’s not right. “You were my only friends. And I knew I’d already lost her because … because…”
“Because you were an idiot,” Chase offers helpfully.
“Yes. That.”
“And I didn’t want you to leave, too. Fucking selfish, yeah? And pathetic.”
Chase doesn’t answer right away. “I’m on my way,” he says after a moment.
Damnit, Not-John. “You gave him the address?” I demand. Not-John ignores me.
“Try not to run your mouth or look at anyone in that way you have,” Chase says grimly. “I’m out of practice with bar fights, and Amanda will kill me.”
“I doubt it,” I say, spinning my empty shot glass on its side. “She seems to like you. It’s that Texas accent.”
He sighs. “Eric—”
“Do you love her?” It’s painful suddenly to push those words past the lump in my throat. I love Calista. I do. But she didn’t choose me. She can’t. And I can’t let go of that.
“I am not talking about Amanda with—”
“Do you?”
“Yes,” he snaps. “Hell, she’s the only reason I’m still here. She and I…” He makes a tired sound. “She r
eminded me that we know what it’s like to need second chances, okay? So I’m giving you one. Don’t make me regret it before I even get to you.”
“I love her,” I say. “Calista.” I’m flooded with mental images of her, snapshots that I was apparently unconsciously preserving: Calista grinning at me over her shoulder on the way to the shower. Calista holding my hand in the car. Calista snuggled up next to me on the couch, her cold toes tucked beneath my leg.
Home. That’s what she called me. And that’s exactly how I feel about her. Like I have nowhere to go, nowhere worth going without her.
Oh, God, the ache in my chest feels fatal.
Chase is quiet. “Yeah, I know. Pretty sure I figured that out before you did. Like years before you did.” He gives a tight laugh. “I mean, you started a company and picked the one project in the whole world guaranteed to mean something to her. Everybody on set knew how much she loved that book. Come on.”
I sit up straighter on my stool, gripping the edge of the bar as the world swirls around me. “But yesterday, you said—”
“That doesn’t mean I think it’s a good idea,” he argues. “I care about Calista. I want her to be happy. She deserves to be happy after everything she’s been through. And you … you are not easy.”
I want to be offended—and I am, maybe, a little—but this is coming from my best friend, whom I haven’t spoken to in years, after lying to him about a car accident that he didn’t really cause.
I swallow hard. “An excellent point.”
He sighs. “Just stay there. Don’t cause trouble, if you can manage it.”
“Oh, I can manage that.” I wave my hand dismissively, but when I see the angry guy at the end of the bar glaring at me again, I wink at him.
The gentleman in question slams his glass down and stands up—he’s bigger than I thought.
Bring it on, motherfucker.
Maybe pain on the outside will make the pain on the inside go away.
* * *
“Were you drinking whiskey or swimming in it?” Chase asks with a frown, surveying me on the sidewalk outside the bar an hour later. I’m standing—okay, mostly leaning—against the bus stop out front. A big splotchy stain decorates the front of my shirt and down the side of my jeans. “And what happened to your face?”
