A Brand New Ending (Stay Book 2)

by Jennifer Probst

  “I would,” Albert said. “I just know you’d be perfect, Ophelia. The way you sang gave me goose bumps. It made me happy. It would be an honor to feature you.”

  She shot a warning glance at Kyle. “Ethan and Mia are heavily involved in the farm and her PR business—they have no time to cover for me. Neither does Harper. I’m truly sorry, Albert, but I have to say no.”

  The silence hung heavy with unspoken words. Kyle slid his hand away, shoved them in his pockets, then studied his coffee as if it held all the answers.

  Albert nodded. “I understand, I truly do. It was a long shot. If you ever change your mind, I’d be overjoyed. Just let me know.”

  “Thank you.”

  They chatted a bit about local town gossip, the harsh winter. Finally, he finished his coffee and left.

  The tap of Kyle’s fingers against his cell phone filled the air.

  Maybe he’d let it go. Maybe he’d just carry her back to the bedroom and finish what they started. Maybe—

  “Why did you do that?”

  She let out an impatient breath and faced him. “Because I didn’t want to sing in his restaurant,” she said lightly. She went into the kitchen and loaded the mugs in the dishwasher, tidied up the crumbs on the counter.

  “Bullshit,” he shot back. “I saw your face.”

  She closed her eyes and fought the waves of energy reverberating from his figure. “I will not discuss this with you. We’re not back in California. I run my own life now. I do not want to sing in public, and you’ll have to respect my decision.”

  He muttered a curse. Rubbed his head. “You’re lying to yourself,” he said. “You’ve been smothering the need to sing for an audience for almost a decade now, telling yourself you don’t need it. But it’s a part of who you are. Why can’t you take a chance? God, Ophelia, one night of karaoke is burning up the internet. Look.” He shoved the phone at her.

  The video of her singing was grainy, with flashing lights, but her voice rang true and clear; her red hair was like a beacon on the stage. In disbelief, she saw the number of views had reached 500,000. Comments rolled under it endlessly.

  Who is this chick?

  F—ng amazing. Why isn’t she on iTunes?!

  Listened to it a dozen times already. I can’t find her anywhere. Who is she?

  She should audition for The Voice! She’d def get picked.

  With trembling hands, she pushed the phone away. Emotion choked her throat. Strong hands enclosed her shoulders, and she was suddenly surrounded by Kyle’s arms. She lay against his hard chest, let his warm breath rush past her ear.

  “Baby, I know this is a lot. Just think about it. It doesn’t have to be a repeat of the past. This time, you can have it all.”

  We can have it all.

  The words ripped agonizing pain through her. Slowly, she pushed him away, fighting the tears stinging her eyes. She had to get away.

  “I’ll think about it,” she forced out. “Thanks—I have to go to the bathroom.”

  She left him in the kitchen, shut the door, and dropped her face into her hands.

  It might have been almost ten years later, but she was falling in love with him all over again, just as strong as the first time. And seeing herself plastered on the internet brought back the memories that still ached. It had been the final break in their relationship that neither had been able to recover from.

  Is that why she’d shut herself away from singing?

  Was she still running away from something she loved, believing she could never have both?

  And the biggest question of all: Did any of it really matter when Kyle was eventually leaving?

  She splashed some cold water on her face and stared into the mirror.

  They still had some time to figure things out. She wasn’t going to ruin it by dwelling on the past.

  The future was enough to handle.

  She sat on the couch, knees curled up, and stared unseeingly at the droning television. Past midnight. Again. She’d texted him earlier asking him to come home, saying that she had to talk to him about something important. He’d promised.

  His promises were becoming more like scattered offerings with no follow-through.

  The door clicked.

  She swiveled her head around, noting the too-happy grin lingering on his face, the high sheen in his green eyes. Not drunk—he was always careful about his alcohol intake—but running high on adrenaline. Work parties blurred into ridiculous social functions that had no meaning except to see who could jump naked in the pool, who could bang who, who could cast who. Yet he seemed to not only embrace this new lifestyle but also enjoy it. She used to think the shallowness of such a world would be something they’d never truly have to deal with, because they were different. They weren’t like the others, who needed attention and fame and contacts to fill the emptiness inside. They had each other. Had never needed anyone else.

  Not anymore.

  She swallowed back the anguish, not wanting to get into another fight, and hoped he was grounded enough to talk. God, how she needed him to listen to her.

  “Sorry I’m late,” he said. His words held a touch of defensiveness. “Got talking to Robbie about the new movie. Listen, I know we haven’t had much time together lately, but I’m going to be MIA again next week. Have to be on a location set shoot and available for rewrites.”

  “You can’t do it from home?” she asked, knowing many of the screenwriters didn’t travel with the cast.

  “I want to go. I want them to know when they hire me, I give my all. They deserve that.”

  “What about your wife? Does she deserve the same?”

  She cursed herself the moment the words escaped. Dammit, she couldn’t take another round of fighting. It was beginning to drain them both.

  Kyle shrugged off his jacket, his features twisted with frustration. “We went over this. I’m the youngest screenwriter to be working with such bigwigs, and I need them to know I can handle it. Anyway, what’s the problem? You’ll be working nonstop on the Popstar reality show, doing plenty of auditions and partying. I heard the network wants you to do a lot of press. So proud of you, baby.”

  She caught the deflection and wondered when he’d gotten so good at spinning an excuse, or even a lie. But she didn’t say anything, just waited while he got a glass of water and slid next to her. His hand rubbed her thigh, but for the first time in forever, she didn’t melt under his touch. Lately, even their physical connection was suffering—she felt as if she were watching them from a distance.

  “Kyle, I made a decision about something. I really need your support on it.”

  “Of course. I’ll back you up on anything—you know that.”

  She took a deep breath. “I quit.”

  He stared at her, head cocked, as if he didn’t understand what she said. “What do you mean? Quit what?”

  “The show. Popstar. I gave them my decision today, and they weren’t happy about it. And since the cast got leaked and I’ve already done promo, the backlash may be a bit nasty.”

  He rubbed his head, blinking furiously, as if she’d hit him. “Wait a minute. I’m confused. You quit the show that was your big break? The one that was going to make you a star? You’re fucking with me, right?”

  She pressed her lips together and moved away from him, not wanting contact. “No. I’ve been telling you for a while now that I wasn’t happy. It’s not about the singing. It’s everything else—the image makeover and social media followers and political bullshit and other contestants being so competitive and mean, it takes my breath away. It’s a world I despise. I couldn’t take any more, so I quit.”

  He jumped up from the couch, choppy waves of fury radiating from him. She sucked in her breath as he jabbed a finger in the air, his voice gritty with emotion. “What the hell is going on with you, Ophelia? Are you that terrified of success you’re going to quit the one show that will change your life because it’s hard? I used to know you, but lately, you’ve turned into s
omeone I don’t even recognize!”

  She stood up, fists clenched, and faced him down. “I could say the same about you. Kissing ass to anyone who has a decent contact, writing what they want rather than what you want, telling yourself it’s all perfect because you’re the man? You’ve changed.”

  “You don’t want me to be successful. I’ve sensed it for a long time. The looks you give me when I go to work functions or come home late or lock myself in a room to write all night. But you knew this wasn’t going to be easy. Chasing dreams isn’t supposed to be, and if you’re not willing to compromise, you’ll never get an opportunity to share your true vision.”

  He took a step toward her, hands out. “I get it, baby. I do. You feel like they’re trying to change you, and it’s freaking you out. But all you have to do is go with it for the show. Get your name out there and get a following. Then you can do anything you want.”

  She wanted to scream and stomp her feet and shake him so he would finally listen to her. “You’re not understanding me. If I do what they say and let them turn me into some puppet, the audience will never know the real me anyway! I’ll be trapped—singing their god-awful pop shit, dressed in tight leather pants and a crop top, bouncing my head and smiling like some kind of ventriloquist dummy with no soul! That’s not me.”

  “Just play the game a little bit,” he begged. “Why do you have to be so narrow-minded? What’s wrong with looking hot onstage and singing Miley Cyrus? Why are you such a damn snob?”

  She sucked in her breath. Tension simmered amid a bunch of other emotions too raw to decipher. How had this happened to them? How had they grown so far apart?

  “I already made my decision,” she said quietly. “I need you to be there for me. Understand this is best for me.”

  “But it’s not,” he muttered. “Crap, Robbie is gonna shit—he’s the one who got you the audition.”

  A chill raced down her spine. “That’s what you care about? That your agent will be pissed off at you?”

  “I’m not like you. I’m grateful for the opportunities I get. Do you have any idea what you want to do next? Got something else lined up besides extra shifts at the diner?”

  “I’m not sure. I just want to remember what it’s like to sing for me. To enjoy the gift of my voice without all that empty packaging. Maybe I can sing at a restaurant or small club. Maybe even theater.”

  “But you don’t like to act. You did those high school plays because they were fun and no pressure,” he said coldly. “And do you really want to sing in front of a chattering crowd who’s too drunk to care or listen?”

  She flinched at his meanness. “Why are you doing this? What is so wrong with realizing this world isn’t for me?”

  “Because I like this world!” he shouted. “I like who I’m becoming and I’m afraid of—” He broke off, his face telling her more than his unspoken words. Her heart was beating, but her blood felt so cold it seemed to numb her from the inside.

  “Afraid of leaving me behind,” she finished.

  He didn’t say anything, just stared at the carpet for a while as if it held all the answers. “I don’t know who we are together anymore,” he said. “And I don’t know how to get back to the way things were. I feel like every step I take, you’re judging me. You’re unhappy all the time, but this is what we both signed up for. What we both wanted.”

  “And I feel like you’re slipping away,” she said, caught between the desperate urge to go to him and hold him tight, to weep against his chest, to let their embrace take care of all the problems. “I love you. I thought we came to California to get married and be together forever. Yes, we wanted to achieve our dreams, but mine has always been to be with you, Kyle. All the rest is secondary.”

  She knew that was the moment everything changed.

  He looked up and met her gaze, and her world crashed down around her under the startling, raw truth.

  He didn’t feel the same way.

  “I love you,” he said softly. “But I’m tired of feeling like a piece of shit for wanting this. I’ve dreamed of being a famous writer my whole life. I took my father’s abuse for years because I knew, one day, I would prove him wrong. I’d be something and make the world take notice. Everything I ever wanted is coming true, but I can’t make a choice between you and my career. Don’t ask me to.”

  Because his choice was already made.

  He turned. “I’m going to bed.”

  She watched him disappear into the bedroom. Heard the shower go on. Saw the lights go off. Heard the rustle of sheets and the creak of the mattress.

  And knew she had to leave.

  Kyle stared at the page. His heart was crashing against his ribs, and his neck had crimped, sending a shooting pain down his back.

  He stood up and stretched. The words he’d splashed onto the page haunted him, dragging him back into the past to a memory he’d spun so differently.

  Is that how she had seen things? Is that why she had finally left?

  He’d been so caught up with his own dreams, he’d believed he was giving her tough love. Her refusal to bend to everyone else’s demands when it came to her singing frustrated him. Looking back, he realized she’d been the only one who knew who she truly was.

  Now, years later, he was famous, but he’d trapped himself in a world where he no longer belonged. He was a robot—the Hollywood scene was shallow and old, his words the same as he drafted script after script of the same formula.

  He was coming alive again. Writing this book. Being back home. Loving Ophelia. All of it gave him a deeper sense of peace and belonging he hadn’t experienced in too long.

  But he knew he had to return eventually. To get the movie made. To secure enough interest and funding to make it a reality. Were they racing toward another climax of him needing to choose between staying with her or chasing after his career again?

  This time, would he choose differently?

  He had to. Now that she was back in his life, nothing would make sense without her. He had to find a way to claim it all.

  But how?

  The questions ran on an endless loop in his head for a long time.

  Chapter Twenty

  Ophelia took a deep breath and prayed she’d be able to convince Patrick to keep the dog a bit longer.

  Harper had a friend who’d be willing to foster the shepherd soon, but she had to place her current foster pup first. Ophelia had already begged Patrick for a previous extension, plying him with baked goods to help ease the pain. Now it was way past the original deadline she’d promised. She had a bad feeling he would be cranky about another delay.

  Which is why she’d brought him blueberry scones.

  She pulled up and was surprised to see a freshly tracked path leading from the front porch to the back. The paw prints beside the boot imprints confirmed he’d taken the dog for some fresh air. She hoped they were getting along. The last few times she’d checked on him, she’d heard constant complaints about the dog’s age, his smell, and his talent of pooping on the newly shoveled walkway. She’d threatened Patrick to be nice to the poor thing, terrified if the dog was yelled at he’d die of a heart attack. Enough had happened to cause him to be half-catatonic. When she asked Patrick how she could help him continue fostering and being nice, he’d grumbled a request for banana-cream pie and her lasagna.

  It had taken her hours, but she’d baked it and schlepped it over. Now, she hoped her scones would buy her another week.

  She traced the path through the towering pine trees. She stopped short a few feet from the duo. Her jaw dropped.

  Patrick was smiling.

  He had some half-chewed tennis ball in his hand, and lobbed it high in the air. The broken-down lab limped after it with sheer joy, barking and shoving his nose in the snow, then bringing it back to Patrick. The dog was slow but steady, his gait awkward.

  The older man laughed and patted his head. Patrick’s voice echoed in the quiet air. “Good boy. You’re a fast learner. Who cares if
it takes you longer to get the ball? No rush—it’s just there, waiting for you. Now don’t forget to look pathetic when Ophelia checks in on us, okay? I’m gonna ask for chicken parm next—with her garlic bread.”

  The dog barked.

  “Yeah, I’ll ask for some of those gravy bones for you. Okay, enough play for now. It’s too cold out here for me. Let’s go, Charlie.”

  Charlie?

  She watched Patrick trudge toward the back entrance. “Charlie” limped behind him, tail wagging. The realization slammed through her, and she leaned against the icy bark of a tree, still reeling from the scene.

  He’d only been pretending to hate the dog. Pretending all this time in order to score baked goods and hearty dinners. And that dog was in on the whole thing! They looked like full partners, pretending to dislike each other and looking pathetic.

  Oh, she was going to teach Patrick a valuable lesson.

  An evil grin crossed her face. She hitched the plate of scones higher in her arms and snuck quietly back to the front porch. Then she made a big production out of stamping her feet and making enough noise to give them a heads-up.

  She rang the bell. He greeted her with a stony stare, his gaze dropping to the plate. “Still can’t find a place for him, huh? Whatcha got today?”

  “Scones,” she sang merrily, stepping into the house. Charlie was cuddled up on the sofa. He didn’t seem too interested in checking her out. “How’s the dog doing?”

  “He’s a pain in the ass.”

  “That’s a shame. Have you given him a name yet?”

  “Nah, I’m not gonna have him for too much longer. Why bother?”

  She stared into his face and caught the tiny flicker of emotion in his green eyes.

  The man was damn good at telling lies, but now she had him pegged. This would be fun.

  “He looks like a good boy. Not too demanding.”

  Patrick snorted, grabbed the plate from her, and laid it on the table. “You have no idea the work involved with taking care of him.” He grabbed a scone and began munching on it with sheer greed. “But I guess I can keep him longer—if I don’t have to worry about cooking for myself. I’ve been thinking about a nice tray of chicken parm. It’s one of my favorites.”