Pizza My Heart 3

by Glenna Sinclair

  Devon stood at the door to the penthouse, that same inscrutable look on his face as he’d worn at the hotel in Dallas. It was good to see him, sure, but it was scary. It was also a little hurtful that he’d shown up at Trina’s, but after last night, I trusted her with my life — and that of my fake, unborn child.

  My mind raced, and I realized there was only one explanation for Devon’s presence here. The story had hit, and it had hit in a big way. That hadn’t taken very long at all.

  “I still have your keys,” he said finally, dangling a ring from his fingers.

  “And that’s the end of that,” Trina snapped, stalking across the floor to snatch them from him. “Honestly! What if I had someone over?”

  “You do have someone over,” Devon pointed out.

  “I’m not pregnant,” I blurted out.

  “That’s not what the Internet says,” Devon said grimly.

  “Do you seriously believe everything you read on the Internet?” Trina asked, indignant.

  “Absolutely not,” he retorted. “But this has your fingerprints all over it, Trina. Chaz is beside himself.”

  “Chaz is the one who leaked this story,” I said quietly. “I called him last night. Fed it to him. He said he’d ruin me if I was going to keep the baby — which is fictional — so I decided to try and let him. I think he’s the one who’s behind the photo leak. The one of you in the hotel room.”

  “He is the one behind it,” Devon said. “He confessed.”

  “Ha!” Trina cried, triumphant. “I knew he would! I knew we’d get him! I hope you shit-canned him!”

  Devon eyed his ex, humor making his eyes shimmer. “I didn’t shit-can him.”

  “What?” Her mouth dropped open.

  “Did Chaz make some bad decisions? Yes,” Devon reasoned. “Did Chaz have the best intentions? Also yes.”

  “There’s a saying about good intentions,” Trina warned him.

  “I know the one,” Devon said, cutting her off. “Chaz will no longer be working for me. But I’ve also forgiven him. He was incredibly misguided.”

  “Don’t you know the definition of shit-can?” Trina muttered.

  “I didn’t throw him away,” Devon said. “I gently fired him. Now, if you’ll excuse me. My girlfriend is expecting an apology.”

  “I’m not expecting anything,” I squeaked as he strode forward, bent, and picked me up from the rug. “I’m just happy to see you.”

  “Get out of here, you two,” Trina said, waving her hands at us.

  “I’ll have to remember one thing,” Devon said, turning as we reached the door, still carrying me in his arms.

  “What’s that?”

  “You two are very dangerous when you’re together.”

  The drive from Trina’s penthouse to Devon’s palace boggled my mind with its length. It was way too long. I craved more than Devon’s hand on my knee, creeping higher and higher on my thigh, caressing me through my jeans.

  “I should’ve believed you when you told me the truth,” Devon said, pausing in his attentions.

  I fought the urge to groan at the distraction. “That’s all in the past, now.”

  “But I don’t want to repeat my mistake in the future.”

  “Then don’t.” I smiled at him, smiled at the fact we were wheeling in to his driveway.

  “How are you forgiving me already?” he asked, parking the car and marveling at me. “After everything I said to you? Everything I put you through?”

  “How did you forgive Chaz?” I countered. “After everything he did? Everything he put you through?”

  Devon sighed. “Because I was so mad at him I was afraid of what I’d do to him. Because I realized that I might lose you, and I didn’t have the time to do everything to him that I wanted to. Because I wanted to be the better person, after all of his ugliness. Because I wanted nothing more than to find you and tell you how sorry I was.”

  “Take me inside and show me how sorry you are,” I said, leering at him, not caring how creepy I sounded, or how he might take it. I missed him. And the knowledge that things were going to be okay — as okay as they could ever be — made we want to do some celebrating.

  We barely made it inside, falling onto the stairs that led up to his room, Devon pulling me out of my jeans and burying his face between my legs. We crept up stair by stair, me crying out at the overpowering contact of his tongue against the most sensitive part of my body, over stimulated by his relentless push against me, until we reached the landing, Devon leaving his pants behind on the staircase and plunging his cock into me in one smooth movement.

  We had each other like that, loud and rough and raw on the carpet until I screamed myself hoarse coming.

  Then, we had each other gently, Devon holding me like I might break, in his big, soft bed. That was just as sweet as the first, slow and deep. We left each other exhausted and sated, content in each other’s presence.

  Devon broke the silence first.

  “I’m going to tell you something, and you’re not going to like it,” he said.

  “Uh-oh.”

  “I think you should do another interview,” he said. “Maybe not on TV. Maybe for a magazine. But I want people to know the truth about you. About us.”

  “And what truth would that be?” I teased. “The one where I’m trapping you with an ugly photo, or with an illegitimate baby?”

  “The truth that we’re in love,” he said. “That I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”

  I gulped. “Devon …”

  “I know you don’t want to do another interview,” he said. “But you deserve to set the record straight.”

  “I can set the record straight,” I said, an idea dawning on me. “And I can do it without giving an interview.”

  “You can?”

  “I guess it’s time I put my college degree to some use,” I said.

  Devon smiled. “I don’t even know what you majored in.”

  “English.” I laughed. “Fat lot of good it’s done me.”

  “You’re going to write something,” he said, his smile widening into a grin. “You write it. I’ll find somewhere to publish it.”

  I blinked at him. “You have that kind of pull in this town?”

  He spread his arms. “This is my town.”

  Everyone’s supposed to have a mom and dad — at least, that’s what they told me in school. I didn’t grow up with either, and so I missed out on that. It was hopeless on Mother’s Day and Father’s Day every year, trying to complete projects my well-meaning teachers devised to make crafts for all of the students’ parents. I would get teased — kids are cruel — as I wrote “Happy Father’s Day, Nana,” on a sheet of construction paper. But that was my realty. My grandmother raised me. She was mother and father to me, and I wouldn’t have had it any other way.

  Neither would she.

  I was born when both of my biological parents were not much older than children themselves. It was nobody’s fault but a torn condom and puppy love. They did the most responsible thing they could think of — having Nana raise me. They knew that was the best.

  And it was the best. Nana was a queen.

  Life was funny with her. She loved handsome home healthcare aides and pizza and Devon Ray, most of all. When I stumbled upon her favorite movie star by absolute chance, in a Dallas hotel, I knew she had to have a photo of him or she’d never forgive me.

  And that lamentable example of my photography skills is now infamous.

  Devon Ray himself showed up at Nana’s house to try and convince me to delete it was how lamentable it was, and still it slipped out despite our best combined efforts. Devon doesn’t want the world to see him like that, but I don’t mind it so much. I love him, drunk double chin and all.

  That was the funniest thing that happened, and it was all because of Nana. Strangely enough, and from two different worlds, Devon and I fell in love. It was helpless and hapless, love in spite of what was practical or understood. And just as I go
t Devon Ray, drunk double chin and all, he got June Clark, child raised by grandmother, unsure of herself and her place in the world, scrabbling just to fit in to regular life.

  I have to tell you a truth. Hollywood is not regular life.

  Hollywood is cameras and lights and scrutiny. It’s not what people deserve, even if those people seem to lead charmed lives. Hollywood can be cruel, and I’ve been victim to that cruelty. I’ve discovered enemies in that cruelty, and true, lifelong allies.

  Through that cruelty, the love Devon and I share only sharpened, fused together, strengthened.

  I wanted to write this to introduce myself, but I think it might be something more than that. I wanted to write this to remind Hollywood to love itself and one another. We’re all people, after all. It’s okay to open ourselves up to love.

  And to Mike and Amelia Clark, my biological parents, I suppose this is something of an open letter to you. I’m your daughter. I know that now. I’m sorry I couldn’t face you on TV, in front of everyone. But I open myself to you now, and invite you into my life. It’s been a long time. And in such a big world, with so many people in it, family is precious.

  Let’s be a family.

  My writing got a bigger response than I could’ve ever hoped for, and overwhelmingly positive. I didn’t read the gossip sites, but the tone of the paparazzi that still persisted in following our tracks changed.

  “Beautiful today, queen!” a photographer would shout, making me laugh.

  “Look at that happy smile!”

  “Devon! Blink once if she has you under mind control!”

  Well, I couldn’t win them all.

  Life even took on a modicum of normalcy, which I’d never expected. Devon’s house gradually became a home, and I loved cooking together with him. We were making lunch one lazy afternoon, hot winds tempting us to spend the day submerged in the pool, when the doorbell rang.

  “I’ll get it,” Devon said, wiping his hands on the tea towel. We were making a late breakfast feast — that’s how torpid the heat had made us. We hadn’t even managed the first meal of the day yet.

  “June, there’s someone here to see you,” Devon called, holding the door open as I frowned and turned down the burners on the stove.. I didn’t understand the pensive expression he wore until I looked past him to see who it was.

  Two faces I only knew from one of the worst days of my life: Mike and Amelia Clark. My biological parents.

  “Hi, June,” Amelia said, clasping her hands together so hard her knuckles had turned white. She was so nervous.

  “We, uh, read what you wrote,” Mike said hesitantly. “I didn’t have a single clue you could write like that.”

  “Mike, until not very long ago, we didn’t have a single clue where she even was,” Amelia pointed out. “I’m sure there are lots of things we don’t know about her.”

  Something about that statement, especially after everything that had happened, everything I’d been through, moved me. There were lots of things my own parents didn’t know about me, but it didn’t have to be like that forever.

  “Mike, Amelia, why don’t you come inside?” I asked, stepping aside. “It sounds like we have a lot to talk about.”

  Chapter 7

  Life wasn’t a fairytale. And it wasn’t a Hollywood movie, either, tied up nicely in a bow by the time the credits rolled. Life wasn’t over until you were dead, and even then, the people left behind were often left with more questions than answers, regrets, secrets, and sadness.

  It had been the right thing to do to talk with my biological parents. They had approached me, however suspiciously, and I’d eventually let them in. But those were only the first steps of what was undoubtedly going to be a long process of getting to know one another, rebuilding that trust.

  Amelia had been just sixteen when she and Mike had gotten pregnant with me. That was the main reason Nana had stepped in. They really just were children. I thought about how crazy my life would’ve become if I’d gotten pregnant at the age, and had trouble imagining it. When I was sixteen, I was safely cocooned in Nana’s love, still enjoying her cooking before she had to move to her diet on a full time basis. A baby at that age would’ve upended everything.

  My parents hadn’t simply gotten rid of me. It had been a careful decision to let Nana adopt me. And Nana had been gracious enough to propose it in the first place. If she hadn’t, I didn’t know what would’ve happened to me, or how I would’ve been brought up. I was sure, after talking with them, that they would’ve tried their best, but it was children trying to raise a child. There would’ve been too many obstacles to surmount.

  I pondered this fact as I dodged low-hanging foliage on the path, wending my way around the rocks that littered the ground.

  Problems couldn’t be solved overnight, as much as it pained me to consider my parents a problem. And my personal issues that had developed out of them giving me up for adoption weren’t going to go away overnight, either. I had trouble trusting people. And I had trouble with my own self-esteem, worried that I would never measure up no matter how often I was reassured.

  At least I knew what my problems were, and where their roots stemmed from. I was addressing them. I was getting help that I probably should’ve been getting throughout my entire childhood. I’d just thought that turning my back on the problem was the best way to get through it. That Nana was all I’d ever need.

  Her death had left me shattered in a way that shouldn’t have happened, had I been taught to have better coping skills. But I had literally believed she was the only support I had in this life. I’d felt alone, finding her here. I’d resented her for leaving me. But she’d done so only when she was sure I would be supported. She knew that Devon and I were meant to be together. That he would take care of me in ways that she wasn’t able to anymore. That he’d help me grow.

  The beach was just as we left it. I didn’t know why I expected it to be different, but I had. That maybe Nana being here would somehow reshape it in some way. But it opened up, the tiny spit of sand softening the lava rock, the water gleaming like liquified emeralds.

  There were worse places Nana could’ve picked to make her final stand. That much was true.

  I slipped my shoes off and walked on the very same sand I’d emptied her out onto, the same sand she’d chosen as the place she’d like to gaze upon during her last moments on this planet. It wasn’t realistic to think about, but I wondered if there was still a chance she lingered here, at least parts of her, mingled with the sand. It was silly. I’d watched the gray of her ash fade with the lap of each wave that came to shore, blending her with the sand. Nana wasn’t here anymore … and yet, she was. She was everywhere — in the palms that swayed, in the far-off cries of gulls, in the scent of the sea breeze, in the fullness of my heart.

  I would never forget what she’d done for me, the life she’d given me. Things would’ve been very different if I had stayed with Mike and Amelia. I understood that now, that mistakes had been made, that I’d been so lucky to have Nana swoop in and save me, but that it also wasn’t worth my time to blame my biological parents. Holding on to that indignation would serve no one.

  Just as Devon had forgiven Chaz for the agent’s multiple transgressions, I had to forgive Mike and Amelia. I’d belligerently ignored them for so many years, fooling myself with the idea that Nana was all I needed. Nana had been irreplaceable, sure, but my ignoring the very existence of the people who had physically created me wasn’t loyalty to her; it was utter anger at them for abandoning me.

  That wasn’t a way to live. I couldn’t learn to accept myself and grow as a person without addressing my hangups with Mike and Amelia.

  “I thought I might find you down here.”

  I jumped and turned to face Devon, laughing. “You scared me.”

  “Sorry,” he said, grinning helplessly. “You were gone for so long. I brought a blanket so we could watch the sunset.”

  I helped him spread it over the sand, the edge of the waves
just inches from the woven edges of the blanket, and we settled down. The sun was already so low in the sky. I’d been so lost in my thoughts that I hadn’t even registered the passage of time.

  Only a few short months earlier, I wouldn’t have been able to be here at this beach. I hadn’t even been able to think about the beauty of Hawaii without the sadness of Nana’s death tinging my memories. But when Devon had suggested we return as a way to ride out the attention my open letter to my parents had inspired, I’d surprised myself by agreeing. It would be good to get away from the crush of Hollywood for a while.

  Plus, Devon wanted to film some scenes for Nana’s movie — the working title of the film he had decided to make after all. Trina would be arriving next week, as was the kindly old actress I’d helped cast for Nana’s role. She’d conveyed a sense of Nana even as she snuck cigarettes between readings, which somehow seemed to me a very Nana thing to do — taking care of herself and her interests. I smiled to think of Nana flirting with all of the handsome home healthcare aides who passed through our house in Dallas, wearing spangly shirts.

  “What are you smiling about?” Devon asked, looping his arm around me.

  “The state of things,” I said, resting my head on his shoulder.

  “All good, I hope?”

  “Of course.”

  Trina had proven herself true, only staying on with the film after she’d asked me if I approved. I’d sat in on some of her readings, and was impressed by her range. Of course, I only knew her as the mildly foul-mouthed ex-girlfriend of my boyfriend, and that her phone number was good to have memorized in case you got in a scrape. She was going to be a good friend — she already was one. I could tell.

  “I wanted to give you something,” Devon said. The sun was illuminating the clouds hugging the horizon in gilded oranges and reds and pinks. I wondered if it was as magnificent as Nana’s last sunset here. I didn’t remember the colors of the sky that evening. Only my own grief.

  He was fishing around in his pocket until he produced a small velvet box.

  “Devon …” My voice was a disapproving warning.