Still Into You (Never Over You Book 2)

by Ryleigh Andrews

  Her eyes dropped to the table with Marc’s response, big tears fell slowly onto her lap. Her leg bounced to the turbulent beat of her heart. She was so ashamed of what she had done after Marc went to rehab, of the words she’d said in the hospital after her overdose, how she wasn’t like Marc.

  She wasn’t, really. She was worse.

  Marc reached out for help; Mia ran from it, was still running from it.

  Before she spoke, Mia sniffed at her tears. “Well, that plan totally backfired.”

  “Mia,” both men spoke. She shook her head not wanting to discuss her bottoming out.

  “What? I’m just being truthful. Being honest.”

  “Talk to us,” Marc pleaded.

  “Tonight isn’t about me,” Mia deflected. She looked up and was so thankful their waitress was coming over. “And here’s our waitress.”

  “Baby girl, we are not done,” Marc said to her in a hushed tone.

  “We are done,” Mia said just as quietly. “This is something I do not want to discuss in public.”

  They both nodded and turned their smiles to the waitress. Mia wasn’t very hungry and only ordered a salad and another glass of wine—a white this time.

  After the waitress left, Mia excused herself to the restroom, needing a break from the intensity at the table, but also to give Marc and Tom a chance to talk without her there. Maybe they would forget about what they wanted to discuss with her.

  As Mia stood in the restroom, staring at her reflection in the mirror, she knew she had to go back to therapy, had to try anyway. Because being here tonight with Marc and Tom, she felt like a failure—a fraud. Not a pleasant feeling at all.

  Tucking her hair behind her ear, Mia took one last glance at herself before heading back to their table. As she walked through the door, an arm snaked around her shoulder. Her head whipped around and she saw Marc beside her.

  “Are you okay?” he whispered, his breath hot against her ear.

  “Of course I am. I just don’t want to talk about my overdose. Old news, okay?”

  “It helps to talk about it.”

  “It has been talked about enough. The entire world has had a field day with this, dissecting it a million different ways. I am done,” Mia said, slipping out of his arm and returning to her seat, unable to look at Tom. She couldn’t pretend with him. Things were not okay between them. Things never would be.

  Luckily, their meals came and the awkwardness was kept to a minimum. Tom and Marc talked about what they’d been up to. Mia listened as Marc told them about the book that he was writing and life in Seattle. She sensed hesitancy from Tom. His stories did not go into much detail. Was that because of her or was there more?

  While they were talking, Tom received a phone call. He hesitated answering it but after a few rings he finally did.

  “Hi. What’s up?” he asked the unknown caller, his voice distant.

  Mia secretly regarded him while he concentrated on his phone call. The longer he spoke, the more certain Mia was that he was talking to a woman.

  “We’ll talk when you get back . . .” Tom spoke to the caller. “Everything’s okay. I promise,” he added, a smile coming to his face.

  Mia told herself she was happy that he had a girlfriend. Yeah, she was lying to herself, but eventually it would be the truth.

  “Sorry about that,” Tom said as he slipped the phone in his back pocket. Mia had a fleeting thought about whether he still had any of the photos he took of them on his phone. She did.

  “Are you guys going to be in town this weekend?” Tom asked them. “If so, you should come to my house on Friday. Party. It’s been awhile since we’ve all been together. We can get Marty and Clark to come . . .”

  “I’ll be there! I was just talking about that with Clark a few days ago.”

  As Marc talked, Mia knew she couldn’t go. She could not see Tom with another girl. Not now.

  “I’m sorry. I’ll be heading back to California in a couple days,” she said to Tom. Marc spun around to look at her.

  “So soon?” Marc asked, not even trying to hide his disappointment.

  Mia cocked her head to regard her friend and put a frown on her face. “Unfortunately,” she answered, her eyes flicking to Tom who saw through her lie but didn’t call her out, for which she was thankful. He had his own reasons for not talking about their relationship in front of Marc. She may be curious about those reasons but wanted to not talk about it more.

  “When will you be back?”

  “I don’t know. Definitely New Year’s Eve for a show.”

  “Oh, yes! Big party with the band and all our friends. I can’t wait!”

  “It’s been awhile since we’ve had an intimate show like that in Chicago. It will be a blast.”

  They reminisced about some of the epic parties, especially the one where they all met Mia.

  “One of the best nights of my life,” she said, her gaze not leaving Tom, hoping the veiled message was heard.

  “I’d have to say the same,” he answered and the tears immediately rushed to her eyes. Mia breathed deeply, trying to stop them from falling. She wanted to close her eyes, but Tom’s leveled gaze wouldn’t let her. She focused on those blue eyes that used to look upon her with desire, with humor, with love. At that moment, she couldn’t tell what was there . . . all she could hope for was at least a little love there.

  “I should get going,” Tom said, placing his napkin on the table. “I have an early client meeting.”

  Tom and Marc stood up and shook hands which led to a typical bro-hug. Mia awkwardly hung back, not wanting to get in the way. She felt Tom’s eyes on her before he spoke her name. Looking up, she found him just a few feet away.

  “Tom.”

  “It was, uh, good to see you again.”

  This time she closed her eyes, inhaling sharply. The tears choked her so she nodded at him. Then his arms were around her and the tears rushed from her eyes like a broken dam.

  Mia still loved him and hated how she hurt him, pushing Tom aside because she’d wanted Ethan. Now she had nothing. No Ethan. No Tom. No one.

  “I’m so sorry, Tom,” she said, clutching him. “I gambled and lost. I—”

  Her sobs made it hard to speak. He kissed her forehead, down to her cheek and stopped on her ear. “Shh . . . shh . . .” he whispered in her ear. “It’s okay. We’re okay.”

  Mia turned her face to his, his lips so close.

  “I did love you,” she whimpered against his cheek. “I always will.”

  And with those words, she placed her lips against his warm, smooth cheek. With a loud exhale, Tom turned into her and their lips met. For a short, heated moment, his mouth moved upon hers, infusing her with all the feelings he had for her. She opened her eyes and found his intense, blue eyes on her.

  “Same here,” he whispered against her lips before pulling back. “Please take care of yourself, Mia,” he said, his voice rough with emotion before backing up and leaving the restaurant . . . and her.

  Mia

  Malibu, July 2009

  Mia sat in her kitchen atop one of her islands, her eyes unfocused as she stared out the window, the Pacific Ocean in the distance. She absently played with a note card she held in her hand.

  The day after she saw Tom, Mia called her therapist in Chicago and asked her to recommend a therapist in Los Angeles.

  It was time.

  Yet she was still sitting on the counter thinking about it. Being with her bandmates and Allie the past few months had given Mia a false sense of being okay. Seeing Tom showed her how far she was from okay. The need to drown out her feelings had been the strongest it had been in over a year and it was then she realized that she hadn’t made any real progress. Simply put, Mia needed help to sort through her mess of a life.

  Picking up the phone, Mia dialed the number and waited, picking at the chipping nail polish on her fingers.

  “Dr. Wesley’s office. I’m Jem. How can I help you?”

  Wait. Did sh
e really say Jem?

  Focus, Mia. Do not think truly outrageous . . . shit! Don’t say it! Mia! Do. Not. Say. It!

  Mia took a deep breath and made an appointment—for tomorrow.

  The next afternoon found Mia sitting in the small waiting room at Dr. Wesley’s office, early for her appointment. She stared at the door, fighting the urge to throw up. She wasn’t ready to tell a stranger everything. What the hell had she been thinking, making this appointment?

  Mia had an insane desire to just up and leave. She rocked in her chair as she debated getting up and walking out the door. The moment she pushed off the chair, the door opened and the therapist called her name.

  Fuck.

  Turning towards the therapist and not the exit, Mia regarded the woman at the door. Her soft, brown hair was pulled back in an easy ponytail. Her look was casual yet put together with her soft pink cardigan covering a gray maxi dress. She looked smart and pretty, not Hollywood beautiful, but close.

  “Dr. Wesley?” Mia asked.

  “Yes, but you can call me Simone. Come on inside.”

  Mia barely contained a laugh. Her therapist’s name was part of Mia’s middle name.

  Mia Isa Simone Devereux.

  A good sign, she hoped.

  Mia walked into the room, struck by the calming green décor and the inviting, chocolate brown sofa. Sitting down on it, she placed her purse next to her before pulling it back to her lap as she waited for Simone to take a seat.

  She situated herself in a chair opposite Mia and pulled a folder from the table next to her. “Your therapist in Chicago forwarded her notes. There’s not much here . . .”

  Mia wasn’t surprised by this. The lady at the Chicago office said as much. “I didn’t say much.”

  Simone laughed. “No, you didn’t. She said you were belligerent.”

  “She was judgmental. I didn’t want to tell her anything.”

  Simone looked thoughtful for a moment before responding. “So . . . it was a personal reason for not talking?”

  “Partly.”

  She cocked her head at her. “And?”

  “I wasn’t ready,” Mia admitted.

  “Are you ready now?”

  Mia focused her gaze on the plant sitting on the coffee table between her and Simone and shook her head.

  “That’s okay,” Simone said. “You don’t have to be. We can take as much time as you need. Whenever you are ready, Mia. You made it here. On your own. You will get to your end point.”

  Mia couldn’t speak. She didn’t know what to say. She didn’t expect that she wasn’t going to be made to talk. She definitely liked the idea of going at her own pace.

  “What is your end point?”

  “I would like to not have what happened during my childhood rule my life. I want to work through that and all the issues that it caused.”

  “By not talking about it—”

  “I know,” Mia interrupted. “I’m letting it rule my life. But I don’t know if I’m strong enough to fight it. I don’t know how to get past it. Hell . . . I’m afraid to get past it,” she admitted.

  “Okay. It’s fine to not trust me yet. We will schedule some sessions. I made notes to work on some skills to handle your anxiety and panic attacks that you had mentioned to the other therapist. We’ll then see how that goes. Then we’ll reassess, okay? This does not have to be hard, Mia. Not now. So, does this sound like something that you’d like to do?”

  Mia felt so much more comfortable with Simone than the other therapist. There was no judging, just a woman trying to help her.

  “Yes, it does.”

  For the rest of the time, Simone went over how her sessions would go, giving her every opportunity to ask questions. Mia didn’t; she just absorbed what the therapist said, telling herself she could do this. With a glance at the clock, Simone smiled and then stood up. “Come on. Let’s go to reception and get those appointments set up.”

  It worked out that Mia would see Simone weekly. So, in between those appointments, Mia kept herself busy. She pushed herself. Ran five to eight miles a day. She jumped into the Hollywood scene—the parties, the events. She said yes to anything Allie told her to do for the album, which made Allie happy, but it also concerned her. Mia was a goddamn machine. She didn’t want to feel. If given the opportunity to think, she would know what she was still doing, so she didn’t stop. All her feeling would happen in therapy.

  Mia did the awards circuit, the after parties, promoting their new album. At one of the after awards parties, she met a movie producer, Blake Thomas, and talked to him much of the night. His current movie was a box office surprise, raking in millions upon millions of dollars. Insiders hadn’t thought a movie about an aging rock star trying to reconnect with his estranged daughter would be a draw for audiences. Not only had it drawn them in, it now had phrases such as “Oscar-worthy” and “award-winning” attached to it.

  Mia and Blake holed up in a booth near the bar and hit it off. He was very interested in her last two albums. He mentioned her overdose but glossed over it—no big deal as he expressed his thoughts about their albums.

  Blake discussed his new movie, Burn for You, in detail. It sounded very interesting—a woman coping with an abrupt breakup with her boyfriend. Her methods were very similar to Mia’s after she and Ethan broke up.

  During a short lull in the conversation, while Mia sipped her drink and regarded the party, Blake asked her to audition for the movie, telling her she would be perfect for the part.

  Mia shook the cobwebs out of her head. “Me?” she replied, reaching out for her drink.

  “Yeah, you,” Blake said with a smile.

  “I have no acting experience,” she remarked.

  “That’s a bunch of crap. I think you’ve been acting all your life.”

  Mia sat there stunned, her hand gripping her drink, and stared at Blake, a man she had known for two whole hours, yet he had amazing insight into her. It kind of freaked her out. But Blake was right. From the moment her mother left, Mia had been acting, hiding her feelings from her father, her happy face one prime example. Her friends . . . Luke . . . Ethan.

  Blake saw the realization in her face, and with a smug grin, told her he’d send the script to her the next day.

  True to his word, the script arrived the very next morning. And lucky (or unlucky) for Mia, Allie was there when the messenger put it in her hands. Allie sat and read the script over her shoulder. With each page, Mia felt Allie’s excitement, and as they read the final page, Allie turned to her. “You should do this, Mia. You know you should.”

  Reading the full story and seeing how it had a happy ending, despite all the bad choices the main character, Sophia, made, gave Mia hope for her own life, and that made her excited. Allie was right. She could do it. It would be huge and it would be paid therapy.

  “Set it up for me, Allie.”

  Mia

  Malibu, November 2009

  Promotion for Undone cut into her running time, which was fine, because the beach was crowded for summer. But now that the weather was cooler and she had a break in her schedule, Mia wanted—no, needed to go for a run. Two and a half months until filming started. She had to get into shape especially if she was going to be in various degrees of nakedness on the big screen.

  Standing outside her front door about to lock it, her phone started to ring. It was just a touch after five in the morning—a little early for a call. She locked the house, slid the key in the small zippered pocket in her shoe, and glanced at the screen of her phone. When she saw that it was Marc, Mia immediately answered it, a little knot forming in the pit of her stomach. It was the weekend and this call was way too early.

  “Marc? It’s early, man. What’s up?”

  “Ah, fuck, Mia. I hate having to be the one to tell you this.”

  Her heart started to race, her throat constricted. Her gut told her this wasn’t going to be good news. Her first thought was something happened to Clark. “What’s wrong, Marc? Is Cla
rk all right?”

  “Clark’s fine. He’s with me right now.”

  “Then what is it?”

  She knew it was bad when she heard Marc start to cry, his tears washing over her from over a thousand miles away. “Marc? What is it?”

  “Baby girl . . . Tom died last night. He was on his motorcycle when he got hit by a car—”

  Tom.

  Died.

  Dead.

  Tom’s dead.

  The phone crashed to the ground as Mia tried to keep herself standing. Then her body was on the move as she bolted down the stairs, down the driveway, and out to road. She ran hard and fast to the beach, trying not to think of what Marc had told her. She shed no tears. She couldn’t. It wasn’t real! She held it in as she set a brutal pace along the beach. Mia had no idea how long she ran. How long she pushed herself while holding in the pain that wanted to escape. Needed to escape. She couldn’t hold it in any longer.

  She doubled over and vomited, throwing up all over her shoes. “Oh my God!” she screamed into the early morning light. “No! Noooo!”

  How could he be dead?

  Her Tom.

  Tom was dead. Her baseball cap wearing, bright wide smile, naughty Tom. Gone.

  He should not be dead. It should be her. She was the bad person—not Tom. If anyone deserved to die, it was her.

  God, why him? Why did You take Tom? Why?

  The knowledge that this man that she loved was gone, dead, was too much. Processing it was difficult. She didn’t understand how he could be dead.

  How?

  She needed to clear her head. Running hadn’t worked. Maybe the water would wash away all these thoughts, these feelings that were pulling her down.

  After kicking off her vomit-covered shoes, Mia headed into the water. She knew it was cold, but her body didn’t react. With each step further into the ocean, the tears flowed harder. She knew what she was doing, knew what she wanted.

  To end the pain forever.

  But was that really what she wanted?

  Mia kept walking until she was deep enough to swim. She pushed off with her feet and swam, one arm after another sluicing through the water, taking her further and further away from shore. She pushed on until her arms ached from the effort. Treading water, she spun around. She could barely make out her landmarks—the boulder where she often sat to think, the pathway to the Pacific Coast Highway. Her life full of pain was over there.