by Liz Talley
Hunt shrugged. “I couldn’t figure out how to fix what I had done. There’s no way to go back and undo what happened, but an image of you crying over that corsage stuck in my memory. I didn’t do so hot in English class, but I remember studying symbolism. You weren’t upset about the flowers but about the rape. That corsage getting destroyed paralleled what happened to you . . . to your innocence. I crushed it. Took the beauty from you. I wanted to show you I was sorry with more than just words.”
Summer swallowed hard.
“It’s probably stupid,” he said.
Summer picked up the container and popped the plastic box open. Lifting the cluster of white roses, she inhaled the waxy scent. “I don’t think it’s stupid. You’re making amends. I appreciate that, Hunt.”
He sat for a moment, swiped his eyes, and then stood. “Well, you have things to do. Saw Rhett out there unloading groceries. David said you were cooking a big meal for tomorrow.”
She wasn’t about to invite him to Thanksgiving dinner. She wasn’t that good with Hunt. “Always lots to do around the holidays.”
“Yeah,” Hunt said, stretching out a hand.
She hesitated before placing her hand in his. It was the first time she could remember voluntarily touching Hunt. His hand was slightly sweaty and enveloped hers.
He wagged her hand, giving it a slight squeeze before releasing it. “Thank you for forgiving me. I will do better. Got a little freaked that night at the hospital, but I’m learning what it means to be a parent in the trenches. I’m done with running from responsibility and my mistakes, Summer. I promise.”
Summer smiled. “I can see that. Maybe at the beginning of the new year we can meet and talk about custody and strategies for raising a teenager.”
Hunt’s lips twitched. “So far it’s been an adventure.”
“That’s an understatement.”
Summer saw Hunt out and watched him drive off. Inside she felt odd, like she’d scaled a mountain that had stood in her way for far too long. Euphoric in a way, but also very calm. Like she knew it would come, it did, so now she could move on to other mountains.
When she walked across the scraggly stretch of patchy grass and trees, Rhett was waiting for her. He looked perturbed, his hair sticking up from thrusting his hand through it. The earlier, silly Rhett had disappeared.
“What was that all about?” he asked.
Over the last few days, any mention of Hunt had intensified Rhett’s grudge against his former friend. After years of therapy, Summer knew that Rhett projected his anger over the lack of control of his own life onto Hunt. She hadn’t wanted anything to mar their last moments together, so she avoided the subject of Hunt. But she couldn’t not answer Rhett.
“David, stuff we needed to deal with,” she said, looking up the steps to the entrance to the Nest. “You get everything put up?”
“I gave the bags to Grampy. He seemed particular with where everything went. So are you good?” Rhett asked. He asked it in a nonchalant way, but he looked upset.
“Actually, the shouting match at the hospital was effective. Hunt came to apologize. Finally.”
“For raping you? Or being a shitty person?”
“Rhett,” she chided, climbing the steps, still raw from all the earlier emotion. She didn’t want to squabble with Rhett over Hunt. “If you can’t let it go, can we at least not talk about it?”
“Are you kidding? He thinks a simple apology erases what he did? But of course he does. That’s how he was raised. Throw money at it and act contrite and there are no consequences.”
Summer stiffened at Rhett’s anger. “This is not yours to decide, Rhett. No wrong was done to you. We’ve had this conversation already.”
“So you forgave him? Just let bygones be bygones?” Rhett looked stupefied. And pissed. Any other day and she might stop to appreciate how intense he looked when outraged. But not today. She wasn’t in the mood to appreciate Rhett being overly dramatic.
“Yeah, I did.”
“God, you’re stupid,” he said, shaking his head.
She’d been about to walk inside and leave him sulking, but at those words she spun. “Excuse me? Did you call me stupid?”
He glowered at her but said nothing.
“Using your big words, huh?” she drawled, embracing the anger crackling inside her. He didn’t get to belittle her merely because he disagreed with how she handled Hunt. Or because he was going through a rough time himself. “As I said before, this is not yours to forgive. It’s mine. Just because you can’t control the things happening in your own life doesn’t give you license to try and control mine.”
“What does that mean?”
“I saw the headline on that magazine.”
Rhett went still as well water. “We’re not talking about that. We’re talking about you . . . and how you let Hunt off easy. I don’t understand you.”
She perched above him, a winged harpy. “You don’t have to understand, Rhett. I handle my life the way I handle my life. Emphasis on my, you ass.”
“I’ve seen how you handle your life. You slice away pieces of yourself. You play at being a martyr or, worse, a doormat. Your sister uses you, your kid forced you to give up your career, and now Hunt says he’s sorry, and you’re giving him what he doesn’t deserve. You let things happen to you and don’t do anything about it.”
His words slammed into her. Martyr? Doormat? How could he say those things about her? Just because she loved the people in her life . . . and willingly made some sacrifices for them? “I am not a doormat, you asshole. Or a martyr. I don’t need people chasing me around with Sharpies wanting my autograph to be happy. I’m content with who I am.”
“I’m going to ignore the fact that you think that makes me happy,” he said, narrowing his eyes. “Let’s get back to you. You could be doing so much more, but you settle. It’s like you don’t think you deserve anything good. You won’t even let me help you.”
Rhett had lost the dimples along with everything else that made him remotely appealing. He looked like an asshole deflecting his fears onto her . . . and he was sticking his pretty nose where it was not wanted.
She jabbed a finger at him. “You’re going to lecture me about excuses? Talk about being scared and running, mister.”
He drew back. “Watch it, Summer.”
“You watch it. Hunt came to make things right with me. He owned his part in what happened years ago. He can’t undo what was done, but he’s trying to make things right. Owning up to what he did was big for him . . . and for me. It had nothing to do with you. You’ve got your own restitution to make.”
Rhett’s eyes turned to ice. “I don’t have any restitution to make. What happened to me was an accident. I wasn’t at fault.”
“Technically, yeah. But you had a role. After all, if you hadn’t been there, that girl wouldn’t be dead. Have you ever apologized for your part in it all? Or are you just going to do what the McCroy family planned to do to me—use your power to crush that family? Didn’t they lose enough without your PR people digging up their lives and making them look bad?”
“That’s not what I’m doing. I’m not like the McCroys.”
“But you’re letting your people smear them. Have you even met the little girl’s family? Talked to them? Said you’re sorry for what you did?”
“I don’t have to apologize. In case you didn’t see it, criminal charges weren’t filed. Know why? Because the kid was at fault.”
“She was eleven, Rhett.”
Rhett’s breath came hard, his blue eyes hardened to ice. But he said nothing.
“There is power in saying you’re sorry. Think about that one day when you’re back in LA, preaching to people about taking responsibility for who they are. You told Bev how to treat people, how to respect and value them, and then you allow your people, or whoever they are, to tear down that family.”
“That’s not fair,” Rhett said, clenching his teeth and glaring at her.
“Life i
sn’t fair. Didn’t you get the memo? It ain’t all sunshine. Rain falls on everyone. You take a cut-through, a kid runs out in front of you, and she dies as a result. It wasn’t fair to you, to her, or to her parents. I went upstairs with Hunt and got raped. Wasn’t fair to me, either.”
“That’s different,” he ground out.
“Is it? The reason why you’re struggling in life is because you’ve rarely had to deal with rain, Rhett. Outside of losing parents you don’t remember, sunshine has always sat on your shoulders. But here’s the hard truth—shit happens. Sometimes you have to wipe it off and keep going . . . and sometimes you have to shovel it.”
“Thank you, Forrest Gump.”
Summer stared at him a few seconds, shook her head, and went up the steps, feeling like her heart was breaking . . . and like she wanted to hit something. Before she wrenched open the screen door, she whirled back to Rhett. “And don’t ever insinuate I’m afraid. I’m many things, but a coward ain’t one of them.”
“So you say. But what have you actually done?” he asked.
She walked into Pete’s house, wondering how the day had turned upside down, wondering if Rhett had intentionally picked a fight with her to make leaving easier, and wondering how much truth lay in his parting words.
She walked through the door without turning around to ask . . . and out of Rhett’s life for the second time.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
California, two weeks later
Rhett had ended up having sushi for his Thanksgiving meal at a restaurant near the Savannah airport. He’d told himself he didn’t care about turkey and dressing, that sushi was his tradition and that the crab rolls were phenomenal. They weren’t. Instead they tasted of ashes and heartbreak.
On the flight back to LA, he’d given himself a good talking-to. Better that he and Summer end the way they had. They’d spent many good days in a bubble of wonderfulness, but a mean kid with a sharp tack had stood on the perimeter, insuring they would be no more.
He’d hated being the mean kid.
At present he sat in an austere office, doing one of the many things he had to do to get his life back. Dr. Laura Zimmerman had been the studio’s choice in psychiatrists.
“So, Mr. Bryan, what’s your plan for dealing with a situation like you had last month?” the therapist asked, her blue eyes oddly piercing. The network wanted an “objective” party. Rhett was under the impression that all shrinks were supposed to be objective, but the studio heads mentioned something about safeguarding against Rhett’s charm and influence.
Dr. Laura Zimmerman had thus far been unmoved by his dimples and carefully constructed answers.
“I won’t go on a tirade. I will smile and go to commercial break. Then I’ll let Artie handle anything inappropriate while I drink seltzer water off set,” he said. Good answer, Rhett.
“Is that how you’d prefer to have the situation handled?”
“No, but I learned my lesson.”
She lifted one eyebrow, a trick he’d never perfected. “Yes, but how would you handle it if you had your druthers?”
“Druthers? Is that term still used?” he teased.
Dr. Zimmerman didn’t even blink. Obviously, she had no sense of humor.
“I would punch them in the face,” he said, before pressing his hands to the air. “Just kidding. I wouldn’t do that. I’m actually pretty nonviolent.”
“Define pretty.”
Rhett sighed and tried to remain unruffled. But that was getting harder and harder to do. Dr. Zimmerman seemed determined to see exactly how he would handle a difficult person by being that person. Weren’t therapists supposed to feel safe and comforting? This woman wouldn’t know a warm fuzzy if it smacked her in the face. “I don’t use my fists. I’m mostly calm and collected. Most people would characterize me as a good guy.”
“Do you use other forms of violence to deal with things in your life that perturb you?”
“Why? Are you trying to find out?” he snapped.
“Hmm,” she said, scratching something on her notepad. Her glasses perched on a thin nose. Her cheekbones were high, her complexion milky white. And she wore ugly shoes. He probably shouldn’t trust a woman who wore ugly shoes.
“Can I go now?” He gave her a congenial, talk-show-host smile.
“Almost. Tell me about your relationship with your family.”
Rhett collapsed back into the chair with a heavy sigh. “My parents were killed in a car accident when I was a small child. My grandfather in South Carolina raised me. I have a good relationship with him. In fact, I just spent nearly two weeks with him.”
“Mm,” she muttered, scratching some more on her pad. “And how was that?”
Soul-stirring, cathartic, beautiful, wonderful . . . sad. “Fine.”
“And what about relationships here in LA? Do you have any significant romantic attachments? Close friendships outside of your career?”
“Sure. Uh, no to the romance. I’m in between. And I have friends.” But even as he said the words, he knew he didn’t have anyone who filled the role of mentor, confidant, or good buddy. His housekeeper, Marta, probably didn’t count since he paid her to be around.
“You said ‘in between.’ Can you give me more details on what exactly that means?” Her watery eyes pinned him to the upholstery. No blinking. He wondered if she ever blinked.
“I guess that didn’t sound right. What I mean is that I just got out of a relationship.”
“Okay. Can you categorize that relationship? Was it serious? Casual?”
What he’d had with Summer over those weeks should have been casual, but it felt anything but. Since he’d come home from South Carolina, leaving a day early because he couldn’t face sitting across from her raving about stupid turkey, he’d felt adrift. All the good accomplished in Moonlight had pulled away from him, like a tide going out, sucking at his soul. Sound sleep had fled, to be replaced with tossing and turning, and his old friend bourbon had shown back up to mooch off his emotions and numb him to the hard stuff in his life. He lusted for the easy comfort of South Carolina. He thirsted for the warmth Moonlight and Summer had wrapped him in. “More casual, I guess. She’s someone I’ve known forever, and when I went back home, we sort of fell into something.”
“Fell into something?”
“Yeah, but it couldn’t last because I’m here and she’s there.”
“This was sexual in nature, I’m assuming?”
“Yeah, but it wasn’t limited to sex. Summer and I go way back. We’re friends, too. She’s a remarkable woman, really. If things weren’t so hard . . .” He trailed off because he didn’t know how to finish that. He’d stay with her? Date her? Marry her? He hadn’t thought much about what-ifs because he’d had too many have-tos in his life.
Dr. Zimmerman arched the other eyebrow and waited.
“She made me feel like a human again. Like I wasn’t merely a made-up person on television. Perhaps I lost sight of myself out here. Pushing myself and keeping my eye on the prize became paramount. Then I got the prize and I wasn’t satisfied.”
“A common problem in LA,” Dr. Zimmerman said, almost sounding human herself.
“Yeah, it is. You asked about relationships, and the truth is that I don’t have any outside of work. Sounds crazy because I grew up with healthy relationships all around me. I’ve worked hard to be this person I thought I wanted, and now I’m somebody I barely recognize . . . except when I went home. There, I felt real . . . even needed. I fixed the railing on Grampy’s deck, took Summer’s kid to baseball, saw old friends, and—” He paused because he had been about to say he’d fallen for Summer.
But that couldn’t be true because people don’t fall in love in a matter of weeks . . . even if they had known the person forever. That sounded ridiculous.
“Let’s just say I escaped for a while, but it wasn’t the real world.”
“And this is?” she asked.
He stared at her for a few seconds. “It’s my worl
d. Or at least it was.”
Dr. Zimmerman looked at her watch. “Our time is about up, but I’m not quite finished with my evaluation. Do you think you can come back next week?”
“I’ll have to look at my schedule.”
“Are you still seeing”—she flipped through the chart at her elbow—“Angela Goodman?”
“Not any longer.”
“I would suggest regular therapy, Mr. Bryan. You underwent a traumatic experience.”
“I know, but I’m fine.” He wasn’t, but paying someone hundreds of dollars to talk about his feelings and then still not being able to sleep or taste food didn’t make sense. He hadn’t been getting any better, so he’d stopped going.
Dr. Zimmerman didn’t say anything to that claim. She merely stared at him.
“Okay, fine. I’ll go back to therapy.”
“That would be wise. See Denise and schedule something for next week on your way out.” Dr. Zimmerman turned in her swivel chair and started tapping on her laptop, effectively dismissing him.
“Bye,” he said lamely.
“Goodbye,” she said, not looking up.
Rhett rolled his eyes and went out to see Denise. Dr. Zimmerman was weird as shit, but he scheduled an appointment with her for the following Thursday. He told himself it was because the network required it of him, but if pressed he would admit talking to someone who wasn’t all “own your feelings” was therapeutic. He nearly laughed at that thought.
Needing some fresh air to clear his head, he headed for the Pacific Coast Highway. Traffic was lighter than normal for some reason, so it only took him an hour. Five minutes after that, he walked along the beach, pants rolled up, collar unbuttoned, wind in his hair.
Gulls pirouetted above him as he let the water roll over his toes. Surfers paddled, the sun shone, and kids shrieked. Quintessential California. There was even the faint scent of pot on the breeze.
He shouldn’t have left Summer the way he had. Packing up in the middle of the night and leaving her a lame-ass Dear John letter made him the lowest of low. Their heated discussion had gotten out of control. Rhett had said some horrible things to her, things that weren’t even true. Jealousy and some crazy inclination to hurt her before she could hurt him had reared twin heads and hissed that he should strike and leave before love crippled him. So he’d listened to the ugly and spouted absolute trash.
