Unwritten (A Beachwood Bay Love Story Book 11)

by Melody Grace

  “I can’t believe he really does that,” I confide, grinning. “I thought that was just something from the movies.”

  Blake laughs. “I remember, you would always be curled up glued to those black-and-white movies you loved. I thought that was maybe why you went to Paris,” he adds. “So you could play out being Audrey Hepburn or something like that.”

  “No,” I giggle. “But you do feel like you’re in the middle of one big movie set. Strolling along the Champs Elysees, and seeing the Moulin Rouge up in Montmartre.” I smile at the memories, then look over to find Blake watching me.

  “Any Frenchmen audition to be your leading man?” he asks casually.

  My heart skips again. “A few,” I say, trying to sound worldly and nonchalant. “I did have a passionate affair though,” I add. Blake frowns. “With the macarons at Laudree,” I explain quickly. “I don’t know how French women stay so slim when they’re surrounded by all those amazing pastries!”

  “You look great,” Blake murmurs. He catches my eye, and I look away, blushing. There’s another long pause, but this time, it’s full of nervous anticipation.

  “I should, um…” I gesture back at the cottage. All the lights are out; Mrs. Olsen’s other guests all safely tucked in bed by now.

  “Right. Me too.” Blake swallows.

  “Well, au revoir.” I smile brightly, and quickly lean up to kiss him on both cheeks. It’s a habit I can’t shake, but suddenly, the feel of him so close and his skin brushing mine sends a shock of awareness through my body.

  Blake’s hand rests lightly on my arm. I pause, just inches away.

  His eyes are dark in the moonlight, his chiseled cheekbones casting shadows across his face.

  My heart stops. This is it. All it would take is me leaning just a little bit closer…for him to lower his head, and find my lips with his…

  As if drawn together by some force beyond us both, our mouths meet in a kiss.

  Warm. Soft.

  Perfect.

  I sway into him, reaching up to slide my fingertips against the scratchy stubble of his jaw. He tastes of beer and peppermints, and Blake, his tongue sliding between my lips and slowly stroking into my mouth.

  Dear Lord, this man could kiss me into oblivion.

  For a moment, I’m suspended in the bliss of it; the heat of his body, the feel of him so solid against me. I fall into the dark intimacy of our embrace, until finally, we come up for air.

  I slowly exhale, unsteady on my feet. I feel like every bone in my body has been replaced with molten, shimmering heat. I smile, reaching for him again, but something unreadable flashes in Blake’s eyes.

  He lurches back. “See you tomorrow,” he says, hoarse and sharp, then he turns on his heel and walks quickly away. I watch his figure disappear down the street, then the shadows swallow him up and he’s gone.

  I’m left alone.

  5.

  5 Years ago…

  Blake

  The first time I kiss Zoe Barnes is the second-worst day in my life.

  The worst was the day my parents died. They went out for groceries and never came back; just like that, a bullet hole ripped through my heart, and I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to stitch the pieces back together.

  We’ve all been over it, every way we could. If Ash hadn’t been studying for a final; if Dex wasn’t rehearsing with his band. If I hadn’t eaten the last of the cereal; if Tegan hadn’t needed two dozen cupcakes for her field hockey team’s holiday party.

  If, if, if.

  A hundred small coincidences and choices that could have gone a hundred different ways, but they all conspired for one terrible result: a patch of ice, a dark stop sign, a truck driver who’d been too many hours on the road.

  Two coffins lowering into the cold, hard ground. And just like that, everything changed.

  We spent that first Christmas alone in a house that had never felt more empty, just the four of us to make it through. And after that, things only got harder. Ash got the worst of it, I guess: he was the oldest, just out of business school, suddenly responsible for us all: trying to pay the bills and keep a roof over our heads. Dex threw himself into his music, and Tegan turned overnight from a happy kid sister to a sullen, emotional wreck. We were falling apart, so it was down to me to hold us together any way I could. Joking, teasing, playing the fool to get a laugh. Self-destructing was a luxury I didn’t get to enjoy, not when I was busy smoothing over their tempers and making sure the grief didn’t tear us all apart.

  I pretended I was fine, but it was an act, all of it. Fake it ’til you make it, I guess. I was hurting as much as the rest of them but the last thing my siblings needed was another problem to worry about. So I became the expert in playing make believe. I always liked theater and acting in school, and this was nothing new: playing a part, saying the lines they needed to hear, keeping the scene moving through the sleepless nights and crying jags. From then, it was easy to start taking classes, auditioning for stage productions and commercials by day, and going home to play the part of the stable, well-adjusted brother at night.

  I’m good. Too good, maybe. Because today it’s the third anniversary of their death, and I’m driving aimlessly through the Hollywood Hills, while the others go pay a visit to their grave.

  I glance down at the phone on the passenger seat. Another three missed calls.

  Guilt twists in my chest. I already know what they’ll say. But I can’t do it, no matter how much Tegan begs. The thought of stepping one foot inside that cemetery makes every muscle in my body turn to stone.

  It’s too much. Too black. I’ve spent so long pushing the grief down that I can’t risk a crack in my armor. Because if I break, even for a second, I don’t know what I’ll do.

  I’d rather just keep on pretending.

  I take a left on Mulholland, driving the twisting narrow road above the valley. The views are gorgeous up here, even in December. That’s the thing about California: it’s easy to act like everything’s great when every day dawns blue-skied and sunny. A city of actors, walking around with bright smiles on their faces. From the guy at the grocery store, to the girl serving your coffee, it’s like everyone in town signed some silent pact to keep reality pushed to the deep, dark corners of our minds.

  Ignore the pain. Shut out the hurt. Smile, and everything will be OK.

  I drive for another hour, until finally I head back home. I brace myself for Tegan’s silent disappointment, but when I pull into the driveway, it’s still empty—except for the girl sitting on her suitcase on the front step.

  “Zoey?” I get out of the car. “I didn’t know you were coming.”

  “Me either.” Zoey gives me a smile, but it’s tired and doesn’t reach her eyes. “Apparently my parents forgot I was coming home for winter break. I got back to the apartment in New York, and nobody was there. They’re still overseas. Turkey, maybe. Or Greece”

  Ouch. Zoey’s parents travel so much that she’s become a regular fixture at our place for the vacations. She and Tegan are inseparable, and she’s become pretty much an honorary little sister to us all.

  “I’m sorry,” I offer, grabbing her case. “But hey, at least you get to spend vacation eating takeout and watching TV with us. Who could ask for more?”

  Zoey finally cracks a grin. “I guess that doesn’t suck.”

  She follows me inside. “Where’s Tegan?” she asks.

  I pause. “With the others. They went to visit the graves,” I add quietly.

  Zoey’s eyes widen. “Shit, I totally forgot. That’s today, isn’t it?”

  I nod. “Three years.”

  She reaches out and awkwardly pats my arm. “I’m really sorry.”

  Most people say it because they’re supposed to, but I can see in Zoey’s face, she really means it.

  “Thanks.” I clear my throat awkwardly, looking around. “Did you come from the airport? You want something to eat?”

  “Yes!” Zoey practically yells. “Please, oh my G
od, I turned straight around in a cab for the airport, and you know I can’t eat on planes because I get sick at the smallest turbulence, and then…”

  I tune out her weird babbling and head for the kitchen. As usual, it’s pretty much a disaster zone. Even with the housekeeper we hired to come in every week, there’s nothing left in the fridge but beer, water, and a couple of moldy-looking takeout containers.

  “I guess we’re going out,” I say, slamming it shut. I turn back to Zoey. “Burgers OK?”

  “Sure. Yes. I mean, thanks.” She blushes, looking away.

  I figure she must be embarrassed about showing up on our doorstep. “Don’t worry,” I reassure her, heading back to the front door. “Tegan will be thrilled you’re here. One more vote over the TV remote, you guys could even beat me if Dex doesn’t show.”

  Zoey perks up. “How’s his band doing?” she asks, following me to the car. “Tegan says he’s cutting a demo for some big-shot producer.”

  “That’s the plan. But you know this town,” I add, holding the passenger door open for her. “It’s all talk until it happens.” I go around to the driver’s side and get in.

  “What about you?” she asks. “Book any more commercials?”

  I shake my head. “Nothing since that walk-on in a sneaker ad.” I reverse out of the driveway. “But I have an audition for a play next week, I think it could be something pretty cool. I know theater isn’t big in LA, but…”

  “I think that’s great,” Zoey exclaims. “Hey, work is work, and you’re getting experience. That’s the point.”

  “Right,” I nod. “And you never know who’s going to see it. It’s a long shot, but it only takes one lucky break.”

  “Like John Wayne getting discovered working in the prop department,” Zoey beams. “And Marilyn Monroe being spotted on the factory line.”

  I chuckle. “If I could time travel back to the fifties and start hauling boxes, I’d be set!”

  We go for burgers at Norma’s, my favorite casual joint just off Hollywood Boulevard. They have black-and-white photos of old school movie stars framed on the walls, and even though it’s cheesy, I kind of like the reminders of the fame and fortune that could be right around the corner. Making it as an actor is a one-in-a-million shot, I know, but being right here in the middle of all the history, it makes me feel like that could be me, one day.

  “Oh my God, I love you,” Zoey groans, practically devouring her burger in three bites. “For the food, I mean,” she says quickly.

  I grin, and steal some of her fries. “Hey, this is on you. I’m still bussing tables to make a living.”

  “My pleasure.” Zoey rolls her eyes. “My parents transferred, like, a thousand bucks guilt money into my account. Told me to buy myself whatever I wanted for Christmas.”

  She stops, suddenly looking panicked. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be bitching about them,” she gulps. “I know I’m lucky.”

  “Hey, it’s OK.” I wave off her guilt. “I know they suck.”

  Zoey blinks, then breaks into a delighted smile. “Yup. They suck!”

  I watch as she inhales the rest of her food—and flags down the waitress for another order of fries. The last time I saw her was over the summer; she stayed with us most of August and spent every day at the beach with Tegan, doing whatever teenage girls do with their lipgloss and hair ties and endless supply of bad reality TV. It was only a few months ago, but I swear there’s something different about her now.

  “Did you cut your hair?” I ask, studying her closer.

  Zoey shakes her head. Her blonde hair is framing her face in a messy cloud, and her eyes seem bluer than normal.

  My gaze drifts lower. She’s wearing a T-shirt and hoodie with jeans, still as gangly as always, and maybe it’s just me, but her shirt seems…fuller than normal.

  Shit.

  I snap my head up. What the hell are you doing checking out Zoey? She’s just a kid!

  “So what’s new with you?” I blurt, trying to get my thoughts away from their dangerously hormonal track. “How’s school? Figuring out algebra OK?”

  Zoey rolls her eyes. “That was eighth grade. They’re already lecturing us about SATs and college applications.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  Zoey shrugs. “I don’t know what I want to do just yet. Part of me thinks college will be just like high school, and I’ve already had enough to last a lifetime.”

  “So don’t go,” I suggest. “Take time out. Get a job, travel.”

  Zoey snorts. “I can just imagine what my parents would say if I tried that.”

  “Yeah, well maybe they forfeited their vote.” I can’t keep the edge from my voice. My parents didn’t get a choice to see us grow up, but Zoey’s parents couldn’t seem to care less.

  Zoey gives me an impish smile. “Can you just imagine? ‘Hey Mom, Dad, sorry but I’m going to give it all up and go backpacking in Thailand.’ They’d freak!”

  I smile. “It’s your life, do whatever you want with it.”

  “I don’t know…” Zoey blushes again. “Sometimes I feel like I’m ready to do whatever, I’ve been basically living on my own for years. But then I remember, I’m just a kid. I haven’t done anything.”

  “Like what?” I ask.

  “Like, you know, stuff.” Zoey flushes even brighter red. “All the girls in our dorm were teasing me because I’m the only one who hasn’t kissed a guy yet.”

  Silence.

  “See?” Zoey wails. She buries her face in her arms on the table, her voice muffling. “You think I’m a baby too.”

  “No, no,” I protest, feeling way out of my depth. Then I realize what she just said. “Wait, you’re not the only one. Tegan’s in your dorm too.”

  Zoey lifts her head and gives me a look. Truth dawns.

  “I don’t even want to know,” I say quickly. “Jesus, how are you girls old enough for this stuff already? It seems like only yesterday Tegan was flouncing around in cowboy boots and a princess tiara.”

  Zoey sighs. “We’re sixteen! That’s old. Ancient. I’m a spinster already.”

  I laugh. She glares. I stop.

  “Look, it’s not too old,” I argue, wanting to reassure her. “It’s better that you don’t have experience than you’re running around kissing every boy in sight.”

  “Firstly, there aren’t any boys at my school,” Zoey informs me. “Not unless you count Mr. Simpson, the philosophy teacher, but he wears tweed and smells.”

  I sit back, amused. “And second?”

  “Second, that’s pretty sexist.” Zoey folds her arms. “I bet you were kissing a ton of girls when you were sixteen, but nobody told you not to.”

  I pause. “We’re not going to talk about what I was doing at your age,” I say hurriedly, remembering a certain Varsity cheerleader and the backseat of my car. “Everyone’s different. Some people just take longer. When the time is right, and you meet the right boy…” I grasp for things to say. I’m the wrong person to be giving this talk—and not just because I was checking her out five minutes ago. Zoey can act smart-mouthed and sarcastic, but I know that she’s an emotional girl under all that talk. I don’t want to say the wrong thing and scar her for life.

  “You know what? Just forget I said anything.” Zoey looks mortified. “I shouldn’t be talking about this with you.”

  “What’s wrong with me?” I frown.

  Zoey just shakes her head and slurps her milkshake.

  “Is there a guy you like?” I ask suddenly. I frown, feeling strangely protective about the idea of Zoey with anyone. “Is this why you’re stressing out about this?”

  She avoids my gaze. “There’s not a guy. And I told you, this is too weird. Just, talk about anything but this.”

  “OK,” I exhale, relieved. I start telling her about my last audition—where they didn’t tell me I would need to roll around on roller skates, and I wound up falling flat on my ass—but even though she relaxes again, my mind won’t shift from her dilemma.


  Poor kid.

  I remember my first kiss: an awkward, sloppy affair when I was thirteen. I was so panicked I was doing it wrong, I ran straight home and begged Dex to tell me the secret.

  Apparently, it was imagining her tongue like a chocolate bar. Except, you don’t bite.

  But here Zoey is, sweet sixteen, and never been kissed.

  Her phone suddenly interrupts us, buzzing with a text. Zoey checks it. “They’re back,” she reports. “Tegan says to bring her a milkshake.”

  “We should get going then,” I say, relieved. “I have to work a shift at the restaurant tonight.”

  We get Tegan’s drink and pay, then head for the exit. I hold the door open for her to go, but as Zoey steps past me, I catch a drift of her shampoo, and something comes over me. If you’ll ask me, I’ll swear, I just wanted to do her a favor: struck by a weird mix of compassion and protectiveness, the same as the first day I saw her sitting on those steps at school looking like the whole world was set against her. Or maybe I just lost my damn mind, because before she can pass me by, I put a hand on her shoulder and turn her back to me.

  And I kiss her.

  Zoey freezes, stiff as a board, but her mouth is soft against mine. I kiss her deeper, tasting the sweetness of her milkshake, and something more. For a moment, the dark clouds of the day part, and there’s a brief ray of sunlight.

  Then I get a hold of myself and pull back. Zoey stares at me, looking dazed.

  “Now you can say you’ve been kissed too,” I tell her, feeling weirdly unsettled.

  She blinks, then recovers. “That was it?”

  I laugh in surprise. “What were you expecting?”

  “I don’t know,” Zoey shrugs. “More. From the way some of the girls were talking, it’s like the whole world stops. But thanks, I guess.”

  She turns on her heel and walks back to the car, swinging her purse.

  I shake my head. That girl is going to cause some guy a world of trouble one day.

  6.