by Elise Faber
Chocolate eyes met mine, held mine in place when I wanted to look away.
But I wasn’t going to look away.
“Baby.”
I sighed. “I’m struggling,” I murmured. “This would be so much easier for you, for your family, if we just weren’t together.”
His hand dropped to my arm. “Don’t say that.”
I spun away. “How can I not?” I reached for the dough again but stopped when Damon shifted to the side, blocking me. I threw up my hands. “Your dad couldn’t go to work this morning. Your mom had to unplug the phone. They can’t go in their front yard. Because of me!”
“This isn’t your fault.”
“I know!” I snapped, pacing away. “And I love you for saying that, for being so calm and patient when you wouldn’t have even been involved in this if it weren’t for me, but—”
He stepped in front of me mid-pace, snagging my shoulders, and halting my progress. “I’m here because I love you.”
I sniffed. “But your parents, this was just supposed to be a quick, fun visit, and I’ve ruined it.” Another sniff. “They’re prisoners in their own house!”
“They’re fine,” Damon said. “Maggie promised your phone with the new number would be here today. You two will get an uninterrupted conversation and can figure out your next step—”
“That’s just it,” I said. “I don’t know my next step. The studio has delayed filming for a few weeks, offered another PR firm to help, but I don’t know what to do.”
“You’ll figure it out.”
“What Damon?” I asked, pulling out of his hold. “My next move is what? Should I become some sort of ambassador for marriage laws? I want them to be changed, absolutely,” I said. “No one should be married off at thirteen or fourteen or at any age before they can rationally consent. But my marriage wasn’t the worst of it. There were so many issues intertwined that made it complicated.” I went over to the tortilla-maker, shoving a ball of dough inside, and pulling down harshly on the handle. I yanked it back open to reveal a perfect tortilla inside.
So, that was the key to smoothly round circles of dough.
A proper dose of rage about the past.
“What makes it complicated?”
I grabbed another ball, put it inside. “I was preyed upon by a predator, not protected by my parents,” I said and closed it. “I was failed by a legal system that allowed for one judge to sign off on a thirteen-year-old getting married.” Open . . . to reveal another perfect tortilla.
Great. I was on a roll. Finally.
“And,” I said, powering my way through more dough. “My experience wasn’t a one-off. Two hundred thousand minors are married a year. Just in the US.” Another tortilla, another ball of dough. “Not all of those were thirteen or fourteen or even all female, of course, but too many were too young, too naïve, and forced, coaxed, or threatened into marriage.” I sniffed, blinking back tears. “And those numbers don’t begin to speak about the twelve million girls around the world who marry before they’re eighteen. Many are preyed upon like I was. They miss out on school, aren’t safe and protected, don’t have access to birth control, have high-risk pregnancies because they can’t seek good health care, and there isn’t anyone who is looking after them—”
Soft, warm hands covered mine on the tortilla maker’s handle. Not Damon’s this time, but Bella’s.
“And there’s your next step, darling,” she said.
I turned to face Bella. “What?”
She tsked, thumb coming up to wipe beneath each eye. “These girls need you,” she murmured. “You have a chance to help some of them.”
“But—” I shook my head. “I don’t know where to begin. I’m not . . . an expert on social progress. I don’t make policy. I’m just a girl who happened to live through a common experience.”
“That’s why,” Damon whispered. “Because you understand. You don’t need to create a policy or to drive forward social progress. You just need to share your past.”
“But so many have gone through so much worse.”
“No.” Belle cupped my cheeks for a moment before letting go. “You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to minimize the trauma you went through because you think someone else had it worse. Your trauma doesn’t have to be quantified to be real.”
“I—”
My words faltered. I didn’t know what to say to that. She was right, of course, I wouldn’t dare tell another person to not be hurt just because someone else might have been hurt more.
“I know your parents failed you,” Belle murmured, “and I’m so sorry for that. I also know I’m meddling in your life when we’ve just begun to know each other and that you have every right to tell me to go to Hell—”
“Belle, I wouldn’t—”
“I know,” she murmured. “Because I see the way you look at my son. I saw the way you looked through his camera lens, your pain piercing my heart when Damon showed me that photograph all those years ago. I see the shadows in your eyes and the way you lift your chin to keep moving forward. You’re a good person, Eden.”
Damon slipped his arm around my shoulders just when my lips parted, readying to argue or protest or . . . I don’t know, do something to discount how much those words meant. “I love you,” he murmured. “And this is how real parents act. They support, they love without restriction.” A kiss to my temple. “Because you’re worthy of love, baby. So worthy.”
“Yes,” Belle said softly “You are, sweetie. Without qualification.”
“I don’t—” I broke off, eyes drifting away, so many emotions knotting in my stomach, so much of my past wanting to jump forward and deny the words. But then I saw that Diego was leaning against the doorframe, eyes soft, but expression gentle.
“She’s right,” he murmured.
I sucked in a long, slow breath. Released it.
But then my lips curved, tucked what they were telling me safely inside my heart and said, “Words a woman loves to hear.”
Diego nodded at Damon. “Take notes, son.”
Damon chuckled. “I am. Believe me, I am.”
Diego came over to us, gently squeezing my arm. “You’re welcome here, welcome to stay as long as you need. Honestly, working from home is a treat—”
“You say that now.”
“No,” Belle said. “He says it because his team is thrilled to not have him underfoot, and he can have a beer at three in the afternoon.”
Diego didn’t refute this, just headed to the fridge and extracted a bottle. I glanced at the clock, and the rest of my melancholy faded . . . because it was three minutes after three in the afternoon.
“Clockwork,” Belle murmured.
I grinned then felt my eyes burn again. They were just so wonderful and different from what I’d grown up with. It was almost like being in a dream or a movie scene. I was going to wake up or the director would call cut, and I’d be right back to where I was before.
And all of this wonderful would be gone.
Damon tugged me a little closer and I rested my head on his shoulder. “I guess, I never dreamed that your family might be like this.”
“Meddling?” Belle asked lightly, nudging us aside and going to work on the tortillas. At this rate, we’d be making enough to start our own line of them.
“Lovely,” I said, nuzzling into his chest. “Accepting.” I inhaled. “I should have known because Damon is so special, but I never even began to hope that I might be able to be part of something so wonderful.”
Belle continued to crank through the dough. “Part of why I care, sweetie, is because your love for my son is so bright in your eyes.” Her eyes drifted to mine. “And the other is because you’re absolutely wonderful and deserve it.”
Words. Just words.
But they wove their way into my heart as effectively as Damon had, as effectively as his parents had, and instead of tying me up, instead of dragging me down to Earth by the ankles, they lifted me up. They gave me courage an
d the wings to soar.
I could do this.
I could make a difference.
“I have a chance here,” I whispered, more to myself than the room at large. “And I’m not going to waste it.”
Nineteen
Damon
Eden was in my parents’ living room, a camera opposite her, Maggie, her publicist, hovering nearby, and she was speaking to the primetime anchorwoman, when the news hit.
I noticed Maggie first, or rather the cell phone that kept vibrating in her hand, her eyes repeatedly flicking down at it, her face growing increasingly pale.
Then I saw the producer of the segment do the same, her eyes growing wide.
And finally, my cell began to buzz.
Colleen.
That fucking asshole.
Along with that sentiment, she’d sent a link to a story with the headline, Emails Leaked Show that Grant Seagurio Hired PI to Expose Eden Larsen’s Past.
“What the fuck?” I exclaimed, interrupting Eden’s announcement that she’d just partnered with several organizations and was starting her own to look into the problem of child marriage here and abroad.
At least my interruption hadn’t been while she was discussing her past.
Still, it was jarring enough that both Eden and the news anchor’s heads whipped in my direction. Eden took one glance at my face and pushed out of the chair, coming toward me.
“What’s the matter?” she asked.
I showed her my phone. She clicked on the link and began reading what was inside.
* * *
“It was revealed today that Grant Seagurio, the star of Somewhere, From the Top, and the horror franchise, Hammer Head, apparently hired the private investigator that discovered the marriage from Eden Larsen’s past. The following emails were released by the private investigator, Hank Talbot, after Mr. Seagurio refused to pay Mr. Talbot’s fees. They detail the actor’s need to find a way to discredit Ms. Larsen because he was upset that she’d received top billing and a larger trailer for their joint project . . .”
* * *
The article went on to detail that Talbot had, at first, refused to send over what he’d discovered but that Grant had promised to pay double. Money had talked, the files were shared, and Eden’s past was splashed over the world.
And Talbot hadn’t gotten his money anyway.
“What the fuck?” Eden whispered. “Grant?”
Maggie came over, her cell glued to her ear. “The emails look legitimate,” she said, and then it seemed like someone on the other end of her phone call began speaking because she took off for the hall, voice carrying. “We need absolutely everyone on this . . .”
“Damon?” Eden shook her head and I wrapped my arms around her, in just as much shock. “Grant?” she repeated.
“I know,” I said, holding her tightly. “I—”
Words failed me.
Grant?
“For a bigger trailer? Because my name was going to come first?”
I had nothing. Absolutely nothing. “People are assholes,” I said, knowing it couldn’t begin to encompass everything but also . . . it was the only thing I could think of to say.
Eden froze in my arms for a heartbeat then her head tilted back, and her green eyes met mine. Her mouth curved, her chest began rocking, and laughter emerged from between her lips.
It was so unexpected that I found myself locked into place.
God, she was so beautiful. Absolutely lovely and filled with hope and not sadness or anger like I’d expected.
Like I was.
“I’m okay,” she murmured. “This can’t hurt me anymore.” She cupped my jaw, thumb lightly stroking. “I swear, love. I swear, I’m okay. This isn’t a setback. This is . . . the world seeing how much an asshole Grant truly is.” A beat. “Though maybe I should thank him. Now I don’t have anything to hide, and I can help people.”
My mom walked into the room, her eyes wide as she strode to the TV and turned it on.
There was Grant, standing on a street corner in what looked like New York, men in hoodies and carrying huge cameras swarming him, shouting questions. We watched as he shoved one paparazzo hard, they tussled, and then both went toppling.
“And there goes an assault charge,” Maggie said, having popped her head back in. I stared at her agape, wondering how she could joke, how Eden could at a time like this, but then I realized I would probably never fully understand the workings of the female mind. Clearly, Maggie and Eden were a good fit together and that was all that mattered.
Well, that and also that this turn in Eden’s story hadn’t torn her to shreds.
She didn’t need her armor.
She just needed me . . . to resist confronting Grant in person and showing him how hard I could shove.
I wanted to kill the bastard.
But I’d refrain.
For Eden. Because she’d turned this hell into something positive, and she didn’t need me transforming it into some sort of sideshow by protecting her in all the wrong ways.
I’d take care of her in my own way.
And it would begin with pizza.
Because it was Thursday, and we weren’t going to break with tradition.
Not when we finally had nothing but our future to look forward to.
Tonight, however, instead of ordering for two, I ordered for ten. The news anchor and her crew were just about to shoot the biggest story of their careers thus far.
They deserved to be full of carbs and cheese while they did so.
Twenty
Eden
I hugged Belle tightly. “Thank you. For everything.”
She pulled back slightly. “Are you sure you can’t stay for a while longer?”
“No,” I told her. “You guys need to get back to normal.”
“What about you, Eden? How are you going to get back to normal?”
“This is my new normal,” I said. “I’ll be okay.”
“We’ll be okay.” Damon slipped an arm around my waist, tucked me close, and took the bag from my hand. “You’ve done the hard part,” he murmured. “The rest we’ll figure out together.”
“Yes, we will.”
I sucked in a breath, released it slowly. “Okay, let’s do this.”
Belle opened the front door. “Holler if you need me to come out and tell them what’s what.” Her eyes narrowed. “Parasites,” she muttered. “All of them.”
The paparazzi that had hung around certainly were persistent. And maybe parasitic in some way, because though there was a place for them in my industry, I was hard-pressed to justify their presence in Belle and Diego’s front yard for days on end, trampling their plants, kicking up their gravel.
“You’ll be free of them soon,” I assured her. “And most of them will trail us as soon as we leave, so you and Diego can get back to normal.”
“Oh, that’s not what I meant at all,” she exclaimed. “I—”
I squeezed her hand. “I know.”
Then one more breath, one more glance around a house that was smaller than mine in L.A., one that was worn and lived-in and not luxurious, but one that was more comfortable, more of a real home than any I’d ever resided in.
A sniff. “Come back soon,” she said, and it was more order than request.
“I will,” I reassured her, not minding the order in the least.
I’d spent just one week with these people, and through it, endured one of the most miserable times of my life, and yet . . . this period had also been filled with some of the best of days of my twenty-eight years.
And now to face the gauntlet, to move on and forward . . . and to make a difference instead of hiding beneath my armor.
“Thank you,” I said again. “For . . . being more of a mother to me in a week than I’ve ever had.”
Belle sniffed.
I sniffed.
Damon tugged me against his chest.
Diego tugged Belle against his.
We all stood there for a momen
t, quiet and thoughtful. They should have been strangers and yet . . . they weren’t. Because of Damon, because of how they’d welcomed me into their little family with open arms.
Finally, Belle pulled away and sighed. “You’re coming back for Thanksgiving and Christmas.” Another order. “Colleen and Cindy are dying to meet you.”
I didn’t mind this order either. Especially because this one made my lips twitch. I’d spoken to Colleen briefly on the phone, thanking her after Damon had mentioned she’d called trying to warn him when the story first broke. She was as sweet and kind and funny as the rest of the Garcia crew. “I’ll be here,” I said then poked Damon lightly. “We’ll see about this one and his workaholic tendencies.”
“Hey! I’ve got months off,” he said in mock-outrage. “Meanwhile, the woman I love is spending the next three in Hawaii.”
I reached for the doorknob, started to turn it. “You know the good thing about having all that time off?”
“What?”
“That you can spend it in Hawaii.” I smiled as his eyes warmed then opened the door and stepped out. “With me.”
That shot—me striding through the front door of Damon’s parents’ house, clad in jeans, sneakers, and a simple hoodie, hair in a red sheet behind me, my makeup simple, huge smile on my face as the man I loved looked out at me lovingly—made the front page of almost every paper in the world.
It had even more shares than the silver bikini.
Shooting on Born Free, the action film set in Hawaii, was going much better than the rom-com with Grant, and it had been all of one day.
Or maybe that was because my male co-star wasn’t an ass.
The surf and sun and beautiful sandy beaches didn’t hurt much either.
I’d let the interview from the primetime show stand on its own for now, wanting to focus on finalizing plans for my charity and pulling together the staff who would run it. I could be the face and give the starting funds, but I didn’t know how to best get help to those who need it, wasn’t familiar with all of the laws and legalities of providing that assistance.
