America's Sweetheart

by Jessica Lemmon

  Allison Murphy is silhouetted by sunshine. She looks a lot like she did when we were together—petite, her dark hair curling over her shoulders. She’s wearing huge sunglasses, her full mouth open in a stunned gape and her thick eyebrows arched in surprise.

  I open my mouth to speak, but it’s my sister’s words that come out.

  “Holy shit.”

  Chapter 2

  Allison and I stand in shared stark, shocked silence in the beam of sunlight stretching across the foyer. My mind’s a jumble of what Jules just told me. That Allison stole an Oscar from Millie Duncan. That McCormack made a statement today that Allison needs rehab. That Hollywood’s “it” couple McNina is no more.

  It’s a lot to absorb, and I would’ve preferred letting it sink in slowly while enjoying a ham and cheese sandwich. Processing with my ex-girlfriend standing right in front of me is less than ideal.

  “Jackson.” She pulls off her sunglasses, wide eyes suggesting she’s as shocked to see me as I am to see her.

  “Hey,” is my response.

  Her mouth flinches into a quick, unsure smile. I push my hands into my pockets, since I don’t know what to do with them. She drops the sunglasses into a large purse and then tosses the bag onto a nearby chair. When she turns back to me, we both ask the same question at the same time.

  “What are you doing here?”

  I palm the back of my neck and return her awkward smile with one of my own.

  “I’m visiting. For a while.” Her gaze darts away.

  I don’t have to ask why thanks to Julieann’s accurately timed phone call.

  “I’m remodeling your parents’ bedroom,” I explain.

  Allison’s eyebrows rise even higher. “They’re not here?”

  “No. They’re on vacation. In Italy,” I add, in case she didn’t know her parents were leaving the country. “My company is remodeling their bedroom while they’re gone.”

  “Italy. Right. I remember them mentioning that trip coming up…” She bites her bottom lip, dragging her teeth over it before slowly releasing the plump flesh.

  I remember, with unabashed clarity, biting that same lip on several past occasions. I guess it’s true you never forget your first. She was my first time and I was hers. We had the rare opportunity to surrender our V-cards to each other in her second-floor bedroom in this very house.

  I scrub my face with my hand and come away with more drywall dust. The white powder on my hands grounds a situation that would otherwise be surreal.

  “I’ve…sort of been ignoring their calls. Ignoring everyone’s calls,” she mumbles.

  Her chin wobbles and she lifts her hand to her mouth. Her muffled voice escapes her fingers. “I just…I really needed to see someone I know.”

  A tight sob wrenches from her throat as fat tears roll down her cheeks.

  I’m frozen in place. It’s like watching a car accident happen right in front of me. I’m powerless to stop it. Powerless to help.

  Her face crumples, pulling into a borderline ugly-cry, if Allie was remotely capable of being ugly. Then she shocks the hell out of me by crashing into my torso. Her arms cling to my back, her face pressed hard into my chest. Despite the ten years that separate us, and the nasty argument that ended in our breaking up, I wrap my arms around her small frame and hold her while she cries.

  A wail racks her as she hugs me close, quaking against me like she hasn’t had a single soul to lean on since she left Ohio. And, God, I hope that’s not true. I hope she’s had someone on her side while she’s been in California, living the life she’d dreamed. As badly as we ended, I hoped she was happy. What’s the sense in us suffering the pain of that split if we didn’t wind up better for it?

  My heart isn’t as pragmatic as my head. As if remembering a serious injury that I suffered, my brain instructs my arms to hold her stiffly rather than gently.

  The last time I saw Allison was when I’d flown out to California to stay for a week. She’d been living in a house with three female roommates at the time. They were all trying to break into acting careers, but Allie was the only one with a role that lasted longer than an episode. When she’d told me she was staying in Cali for another year, I was simultaneously happy for her and devastated for myself. I nearly puked, if you want the ugly truth. I wanted her to be successful, sure, but I also wanted her to come back home. To come back to me.

  We agreed to try the long-distance thing, which was how I found myself staying in her packed flat. We spent the week wedged on a sofa—Allie’s bed—in between looking for insanely expensive apartments in Los Angeles.

  “How do you feel about moving here?” she’d asked while we walked around a particularly outdated, roach-infested apartment. It was the fourth one we’d toured that day, but that was the first mention of me moving there. I didn’t know what to say, so I didn’t say anything at first.

  “It’s hard. The distance. And um…” She’d walked to the bedroom closet and slid aside a janky folding door to reveal a sad, filthy square of carpet below a warped bar for hanging clothes. “I want you here. With me. I’m going to make it. Beyond America’s Sweetheart. And I don’t want to give up what we have for my dream. I want you to be part of it. So, whaddaya say? Move in with me?”

  I had taken in her smile, wide and hopeful as the sun streamed in behind her, not unlike it’d done two minutes ago when she’d stepped into her parents’ house and cried all over me. Whaddaya say? That’s exactly how she’d asked. And you know what I said?

  “I say no.” That’s what I said. As plainly and evenly as that. “I don’t like California.” Her hopeful smile had fallen and she glowered instead. When we arrived back at her shared apartment, she was still too angry to speak. She didn’t say more than three words to me before I left for the airport the next morning. The final loud and lengthy conversation had happened over the phone later, with what felt like a million miles separating us.

  “I’m so happy you’re here,” she tells me now.

  Those words jar me out of the memory.

  We went from loving each other to not even being friends. No in between. We didn’t keep in touch over the last decade. I wonder if she’s thought of me in the interim. I’ve had trouble escaping her, if my working in her parents’ house is any clue. I’ve seen her on the covers of magazines even though I try to avoid looking. She doesn’t have that problem. Never is Allison Murphy standing in a store, worrying that her eyes might stray from a pack of Juicy Fruit and find my face next to a hot pink headline that reads HOLLYWOOD’S HOTTEST. Never does she flip through the TV, purposely skipping over a certain cable network in case she encounters me on a rerun of my award-winning show.

  I have no idea what the fuck to say or do, so I stand awkwardly holding her while she clutches me. Her fists are wrapped in my shirt and her tears soak clean through to my chest. My head swims in and out like it did during an OSU vs. Michigan game when I was sacked and knocked damn near unconscious.

  For the record, that hurt less than this.

  She calms almost suddenly, her sniffs growing farther apart as I stand in Stephen and Cheryl Murphy’s foyer, their daughter in my arms. I catch a whiff of her hair. She smells fucking great. It’s almost animalistic to say, but I know her smell. Beneath the layer of sweet perfume and hair products, she smells like she used to. Damn delicious.

  “Allie.” I gentle her away from my body, sucking in a full breath for the first time since she grabbed onto me. “What’s going on?”

  Another sniff and she lifts her face. The tears have stopped falling, and her makeup is smudged beneath her gold-flecked brown eyes. Even with panda eyes, she’s beautiful. My heart mule-kicks my ribs in protest, reminding me that we don’t have the luxury of admiring how good Allison smells or looks. Not anymore.

  “You don’t know what’s going on?” One of her eyebrows quirks.

  W
hat I’d meant by that question was, Why the hell was she standing here hugging me and crying like we’ve never been apart? Like there wasn’t a decade of murky water under the bridge. Like we’d been in touch this whole time and she was dropping in to confide in me. For self-preservation reasons, I can’t say any of that, so instead I go with, “I heard about the Oscar thing.”

  An angry pleat flashes over her forehead like a streak of lighting. She swipes the hollows under her eyes as if she’s embarrassed she’d let her emotions get the best of her. “The Oscar thing.”

  Sensing the thunder following that lightning strike, I take a step away from her.

  “And the boyfriend-turning-on-me-after-my-criminal-act thing!” she booms. “Oh, and let’s not forget the tabloids-smearing-my-reputation thing.”

  She tromps to the kitchen saying she needs a glass of water, and I stand in the foyer rubbing my neck again. I’m not sure how to react or—

  “Oh, and thanks a lot. This was clean.”

  Allie gestures at the short black dress she’s wearing, now decorated in powdery white drywall dust thanks to Yours Truly.

  She’s standing there, that haughty fire in her eyes, righteous and self-focused.

  I react before I think. “I didn’t ask you to cry all over me, Mini.”

  Her nickname tumbles from my mouth before I can cram it back in. Bet she never expected to hear it again. I sure as fuck never expected to say it again.

  “Don’t call me that,” she snaps.

  Those are her last words before she stomps back into the kitchen. I watch her go, her strong, narrow shoulders pulled back, her walk elegant and confident.

  “Though she be small, she is fierce,” I mumble. It’s a literary quote from college that I’m probably butchering. Suits her, though.

  My stomach grumbles again, begging for food. I’ll be damned if I follow Allison into the kitchen. I run my fingers through my hair and glance upstairs. I left the saw, plenty of dust, and plastic strewn everywhere. I never leave a mess behind at a job—it’s unprofessional.

  Today, I do.

  I walk out the front door, skirt a blue Honda that I assume is her rental car, climb in my truck, and leave.

  Chapter 3

  “I’m from Michigan. I moved here a year ago for work, which is basically all I do. It’s great to meet someone I don’t work with,” my date is telling me.

  Stacie, an old high school friend who comes to my summer party every year, set us up. My date’s name is Kim. She’s blond, tall, and talks a lot. Over the last year and a half, I’ve been focused on growing my business. I haven’t dated much. Stacie knows this and has been nudging me to go out with one of her friends or another. I finally caved, making Kim here, the lucky winner.

  “Go, Big Blue!”

  I physically recoil. If there’s any one thing an Ohio State fan hates, it’s our rivals, the University of Michigan. The bad blood runs deep. Ohioans come out of the womb primed to despise the Wolverines.

  “Oh crap. I forgot you played for OSU.” Her smile is coy when she reaches across our table to stroke my hand with short pink fingernails. She’s a nurse, so the pads of her fingers feel rough on my skin. It’s a unique sensation.

  I’m trying to decide if I like it.

  “Forgive me?” Kim’s still touching me, her smile flirty. She’s kind. Pretty. And boring the shit out of me. I know that’s not nice, but it’s true. Hell, it could be me. I’m out of practice.

  “My loyalty to the Bucks runs bone deep.” I slide my hand away to lift my beer glass. I flash her a smile and try to joke. “I don’t know that this difference is surmountable. Have you ever considered converting?”

  “Never.” She’s smart and knows I’m teasing her. Long eyelashes flutter over blue eyes as she grins. “I’m sure we could find other ways we’re compatible.”

  Twirling her hair around one finger, she watches me with a bedroom stare. Stacie was frank when she set up this date a few weeks ago. “Kim’s been talking about how it’s been a while since she’s had a really good lay,” Stacie had told me. “Like you, she hasn’t had the time. You both work too much.”

  It took Kim and me ten days to find a common time slot when we weren’t at work, so Stacie was right about the workaholic thing.

  “Do you go by Jack? Jake? Jax?”

  “Jackson mostly. Jax sometimes.” I can’t discern why, but my attention span is short. My patience is thin. My mind keeps wandering to work and the Lowe’s order that was screwed up. Then to Allie, who was talking on her cellphone outside while I was arguing with the delivery guy this morning. She wore short denim shorts and a T-shirt that had slipped off one shoulder. She wasn’t wearing a bra beneath the thin material, a fact that I, and the delivery guy, noticed. If he hadn’t had the sense to appear apologetic when I caught him gawking, I would’ve punched him.

  “I like your beard, Jackson mostly,” Kim says. “Is it as soft as it looks?”

  I’m saved from answering by the arrival of dinner. I’ve already decided I’m not going home with her. Which makes no brain sense but feels more like a gut-call. Maybe my gut’s sensing that she’s crazy. Or clingy. Maybe I’m just hungry.

  I dig into my steak and baked potato and she picks at her swordfish and broccoli. While we eat, the flirting is back-burnered. After she refuses dessert, I sweep the check.

  “Thanks for dinner…” Her voice trails off like she’s waiting for me to say more.

  “Thanks for coming out.” I don’t know that I’m very good company, so I add, “It’s been a strange week.”

  “Tell me about it. I treated three people who were allergic to potatoes. I don’t think I’ve heard of a potato allergy until this week and then boom, all at once.”

  I nod, having no idea what to say to that. I sign the credit card receipt and down my last swallow of beer. We stand, and walk to the door in uncomfortable silence. I lift my hand to her lower back but stop short of touching her. Outside, she pulls in a breath, her hands clasped in front of her like she’s nervous. Before she can ask what I assume will be an invitation to her house, I interrupt.

  “I have an early morning tomorrow.”

  A little trickle of disappointment creeps onto her face before she places both hands on my chest and kisses me.

  Okay. So, not disappointment.

  I taste wine on her tongue when she slides it into my mouth, and I wrap my hands around her biceps out of sheer instinct. When she lowers to her heels, she licks—then bites—her bottom lip.

  “Your beard is as soft as it looks.” Her fingers play along my collar. “I don’t want anything serious. Just tonight is fine.”

  There it is. A gift-wrapped offer of a guaranteed hookup with zero strings attached. Stacie would be proud, and would hear an earful from Kim tomorrow morning if I agree. I know how to satisfy a woman.

  “Listen, Kim—” I start.

  “Oh no.” Her eyes sink closed. “This isn’t…you’re not…”

  “It has nothing to do with you,” I tell her, trying to be nice. Though it doesn’t feel like a lie when I say it. Any other night save this one, I’d have been on the way to her house already. “Can I walk you to your car?”

  She lets out a barely audible sniff that might be an embarrassed laugh. “No. I’m just there.”

  She points to a Toyota Corolla.

  “I’m in the back.” I gesture over my shoulder.

  “Well. Good night.” She dips her head primly and turns for her car. I can’t help feeling two things simultaneously: bad that I embarrassed her and confused about why I refused her. She went out on a limb to invite me home with her, and the kiss suggested that she knew what she was doing; that we both would’ve had a good time.

  But I said no.

  What the hell was that about?

  * * *

  —

/>   “You’re going to Beth’s wedding?” I ask in disbelief.

  My best buddy from college, Barrett Fox, is sitting across from me, beer in hand. I was never good enough to go pro, but he did. Until he blew out a shoulder.

  Like his last name implies, his hair is reddish brown. He’s a good-looking bastard with charisma to spare, which is probably how he’d landed his former/once-again position as field reporter for ESPN. Since his shoulder is shot, the TV gig became his fallback career. Not bad work if you can get it. Anyway, Beth was his college girlfriend. They dated on and off for six years.

  “Why wouldn’t I go?” Barrett shrugs and lifts his beer bottle.

  We’re in a bar called McGreevy’s. I like the place. It’s casual and comfortable. Another guy we played college ball with—former tight end Dax Vaughn—owns this place and a few other bars in town. He’s rarely here.

  “Because it’s hard to watch your ex-girlfriend marry another guy?” I hazard a guess. I think of Xavier McCormack and sneer.

  “Nah. I have Catarina.” Barrett’s smile lifts one side of his mouth. The Bad Boy of the NFL has been downed by his exact opposite: a type-A perfectionist who writes a column for The Columbus Dispatch. “I’m happy for Beth.”

  “Sure you are.” I chuckle.

  “Best way to get over someone—” he starts.

  “Is to get under someone else,” I finish. We tap the necks of our beer bottles, and for the first time in my life I think deeper about that cliché. “I didn’t, though.”

  “You didn’t what?” He pulls his gaze from the overhead television.

  “I didn’t get under someone else. I had a chance, too.” It’s like a confession I have to unshoulder, though Fox makes for an unlikely priest. “Allison’s in town.”

  “No shit?”

  I told Barrett I was remodeling Allie’s parents’ bedroom because we started our conversation talking about work, but I failed to mention that last bit.

  I nod. “When she walked into the house last week and found me there, she ran into my arms and cried on my shirt.”