by Lexi Ryan
I smile, but with Olivia looking on, my insecurities are back in full effect this morning. “Yeah, if you don’t think I’ll be in the way.”
“I’m looking forward to it,” he says. He presses another quick kiss to my lips then heads to the garage, leaving me here with his baby’s mother, who’s looking at me as if I’m somewhere between unwelcome houseguest and homewrecker.
“He’s such a good dad,” she says, forcing me to meet her gaze and stop studying my coffee. “The best.”
“I can tell.” I take a long drink. There’s not enough caffeine in the world to prepare me for this conversation straight out of bed, but her comments left me feeling like a sloth and I really want to make a better impression.
“You’d never know he didn’t have a stable home as a kid,” she says, watching me. “But I think he’s the exception, you know what I mean? Kids need stability. They need Mom and Dad. They need to know that family comes first.”
I take another gulp of my coffee. Okay, so she’s going with Emma is a homewrecker this morning. So be it. “It says a lot about his character,” I say, not letting her bait me into a conversation about whether kids need both parents at home. “That had to have been hard—being just a kid when his mom died of cancer.”
Olivia steps into the kitchen and frowns as she clears the breakfast plates from the counter. “His mom didn’t die of cancer.”
“Oh.” Did I misremember her illness? For a beat, my cheeks heat and I feel like such an inconsiderate jerk, but the memory is there. Keegan walking beside me on the beach, telling me about his last memories of his mom healthy enough to cheer him on at a football game. “That was before the chemo had her so sick she couldn’t leave the house.” Olivia’s frowning at me. “I thought it was some sort of cancer,” I mumble, suddenly unsure.
She shakes her head. “Keegan’s mom is alive. She lives in Texas and tours with some rock band. He might not like her, but she’s not dead.”
“Oh.” The blood drains from my face, and I might be embarrassed if I weren’t so confused. An old, familiar feeling creeps in around the edges of my thoughts. It’s that raw anxiety from my acting days when I wasn’t sure I could trust anyone, when it seemed like people were more interested in manipulating the truth for their benefit than in giving it to me straight. Why would he tell me his mother died of cancer if she’s alive and living in Texas? Why did he tell me he grew up in Blackhawk Valley if none of his friends would think to include him when talking about who was raised here? And why would he lie to me?
The questions scatter in my mind when my phone rings and the display reads Harry. Every time I get a new phone and new number, I program his number into it so I’ll know when not to pick up. I never take his calls, but it doesn’t keep him from trying.
I reject the call with a swipe, and Olivia looks over at me from where she’s washing dishes. “My mom is such a huge fan of his.”
I wrap my arms around my waist. “Whose?”
She arches a brow. “Harry Evans? It would be amazing if you could get his autograph for her.”
I give her a shaky smile. “Yeah. Sure. I’ll see what I can do.”
* * *
Emma
Five years ago…
“This is what happens when you fight me.”
Harry’s words echo like a death knell in my brain as I survey my condo.
I didn’t sleep last night. After Harry left, I took a long shower and waited for tears that didn’t come. I turned the water as hot as it would go, sat on the tile floor, and let the water pour over me until it went cold, then I dried off and did my best to clean up the mess he left behind. “This is what happens when you fight me.”
My condo was a disaster. The throw pillows were scattered across the floor, the coffee table was upended, and the glass of wine I was drinking before Harry arrived spilled and left a red stain on the living room rug that made the spot look like the scene of a crime.
Because it is.
I straightened everything carefully, scrubbed at the stain until my hands hurt, balled up last night’s clothes, and put them in the trash.
The scrape of a key in the lock makes me stiffen, and when Keegan steps inside, I want to run. I don’t want him to see me like this. I don’t want him to look at me.
“Good morning,” he says softly. He closes the door behind himself and walks across the room to kiss my forehead.
I flinch at his touch. He notices.
He draws in a ragged breath. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” I sound like a robot. Feel like one, too. But robotic is better than the crazed alternative. Robotic beats feeling human and remembering last night and wanting to take a vegetable peeler to my skin.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t come over last night like we planned.”
“It’s fine.” But what if he had? What if he’d seen? Panic claws at the mask I’m wearing, threatening to tear it to shreds.
“How’d the rehearsal go last night?”
“Fine.” I want him to leave. Last night when Harry showed up at my door and pushed inside before I could send him away, I kept wishing for Keegan to show up. Now my amazing, tender Keegan is here and I just want him to leave because I don’t know how to explain or if I should or could.
His eyes scan the living room as if he’s looking for something. They land on the red stain and he frowns.
“I spilled my wine.”
He nods and tucks his hands into his pockets as he walks into the kitchen. His eyes land on the daisies Harry brought. They’re on the counter, forgotten, their soft white petals wilting.
Is it my imagination, or does Keegan sneer at them? For a wild minute, I think that they’re me, that I’m the wilted petal and Keegan just knows, that he’s disgusted by me. I’m disgusted by me.
“Nice flowers,” he says.
No they’re not. They’re a child’s flower. Harry always loved giving me daisies. I always hated them.
I grab them from the counter and step around the island to shove them into the trash bin under the sink—another piece of evidence from last night discarded, and yet I feel no closer to being free of it.
When I shut the cabinet door, Keegan’s staring at me. “Is there something going on between you and Harry?”
I freeze and goosebumps zip up my arms. “What?”
“I think you heard what I said.”
“He’s marrying my mom.” Does my voice sound hysterical, or is that just how I feel? “That’s ridiculous.”
He sets his jaw and folds his arms. “Is it? I don’t want to be that guy, the jealous boyfriend who can’t handle his girl having male friends. But I don’t like him and I don’t like the way he looks at you.” His gaze drops to the cabinet with the trash can. “A man doesn’t visit his stepdaughter at night and bring flowers.”
I remind myself to breathe. Inhale. Exhale. This is Keegan. I can tell Keegan anything. “We’re…friends.” God, how awful it feels to lie. But the truth? The truth makes me somehow feel like a dirty tramp and a vulnerable child all at the same time. It makes me feel like my life is something that’s happening to me, something that’s never been in my control. I don’t want Keegan to see me that way.
I don’t want to tell him the truth, because if I say it out loud, it might be real.
He searches my face. “You’re going to come to Indiana with me? We’re going to get away from here?”
“Yeah.” I force a smile. I am a robot. “Of course.”
He steps forward and reaches out to touch my face, but I flinch, and he drops his hand. “What’s wrong today?”
“Nothing. I’m fine.” The words come out too fast.
“Why do I feel like you’re pulling away? Is that just me?”
I shake my head and mentally chant, It’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fine. But it’s not fine. I don’t want Keegan to touch me. I don’t want his fingers where Harry’s were last night. I don’t want Keegan’s touch to ma
ke me think of Harry, but I’m afraid right now it will.
“You have a bruise.” He sets his jaw and nods to the bite mark on the side of my neck.
“This is what happens when you fight me.”
“I ran into something.” I hate myself for lying to him. But more than that, I hate myself for not being able to stop Harry. I hate myself for letting him do whatever he wanted to me until I was sixteen, because that’s why he thought he could do whatever he wanted to me last night.
It’s my fault. It’s my fault. It’s my fault.
“I should get going,” I blurt, because if he stays close much longer, I’m going to lose it. I’m going to stop being a robot. I’m going to become flesh and blood and then I’m going to melt into a puddle of grief at his feet and beg him to forgive me.
Forgive me? Why do I need forgiveness when I said no? Why do I need forgiveness when I begged him to stop?
“Emma?”
“Yeah?”
His gaze drops to my neck and then shifts to the cabinet before returning to my eyes. “We all have secrets. We all have dark parts of ourselves. But if you and I are going to get through this…if we’re going to do this life together, maybe we should both…” He looks away.
Don’t make me talk about it. Don’t make me make it real. “I should go.” The tears are too close to the surface now.
“Do you want me to come? To the wedding?”
Yes. I want you to stay by my side. I want you to keep me safe from him. I want you to hold me and tell me it wasn’t my fault. I want you to love me when I don’t deserve to be loved. “No. I’ll see you tomorrow. It’s…with the wedding and everything…it’s just easier this way.”
He searches my face. I wonder what he sees there. Does he see a chubby little girl who desperately wanted to be enough? Does he see a young woman who left Hollywood only to realize she has no idea who she is without it? Or does he see a coward who, for too many years, turned her head to the side and pretended she was a statue just because when she told him no, he got angry and mocked her on set—or worse, ignored her—and she was so fucking lonely, did it really hurt to let him make himself feel good?
“You could tell me anything,” he whispers.
I nod, too afraid my voice might betray me if I speak. He leans forward and kisses my forehead. I close my eyes, because it hurts too much to watch him walk away.
When the door clicks, I walk slowly to my room and pack a bag with shockingly steady hands. My car arrives to take me to the church. I’m supposed to help my mother dress for her wedding. I’m supposed to watch her marry the man who pinned me down and bit my neck.
“This is what happens when you fight me.”
“Straight to the church?” the driver asks.
I shake my head. “LAX, please.” I see his frown in the rearview mirror, but he nods. I hesitate, then ask, “If I give you a note, will you take it somewhere for me after you drop me at the airport?”
“Of course.”
I pull a piece of paper and pen from the notebook in my bag.
Dear Keegan, I begin, marveling at how my handwriting doesn’t betray the storm brewing inside me. It’s not until I finish and reread the letter that I see the ink smudge where a teardrop landed.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Keegan
The woman I’ve loved since I met her five years ago is at home waiting for me, and the mother of my child is sitting in my storeroom throwing long looks my way. If this isn’t screwed up, I’m not sure what is.
This morning with Dad went all right. He seemed truly excited to be spending time with Jazzy, and since he didn’t start teaching her how to spot a mark, I suppose it can’t hurt anything. He’s been true to his word and hasn’t told anyone that Emma’s here or tried to use the information to get money from either of us. Maybe he has changed.
“Do you have plans tonight?” Olivia asks. “Want to hang with me at the house? Maybe watch old movies and make popcorn after we get the baby down?”
“I can’t. Emma and I have the wedding rehearsal. We could get a sitter for Jazz if you wanted to come?”
She shakes her head. “We’ll be fine. Don’t worry about us. My brother and Alex invited us for dinner again, so we can just do that.” Olivia looks up at me through her lashes. “I bet it will be a beautiful wedding.”
She holds my gaze for a bit too long, and I look away when it feels uncomfortable. “I’m sure it will be nice.”
“Are you excited?” Her voice is almost wistful.
“I guess.” More than excited about the wedding, I’m anxious to spend more time with Emma, happy to have an excuse to dance with her, to hold her. “Are you coming?”
“I don’t know. Maybe I shouldn’t get in the way of you and your new woman.” She folds her arms. “I’m beginning to feel like an unneeded accessory.”
“Olivia, you know that’s not true. You should come. Arrow and Mia want you there.”
She hums. “We’ll see.” She saunters over to the sink, where I’ve been cleaning the tubing for one of the kegs. She pulls on my arm until I turn to face her. “For the record, I wish we were the ones getting married this weekend. I wish I had done better before so I wouldn’t have to watch my family slip from my fingers now.”
I flinch and shake my head. “You only care to keep me when you think you might be losing me.”
“Keegan, I mean it. I miss you. I miss us.” She takes my face in her hands. She rises onto her toes and presses her lips to mine. I feel nothing.
I take her wrists and pull her hands from my face as I step back. “Don’t.” I shake my head. “I can’t do this with you. Not now. Not anymore.”
“You’re the father of my child. We’ll always have that bond, and no Hollywood bitch can take that away.”
“Don’t you ever call her that again.” My voice is low, the warning simmering under the words.
“Fine. But did you ever wonder why she was willing to marry a gay man?”
“Who told you that?”
She sighs. “I was in the nursery when she told you. I heard the whole conversation.”
“You can’t tell anyone.”
She rolls her eyes. “Your dad and I had a good laugh about it, but I promise I won’t tell anyone else about your precious friend’s secret.”
“You told my dad?” I shake my head. Fuck, fuck, fuck. “I told you we can’t trust him. What the fuck did you think you were doing?”
“I thought I was putting together a story that didn’t make sense to me. But he helped me understand. Did you know she gets regular calls from Harry Evans? Her stepfather? Her former costar? But I’m sure there’s nothing to that, just like there was nothing to it five years ago, am I right?” She lifts her chin and stares me down for a long beat before turning around and storming out of the storeroom. The back door clangs closed, and before I can figure out what the hell just happened or start to wrap my brain around what Olivia just said, Bailey comes in.
“You pissed off somebody this afternoon.”
My head is swimming, and I shake it to try to clear it. “I gave up trying to please Olivia months ago.”
“Hmm.” She lifts the tube from the sink and shakes her head as she studies it. “Can’t say I blame you there.” She looks up at me. “You didn’t tell Emma, did you? About your past?”
My jaw hardens and I look away. Harry is still calling her?
“You don’t owe her any explanation. That’s not what I’m saying here. I’m saying that whether you decide to tell her or not, your past will always be between you. People like that don’t know what it’s like to be people like us, Keegan. She won’t understand a life where your best choice is to take the money.”
I lift my chin. “Are you sure you’re talking about me and Em and not you and Mason?”
She shrugs. “I’m talking about both, and you know it. I’m talking about how you and I are the whores the rich people entertained themselves with for a while. I like Em. I do. But I’m saying
that you’re kidding yourself if you think the life you had once isn’t going to affect the life you want. You have to tell her.”
“I will. She’s just having a fucking tough week, and I don’t want to pile on.” Five minutes ago, I was sure we were on our way to a better week, a better month, a better year. I was sure Emma and I had a life stretching out before us where we could make right everything that we got wrong the first time. Both of us. But if Harry’s calling her, maybe nothing really changes.
Bailey shrugs. “Just be careful where you put those expectations. When this falls apart, it’s going to hurt, and I don’t care to see either one of you so hurt you can’t come back from it.”
* * *
I haven’t been able to look her in the eye since I picked her up to take her to the rehearsal. Olivia’s words echo in my head. Why is Harry calling her?
“I should probably keep my mouth shut,” Em says, jerking me from my thoughts. “But I want to ask you something.” She’s looking out the passenger window, watching the rolling horse farms of Blackhawk Valley pass her by.
I shake off my earlier thoughts, taking a beat or two longer than necessary to process her words. “What?”
“Why did you tell me your mom died?” She turns to me, and my stomach plummets. “You told me she died of cancer, and today Olivia said that your mom is alive and living in Texas.”
Fuck. I turn onto the main stretch through downtown and circle around the block to park behind the bar. Easing the car into a space, I throw it in park and cut the engine. I’ve spent my entire afternoon thinking about what Olivia told me, and meanwhile, Emma’s been quietly stewing about an old lie I’d forgotten I told her.
Aren’t we a pair of lying fools? Maybe we deserve each other.
When I turn to face her, she’s frowning at me. “Don’t say you didn’t tell me that. I remember you telling me. I remember you describing what it was like to watch her waste away.” She grimaces. “Can you please explain?”
