by K. M. Scott
Not that I want to spend much more time than that out here in this winter wonderland. As I sit back and enjoy the fire I’ve created, I look out the window and see the snow falling again to add to the six or seven inches already on the ground. It would be just my luck to have a blizzard roll in and leave me stranded here in the middle of nowhere.
Or maybe that would be a good thing. Stuck in this place with sketchy internet, at least I wouldn’t be able to keep up with the fallout from the All The Dirt article. I know I shouldn’t care about what happens to Kristina, but even now after all that’s happened, I still love her and wish she was next to me here in front of this roaring fire.
I’ve left her all alone to deal with the problem. Not exactly the gentlemanly thing to do. As the thought of her being stalked and besieged by those fucking reporters passes through my mind, I feel bad for a moment.
Until I remember she did this to herself.
And to me. Then all I can think is, “Fuck her.”
One minute I miss her more than I can bear, and the next I hate her for betraying me. I want to forgive her for sleeping with that guy on set. Maybe I can. We’ve both done horrible things to one another, and I haven’t forgotten that I slept with another woman. I doubt this Gavin guy meant any more to her than the woman I picked up at the bar that night as I tried to do anything to get Kristina off my mind.
It’s not the fucking I can’t get past. It’s the fact that she betrayed me by telling the world I’m T. Anderson. That I can’t forgive because it proves I can’t trust her with something far more important than sex.
It shows I can’t trust her with who I truly am.
God, if I ever needed the feeling of junk coursing through me, it’s now. There’s a difference between thinking you need it and truly wanting it, though. I could fall back into that life and lose myself again, but that’s not what I want anymore. I may feel worse than I thought possible without Kristina, but I don’t want heroin.
I can’t say the same about scotch, however. Not that drinking myself into oblivion would be frowned upon by Sheila and anyone else worried about me. Funny how being a raging alcoholic is perfectly fine, especially if you’re an author. As if doing my best Hemingway impression provides me with some ridiculous writer street cred.
What anyone thinks about me drinking to forget what Kristina did matters not one fuck to me, though. If the fine state of New York believes it all well and good to make alcohol legal, then I’m happy to be its biggest champion.
There will be no prohibition in this cabin. Teetotaling can go fuck itself. I intend on drinking as much as it takes for my mind to finally give up the memory of her betrayal so maybe I can begin living without her in my life. Scotch and I are old friends. I can count on it to do its best.
The rest will be up to me. That’s the tricky part because as I sit here now staring into the fire and wishing she was in my arms, I don’t want to forget her. Like some sad masochist, I want nothing more than to think about everything she means to me. I want to remember how she tasted and how her body felt next to mine.
I want to remember everything she made me feel for fear that when the memory finally leaves me for good, she’ll actually be gone.
Just like everything else I’ve been addicted to in my life, Kristina brings pain as much as she gives pleasure. And like those other addictions, just the thought of being with her makes me crave her all the more.
I savor the taste of the scotch as it lingers on my tongue before it slides down my throat on its way to polluting my bloodstream. Another three or four glasses and I ought to be blasted enough to at least black out.
The problem is between then and this moment, all my mind is filled with is her.
The center of me feels empty, like part of me is missing, taken away when I left. I breathe in and sense a hollowness inside me and wonder if I’ll always feel like this. Never before has the loss of someone from my life made me feel like they’d taken part of me with them.
I need more alcohol. All this fucking introspection can’t be any good for me. Closing my eyes, I take another swig and wish for that moment when I black out to come soon.
Unfortunately, my mind wants to flourish on the scotch tonight. I’ve been betrayed once again by something so dear to me.
Fuck.
Trying to think of something other than the shitstorm my life has turned into, I fail miserably as my mind returns to one idea over and over. Kristina. Jesus Christ, am I ever going to be able to forget her?
I think about the night she cuddled next to me as I read her what I’d written in Silk earlier that day. Her blue eyes filled with awe at the story I told of us, she squeezed my arm whenever I read a part she really liked. The woman who’d begun as just an actress on my television screen who enthralled me listened to my words as if they meant the world to her. I’d never felt more accomplished than I had that night when she smiled up at me as I read her our story.
A little voice inside my head whispers, “She’s an actress, Ian. She was acting. You stroked her ego, and they like that. But you were no more special than any other man to her. How could you be? A drug addict who’s gotten lucky with a few books?”
I hate that fucking voice. It’s like some demented version of that cricket in that children’s cartoons who exists only to ensure I’m miserable.
Shaking my head, I push that motherfucker and his bullshit out of my head. He’s wrong. What Kristina and I had was more than some superficial Hollywood actress sleeping away her insecurities in some guy’s bed.
We were in love.
Are in love.
Hanging my head, I sigh. Were in love. It’s time I admit to myself that whatever we were isn’t anymore.
My phone rings to rouse me from this funk I’m quickly slipping into, but for a moment I dread the idea of answering it as I avoid Kristina. Thankfully, Sheila’s name appears on the screen, and I answer hoping she’s got something good to tell me.
“Ian, are you at the cabin yet?”
“Yeah. Got here a little while ago.”
“Good. I think some time away from the hustle and bustle of the city will do you a world of good.”
Sheila’s all about the good today, it seems.
“Thanks.” I know I’m making conversation hard, but I don’t have it in me to make small talk at the moment.
“So I’m calling with some fantastic news. Are you ready for it?”
I chuckle. “I’ve never been more ready for fantastic news, Sheila. Hit me with it.”
“I have been fielding calls and emails all day about Silk! New York wants you back as T. Anderson, Ian. I think this can turn out to be something very successful for you, after all.”
“That’s great. Really great,” I say as I try unsuccessfully to hide my disappointment at hearing her basically say my career as Ian Anwell is over.
“What’s wrong? I thought you’d be thrilled to hear this news.”
“Nothing. It’s great news. I’m sure you’re going to get me a fantastic deal.”
The phone’s silent for a long moment until she quietly says, “Is this about the Marc Antony book?”
“No. Just tired after a long drive up here,” I lie. It really isn’t the Marc Antony book, though. It’s about not being wanted by the business that’s loved me as Ian Anwell since my first book.
“Don’t worry about that, Ian. I think we just need to give historical readers time to get adjusted to the news of what T. Anderson writes. Believe me, there will be another author who misbehaves sooner than you can say authors behaving badly. I’ve got at least two authors I’m sure will unwittingly end up helping you by the end of the month.”
I know she’s trying to help, but even hearing about her hapless newbie authors isn’t enough to make me feel good about my historical fiction career being in the shitter.
“Thanks, Sheila. I’m sure it will all work out.”
“Maybe my other piece of news will make you feel better. I got a call from someo
ne interested in making Silk into a film.”
“Oh yeah?”
“He read the book and thinks it would be a great project for him. That’s good news, isn’t it?”
“Sure. I’ll leave it in your capable hands. You always do a great job for me.”
“Oh, Ian. Cheer up. It’s not going to be bad forever. You never know what will show up on your doorstep at any time. It might even be something that will turn your whole day around.”
I have no idea what she’s talking about, but it doesn’t matter. Sheila sees herself as my personal cheerleader, and that’s just what she’s doing. I can’t dislike her for that, even though her positive yet cryptic fortune cookie sayings are less than helpful in my current mood.
“Okay. I’ll see what I can do about cheering up. Give me a few days and let me know what you hear from those publishers.”
“What about the film idea? I think it could be fantastic. There’s a huge market for movies like that now.”
“Sure. See what he has to say, and I’ll think about it.”
“I promise we’ll make this work, Ian. Just relax up there and let me work my magic. By the time you get back to the city, you’ll see it will all be better.”
“Thanks, Sheila. I’ll talk to you in a few days.”
“Take care, Ian, and remember, it’s always darkest right before the dawn.”
Her attempt at helping me with pithy sayings is only making things worse, but I don’t tell her that. Just because I feel like shit doesn’t mean I have to make her feel that way too.
“Goodbye, Sheila.”
I press END and toss my phone onto the table in front of me as the thought of a Silk movie fills my head. There’s only one person in the world who can play Kate Silk. I know that, and there’s no way this movie can be made without her.
So it won’t be made.
I take a swig of scotch and swallow hard, wishing its effects would settle in already so I could be too fucked up to think about Kristina and how much I want to see her play the role I’ve written for her.
The role she played in my life for all too brief a time.
Three drinks later and I’m still unable to escape my thoughts as my mind races with what could have beens and doubts about what was. Had it ever been love? Or was all we had physical borne from my obsession with her?
No. We were off the charts great in bed, but we were more than just that. She was more than just my muse. No matter what mistakes we made, we loved each other.
I still love her.
Closing my eyes, I pray for some relief from missing Kristina.
As I turn on to the road the directions say Ian’s cabin is on, the sky seems to open up and snow falls like someone in the heavens is dumping the stuff by the truckload. I can’t see more than five feet in front of me, and everywhere is pure white. The road underneath the over half foot of snow is filled with ruts and potholes which make driving even more treacherous. One moment the Range Rover is rolling along fine, and the next moment it’s all I can do to keep it on the road at all.
I creep along, hoping Sienna’s SUV can handle the conditions to get to the top of the hill, and finally I see what looks like a building just as I reach the crest. Leaning forward toward the windshield, I watch as I get closer and see a car parked in front of a cabin. Smoke drifts up toward the sky from the chimney, and I see the yellow glow of a light coming through a window.
My heart leaps in my chest at the thought that I’ve found him. Slowly, I come to a stop next to a BMW and hope if this isn’t where Ian is that the people inside might be willing to help me find him. Blizzard or not, I have to get to him.
I step out of the car into snow deep enough to cover my feet and halfway up my calves. My first thought is to run up to the front door to get out of the cold and wind, but the snow makes that impossible. It’s a heavy snow and I can barely walk through it, but finally I make it to the porch. Shivering, I knock on the front door.
As I stand there waiting, I look in through the windows at my eye level and see a blazing fire but no one nearby. Knocking again, I say loudly, “Excuse me. Is anyone there? I’m here from the city and I’m stranded in the snow.”
For nearly five minutes I knock, but no one answers. Finally, I hang my head in disappointment and turn to go back to my car, unsure of what to do now. I can’t drive in this weather, and I have less than a quarter of a tank of gas left in Sienna’s Range Rover. If I have to spend the night huddled up in the driver’s seat with the engine running to have heat, I won’t last until morning. But what choice do I have?
My foot hits the first snow covered step when I hear, “What are you doing here?”
Ian’s voice thrills me, and relief flows through me that I won’t have to spend the night freezing cold in the Range Rover. Turning around, I smile as I see him standing in the doorway, but quickly I realize he’s nowhere as happy to see me.
“I came to see you, but I got caught in this blizzard. I got here just in time.”
“For what?” he asks, glowering down at me like never before.
“May I come in, please? It’s freezing out here and my legs are wet and ice cold just from walking from the car.”
He narrows his eyes to a nasty squint, and for a few moments, I don’t think he’s going to let me in. Desperate to get inside the cabin and warm myself in front of the fireplace, I add, “Ian, do you want me to freeze to death out here? I know you hate me now, but even that doesn’t make it okay to let me die all alone in a blizzard.”
Slowly, he steps back to let me in, and as I walk past him he says in a low voice full of anger, “Just until the snow stops.”
I hadn’t expected him to be overjoyed to see me, but his frosty reception surprises me. Everything I rehearsed on the drive all the way there flies out of my head as I reel from how unhappy he is to have me in his presence. I’d had all these romantic notions about what would happen, and with just a few words, he’s dashed them all to pieces.
Without saying another thing, he closes the front door and walks into the living room to sit in front of the fire. Feeling particularly unwelcome, I begin to strip out of my jacket, boots, and wet clothes, realizing I left my bag in the car. Not wanting to go back out into the storm, I stand at the door in just my sweater and underwear sure I don’t know what to do now since he’s clearly ignoring me.
“My clothes got wet, so I’m going to just let them dry by the fire,” I say in my best chipper voice as I walk in front of him to arrange my pants and socks on the hearth.
He sits silently behind me, and when I turn around, his eyes are closed and his head is back. Has he fallen asleep? Taking a seat on the opposite end of the couch, I rub my blotchy red legs to get the blood flowing so they’ll heat up. Never before have I felt so unwanted in his presence.
“This is a nice place,” I say feebly, desperate to find a way to get him to talk to me.
It really is a nice cabin. I wouldn’t have pictured him as someone who’d own a cabin out here, but like his apartment in the city, it’s all modern. No log cabin look with antlers on the walls for him, not surprisingly. Instead, the kitchen has stainless steel appliances with deep brown and cream granite countertops, and the room we’re sitting in has walnut hardwood floors and contemporary style furniture.
He doesn’t move in response to my statement. All this silence makes me uneasy, which makes me feel like I need to fill the empty space with more talking. I tell him about my ride there and how Sienna’s SUV handles well in the snow, except on the road to his cabin, my thoughts drifting into a nervous tangent when he doesn’t even open his eyes at my mention of how I worried I might slide off the road and down into the ravine on my way there.
“The fire is very toasty,” I mumble, hoping to see some reaction from him before I begin to ramble incoherently again in hopes of getting some response.
But I get nothing but more silence.
Finally, he opens his eyes and stares for a long moment, practically looking th
rough me, before saying, “You shouldn’t have come here.”
His words aren’t exactly what I’d hoped to hear, but at least he’s talking.
“I had to, Ian. I couldn’t let you think I betrayed you like I know you do.”
He narrows his eyes again as the rest of his face turns stony to match his voice. “You didn’t sleep with that guy, Kristina?”
“Yes, but—”
Before I can get the rest of my sentence out, he interrupts me. “So you did betray me.”
“You slept with someone else too, but I had to forgive you. Why can’t you forgive me?”
His look hardening even more, he says quietly as he stands up from the couch, “When the snow stops, you should leave.”
I reach out to grab his arm to stop him, desperate to explain what happened and how much I love him, but at the touch of my hand he lurches his body from my reach and storms away, leaving me there sitting in front of the fire alone. I so want to tell him how sorry I am and how I need him to understand how this all happened, but I can’t penetrate the walls he’s constructed.
I know I deserve his anger, but I just never expected him to be able to be so cold. The Ian I know and fell in love with wouldn’t be able to shut me out when I’m in the same house as him. Thousands of miles away? Yeah. But not with me just feet away from him.
Does he still love me or even care for me? My stomach drops and I feel empty inside as I think this might be the end of us. I can’t let what we were—what we still can be—just slip away with him closed off in a room not one hundred feet away while I sit there unable to figure out what the right words are to show him if we can forgive each other, we can overcome this.
As I try to muster up the courage to fight for him, I see a page of notes on the coffee table in front of me. Sitting down, I pick up the sheet of paper and begin to read over what he’s written about the film of Silk. His agent is close to sealing the deal for the movie, and in the margin next to where he’s written potential actresses for the part of Kate, he’s written one name.
