“His name was Arnold Fitzgerald and I loved watching him work. It was exactly the kind of love affair we portray on film—passionate, quick, and over too fast.”
She wasn’t sure how she felt hearing about her grandmother’s sex life, but the fact that her grandmother had decided to finally open up and tell her the story kept her still and silent as she waited for her to continue.
“When the summer home was finished, so were we.”
“But . . . why? If you were both in love and happy, why wouldn’t you be together?”
“We lived in different worlds. I was a movie star, he was a laborer. Back then, it was unheard of to love someone outside of the industry, someone who was of ‘lesser’ status.” She paused. “He would have been out of place and unhappy letting me support him with my career. So it was either give up acting or give up Arnold.”
And she’d chosen her career. That didn’t surprise Parker. Her grandmother’s one and only real passion was for her career. “Did he know you were pregnant?”
“Yes. For a few months we even pretended things might actually last between us . . . but we both knew the difference. Once he was gone, I planned to have an abortion.”
Parker winced. Her mother always said her grandmother had never been the kind of caring, loving parent a child needed, always on movie sets and dragging her out into the public eye. Growing up with her grandmother, Parker knew that was true, but she’d been lucky to share her grandmother’s passion for the industry and she believed that was what drew them together, made them closer than Abigail and her mother had ever been.
“I went back to LA two weeks before I was scheduled to start filming Last of the Red Dresses, my second film, and I had the appointment booked. Back then it was kept hush-hush and cost a small fortune.” She paused again and Parker held her breath. “But it was all I had left of him, so I couldn’t do it. I canceled the appointment and we moved the filming schedule to accommodate the pregnancy.” Her voice was sad as she continued. “Every time I looked at your mom, I saw him. She was so much like him . . .” Her voice trailed and a long silence fell between them.
“Did you ever see him over the years?” Parker asked.
“No. But after each movie released, I’d get a dozen roses at the summer home—no card, no message . . . just the roses.”
Her makeup would have to be reapplied. The tears couldn’t be helped as they fell from her eyes. “Grandma, how come you never told me this before?” Feeling a connection to her grandmother that went beyond their shared passion for their careers was a foreign feeling, but a welcome one. Her grandmother had always been such a mystery, someone she admired and looked up to, but never fully understood. She understood a little better now.
“I didn’t think you needed to hear an old lady’s regret story before . . .”
She wiped the tears from her cheeks.
“Things are different now. A girl can have it all,” she said. “Don’t walk away from something that makes you truly happy for all of this, Parker, because that world will forget about you someday. When the lights fade and the credits stop rolling, all you will have are the choices you’ve made along the way. Follow your heart, sweet girl.”
Parker swallowed hard. Happy endings were only in movies. “I think we’ve both been reading scripts for too long, Grandma. I’m not sure real life works that way.” But if only it did . . .
* * *
“Enjoy the wedding, man,” Tyson said, giving Walker a quick hug as he packed up his training gear. “Come back settled, relaxed, and focused—ready to train. I want to see a belt around your waist next year.”
“You got it,” Walker said. “Hey, what are your plans for the holidays? It’s not too late to come to Cancun—hot women everywhere, unlimited cocktails . . .”
As tempting as it sounded to disappear for a few weeks, get drunk every night, and try to mend his aching heart with no-strings-attached one-night stands, he knew it wouldn’t work. He hadn’t heard from Parker since he’d seen her in LA yet she was the only constant on his mind. As Christmas drew closer and he knew she’d be wrapping up filming, he wanted to stick around . . . just in case. “Thanks, but I’m driving out with Dad to pick up Connor at the treatment center tomorrow and then I’m going to try to see Dane at some point over the holidays . . .” Luckily Dane’s blood had come back clean from the fight and he was doing six weeks in a detention center. He’d be out in the new year.
Walker offered a sympathetic look. “Sounds like a depressing holiday, man.”
Tyson laughed. “Things can only get better, right?” He hoped that was true, that his brother was serious about staying clean this time and Dane would put his life back together. They all had a lot of rebuilding to do.
“Well, maybe it’s about to get better right now,” Walker said, nodding toward the door.
Tyson’s heart stopped at the sight of Parker in the doorway in a pair of painted-on jeans and a loose, off-the-shoulder tan sweater. Her heeled boots echoed off of the gym walls, keeping time with the steady thundering in his chest. “Get out . . . go,” he hissed at Walker.
Walker laughed as he tapped him on the back. “Don’t fuck it up again, man.” He gave Parker a warm hug as he passed, and Tyson wanted to throw something at him as an intense, irrational jealousy coursed through him.
God, she was right. How would he ever be able to watch her kiss some other guy onscreen when he couldn’t even watch her hug one of his fighters? He just wouldn’t watch her movies.
She stopped in front of him and his pulse raced. “You’re . . .”
“If you say ‘You’re back’ one more time, I’m going to knock you out,” she said softly.
He smiled. “How about ‘Thank God you’re back’?”
“Better,” she said. “Though you don’t even know why I’m here.”
That’s right. He shouldn’t assume anything. Though it didn’t matter to him why she was there; he was just grateful she was.
She cleared her throat. “About your offer to help me get my old body back—I’ve decided not to take you up on that.”
He nodded. Damn. At least that would have been one way to see her, spend time with her, touch her. He was barely able to keep his arms at his sides. He longed to reach out for her. But he remained frozen in place. “That’s all you came to tell me?”
She reached into her pocket and retrieved the note he’d given her. “About this . . .”
He was a moron. “Listen, I’m sorry about that.” The more he’d thought about the gesture over the last few weeks, the more stupid he felt. “It was a . . .”
“Tyson, shut up,” she said, moving closer and wrapping her arms around his neck. “This note was perfect,” she whispered against his lips. “It was what brought me back here. And not because of what it says, but because it exists.”
His shoulders relaxed as his arms went around her waist and he held her tight. He rested his forehead against hers. “I’m sorry that I’m not the kind of man who can say the things I feel.” He wanted to, but he’d never been around the open kind of affection and love she was used to—he wasn’t sure he was capable of it.
“It’s okay. It’s not who you are, and I love you for who you are,” she said, kissing him gently.
He closed his eyes, breathing in the scent of her, afraid to let her go. “But I want to be that kind of man for you. I lo . . .”
She kissed him again—hard—preventing him from saying the words. God, he’d missed kissing her, holding her, breathing in the familiar scent of her. He pulled her even closer, deepening the kiss, knowing this was it for him. He could never push her away or walk away from her again.
When he reluctantly broke away, he brushed her hair away from her face, placing his hands on her face and staring into her dark, love-filled eyes. “Parker, I . . .”
“Don’t say it.”
He studied her. “Why not? I mean it. I’ve never felt this way about anyone . . . and I promise I will never hurt you again.”<
br />
“I know. So why ruin it by saying the words out loud? Let’s just keep it real,” she said, smiling at him.
Keep it real. He smiled, pulling her head into his chest and breathing in the scent of her. He would never let her go again. He had everything he never knew he needed right there in his arms. And despite her claim of not needing to hear it, he needed to say it. “I love you,” he whispered.
Jennifer Snow writes contemporary romance fiction. She is a member of the RWA, the Alberta Writers Guild, SheWrites.org, and the Canadian Authors Association. The first book in her small-town Brookhollow series, The Trouble with Mistletoe, was a finalist in the 2014 Golden Quill Contest and the Aspen Gold Contest. She is also a freelancer, with articles appearing in RWR Magazine, Mslexia, Southern Writers magazine, Westword, and Avenue magazine.
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