by Elise Faber
There was always a newer train wreck to observe.
Mine was old. And over forty.
Snorting, I lifted enough to take a sip from the glass before dropping my head back down to my arms.
Already my limbs felt loose, relaxed. I’d finish the drink, find my bed, and seal away the rest of the memories.
Good plan.
And go.
Unfortunately, just as I’d raised the glass to my lips again, someone sat on the barstool next to me.
Eight
Pierce
Hair bound up tight and reckless, shoulders slumped, eyes closed, exhaustion playing over her features.
Still gorgeous.
Still pathetically hung up on her.
The first being Artie. The second me.
“Want another?” I asked when she opened her eyes to stare up at me.
Silence for so long that I almost would have thought she’d fallen asleep, if not for the way those deep blue eyes continued to stare at me. They were dulled, and I wasn’t sure if it was from the alcohol or if it was from pain.
Then she blinked.
And just like that, they brightened. “Sure,” she said, pushing up. “A cute guy wants to buy me a drink, I’m all for it.” She lifted a hand, gestured to the bartender.
“Don’t do that,” I murmured, setting my palm on her forearm.
I saw through it now, and maybe I’d never have what I truly wanted with her, maybe I would always be relegated to friend and coworker, but I physically could not stand the idea of her hiding her true self from me.
“Do what?” She forced a laugh. “Make you actually follow through with buying me a drink? Of course, I’m going to do that, you silly man.”
A drink slid in front of Artie, and I handed the bartender a few bills along with a murmured, “Thanks.”
“You want anything?” the bartender asked me, a towel thrown over one shoulder.
“I’m good.”
With a nod, she retreated back to the other end of the bar.
I turned back to Artie.
She deliberately kept her eyes on her glass, but at least the cheery, fake façade had faded. I weighed the moment, trying to decide if I should wade into the fray or if I should just keep my fucking mouth shut.
In the end, I couldn’t not say anything.
“I know what yesterday was to you.”
She inhaled so quickly that her breath whistled between her teeth. “Pierce—”
“You don’t have to say anything,” I hurried to say, wanting her to understand I wasn’t trying to force her to discuss something painful or uncomfortable. “Just . . . I know why it was hard. And”—I ran the back of my hand over her cheek—“I understand, or well, understand as much as I can, not having been through it.” I sucked in a breath. “My point is, you don’t have to fake it with me, okay? Be sad. Drink. Curse. Shove me off a fucking cliff if you want. Just don’t feel like you have to be anything but you when you’re with me.”
Tears pooled within those blue depths before she shifted, eyes focused behind the bar, rather than on me.
She stayed in that position for a long, long time.
Then her shoulders dropped, her arms refolded, and her head stacked back down on top of them. Her sigh was long and drawn out and slow, her words, when they finally came, so quiet I had to strain to hear them.
“Thank you.”
I rested my hand on her elbow, replied just as softly, “You’re welcome.”
We sat there for a long time, not talking, not even looking at each other, just two people in the universe propped next to each another, one giving comfort, one accepting it.
Until finally, Artie’s glass was empty.
“Another?”
She shook her head. “Sleep.”
Weaving my arm around her waist, I guided her from the stool then over to the elevators and up to her room.
“Sleep well, sweetheart,” I murmured.
A nod, manicured nails flashing as she pushed through the door then paused. “Pierce?”
I’d stepped back, hands thrust into my pockets. “Yeah?”
“Thanks.”
“None needed.”
Eyes to the ground then up to mine. “They’re needed,” she murmured. “I—” A short, sharp breath. “I—”
When she faltered again, I gently pried her fingers off the door.
“No explanations. No thanks.” I nudged her inside. “Just . . . friends.”
She swallowed, blinked rapidly. “Just friends.”
Grabbing the knob, I murmured, “Good night,” and closed the door just as she replied in turn.
I listened to her flip the dead bolt, to the sound of her feet moving away.
I listened to her movements for a long time because it was better than focusing on how miserable we both had sounded about the "just friends." Me, I understood I was pining. Artie? She was just vulnerable and upset because of her past. If I allowed myself to think even for one second that things might possibly be different for us, I’d do something really fucking crazy.
I couldn’t do crazy.
Not to her. Not for me. Not for this project.
Those were the thoughts that finally got my feet moving down the hall and to my own room. They were the reason I was able to shove away the urge to go back and knock on Artie’s door, to pull her into my arms and just hold her until her pain faded.
They were the reason I didn’t return to shoulder however much of her pain she’d let me carry.
Because it wasn’t right, wasn’t what she wanted, wasn’t what I could ever have.
I just needed to get that through my thick skull.
And maybe, also through my heart.
I needn’t have worried about getting the previous night’s sentiments through my mind if I’d known what I’d wake to.
That being, Artie gone.
Me alone in a hotel in the middle of Scotland.
I understood.
We’d breached some sort of inner barrier in her at the bar that night, at the cliffs the day before. She was vulnerable and running, even though she’d left a note with the front desk saying that she’d been called into an emergency meeting back in the States and would catch back up with me soon.
She’d come back.
I knew that she was too much of a professional to leave me flapping in the wind, but I also knew enough about her after almost six years to recognize she’d come back with several new layers of protective armor.
Sighing, but knowing that any other reality was impossible, I buckled down and methodically went through the remainder of my required tasks in Scotland. I finished approving the locations, spoke to the local producer who’d be in charge of filming there, signed off on the use of Rhonda as Director of Cinematography.
I did what I did best.
Forgot the messy and focused on the project at hand.
Filming was beginning in less than a month, and I wouldn’t allow whatever had happened between Artie and me to jeopardize that.
This was too important to both of us. I could hold down the fort.
But I couldn’t lie and say I didn’t miss having her there holding it down with me.
L.A., in the wintertime, was a mindfuck.
Or maybe that was because I’d finished my week in Scotland and had returned to sunny California, to eighty-degree weather and sunshine instead of biting wind and chilling rain, and my body hadn’t adjusted to the fact that I needed shorts instead of parkas.
It was a few days before Thanksgiving and my family was in town, readying to celebrate an early Christmas on the West Coast with me because I would be filming Carrot over the holiday.
Best title ever.
Especially since the lead, Eden, had bright red hair.
A girl from a tiny village in Scotland somehow finding herself at the center of the Allies efforts during WWII, stumbling through life as she figured shit out. It was coming of age. It was historical. It was painful to read. It was . .
. really fucking real.
Almost too real, but that would be my job to balance the knife’s edge of reality and fantasy and history in order to take the viewer along for a ride.
If that wasn’t a comparison for my life, then I had no clue what was.
Reality vs. fantasy vs past.
Artie had called me that night after she’d left, all cheerful and sweet, apologizing for having to skip out and thanking me profusely for helming the visits and coordinating with the local producer.
But all I could see was fear.
Distance.
Avoidance.
Except, she didn’t seem to be avoiding me. She’d continued checking in daily, had sent me texts with pictures and thoughts.
So, maybe I was the one who’d fallen to the wrong side of reality.
Maybe I needed to stop living in this fantasy that one day Artie would look at me and realize that instead of pushing me away, she wanted to hold me close.
Because, fuck, it had been almost six years since we’d first sat down for lunch together. And I was still here, awed by her, but also spinning in circles because I’d tasted her once and hadn’t gotten my fill.
I’d never get my fill.
Which meant I needed to shove that shit down and move on.
Sighing, I parked my car and walked over to baggage claim, making sure to pick up two luggage carts. My family—all of them, both sisters, mom and dad, spouses, and various nieces and nephews—would come with a lot of bags. Glancing at the screen, I checked and saw that their flight had already landed, so I hurried over to where they’d come out.
I saw my nephew Grayson first, blond curls flopping as he jumped next to my sister Marie, holding one hand as he did so. Her arm jerked, but she almost seemed not to notice, so swept up in the kindergartner’s excitement.
Well, that and she was holding my newest nephew, one-year-old Chase, in her arms, so Grayson didn’t exactly have her full attention.
They were trailed by Marie’s husband, Joe, who was holding the hands of their four-year-old twins, Elliot and Ella—side note: their names were an ode to how truly evil Marie was for making their names a perpetual tongue twister.
See? Kids. Loads of them. And that wasn’t even counting my other sister, Kate, who was married to Hank and had a two-year-old daughter, Gabriella, and a five-year-old son, Thomas.
They, along with my mom and dad, paraded down the path leading past the TSA agent and burst through to the waiting area in a flurry of noise, strollers, and children.
Grayson was the first to spot me, shouting, “Uncle Pierce!” and tearing away from Marie to come barreling toward me.
“Gray!” I said, bracing myself for impact before sweeping him up and into my arms. “Hey, bud. How are you?”
“I got pretzels!”
Assuming that was six-year-old speak for awesome, I hugged him tight for the moment he allowed me then released the squirming mass of muscle back to the ground. Thomas was right there, but because he tended toward shy—and with a cousin like Grayson to steal the spotlight that wasn’t really a surprise—I didn’t immediately reach forward to hug him. Instead, I crouched down and held up a palm for a high-five.
Thomas gave me one before throwing his arms around my neck and demanding, “Up.”
That I could do.
Thirty seconds with a six-year-old and a five-year-old and I was already feeling more balanced.
“Did you get pretzels, too?”
“Yup. Two bags.”
“They were generous,” Marie said, stepping close enough to press a kiss to my cheek. “Probably because it was the only way to get this brood to shut up.” She leaned back, almost taking my ear with her, not realizing that little Chase had hold of it. “Whoops, sorry,” she muttered, releasing it before fixing me with a glare. “You shouldn’t have upgraded us.”
I shrugged, quickly made the rounds of hugs and kisses with Kate and my mom and dad. Thomas kept his arms firmly locked, so I also completed my quote-unquote bro hugs—as Marie called them—with Hank and Joe with Thomas in my arms. “I would have gotten you guys into first class, but you can’t seem to stop pushing out kids.”
Marie snorted. Kate smacked me before patting Thomas on the head. “These guys are wonderful.”
“I bet first class is, too,” Marie joked, dreamily batting her eyelashes for a moment.
“Thank you,” Kate said. “I agree with Marie that you shouldn’t have upgraded us to business class, but the extra room did make it easier.”
“Next time I’ll charter you guys a plane,” I said. “God knows you have enough people to fill it.”
“You will not!” my mom said on a gasp. “That’s your money, Pierce. You earned it.”
Because this was an ongoing argument with my family, I just set Thomas down so he could help me push one of the luggage carts over to baggage claim. They didn’t get that they were here because of me, because my schedule made it so I wouldn’t be home for Christmas. They didn’t get that I was in the position I was in because they’d made it possible.
“Not gonna win this one, son,” my dad said, a smile teasing the corners of his mouth. “Might as well let your mother have her way.”
I nodded, though I didn’t necessarily agree.
One of these days, I was just going to book them a trip somewhere tropical, not just transportation out to see me because my schedule messed up the family celebration. Then I was going to force them to accept my generosity and like it. I snorted. Yeah, sure, that was going to happen. Hank grabbed the second cart and we noisily made our way to the carousel. Thomas got over his shy and was running around with the twins and Grayson while my mom and Kate attempted to corral them.
My cell buzzed just after we’d retrieved the car seats from oversized baggage, and I pulled it out, checking the text and thankful I’d had the foresight to have foreseen this amount of airport chaos.
“My assistant is here with one of the vans,” I told my dad. “Do you guys want to get the kids loaded and then head back to my place?”
“Van?” Hank asked. “I thought we’d just take a Lyft.” Almost as quickly as the words came out of his mouth, he shook his head. “I’m an idiot. Of course, we wouldn’t fit.”
I released the brake on the cart. “I’ll start in with car seats.”
“I’ll help,” my dad said, picking up the hefty one that would secure Chase. “Let’s go.”
Having been back to visit with my family many times since they’d had kids, I was well-familiar with the installation process. Not that being familiar meant much when it came down to struggling with buckles and straps and negotiating three seats into the back of a minivan.
But ten minutes later, my assistant, Shelby, had left to retrieve the second van, and my dad and I had five seats installed, three kids strapped in, and the two more on their way. Thomas had asked to ride with me, and since he was the calmest kid of the bunch, I’d agreed.
Plus, I enjoyed the things he said.
“You’re a God,” Marie said, pressing a kiss to my cheek and slipping into the middle center seat to run point over the brood. My dad got behind the wheel, Kate into the passenger’s seat.
“I’m not playing rock-paper-scissors with you anymore,” Marie muttered, but she was already masterfully doling out snacks and books and toys.
I handed Kate my house keys, made sure they knew where they were going then started to head back inside to help Hank and Joe get the rest of the bags.
My feet skidded to a stop about two inches inside the door.
Artie.
My mom.
Talking.
And a photographer nearby, camera up as he rapidly snapped pictures.
“Pierce,” my mom said with a huge wave. “Look who I found! Artemis.”
“Shit,” I muttered, hurrying over, seeing a few people glance up in recognition. Even when I was trying to put Artie out of my head, she still found ways to invade my life. Not fair, since I figured that my mom had been
the determining factor in their conversation, but seeing her after what had happened in Scotland made me grumbly.
“Hey,” Artie said as I leaned in and kissed both of her cheeks. “It looks like you’re about to be inundated for the holiday.”
“We’re celebrating Christmas early,” my mom gushed, Thomas clutching at her leg. “Because Pierce won’t be able to make it home for the holiday. But I guess you’d know that already, considering you’re the reason.”
Artie had been smiling, but the last had her eyes dimming. “Oh, I’m sorry. I could—”
My mom seemed to realize she’d made a mistake. She picked up Artie’s hand, squeezed it lightly. “I’m sorry, dear. I didn’t mean it like that. We’re thrilled you two are working together.” Her voice dropped to a stage whisper. “Don’t tell Pierce, but Second Chances is my favorite film of all time.”
Artie laughed, a tinkling sound that slid down my spine, relaxing me. “Thanks for the love, Mom,” I said, mock-pouting, and turned to the woman who never failed to make my pulse speed up. “We tease a lot in this family.”
My mom nodded. “Can’t take anything we say seriously.”
Artie smiled. “I’m guessing I have you to thank for why Pierce has such a good sense of humor.”
“Of course, dear.”
She chuckled, readjusted the grip on her carry-on’s handle. “Well, I should be going,” she murmured. “I’m about to head home and drown myself in reality television and wine.”
I knew the expression on my mom’s face spelled trouble, even before the words drifted out of her mouth.
“You should meet us for dinner later,” she said, or rather, ordered.
“Um.” Artie was taken aback, tired eyes flashing to mine.
“Mom, she’s tired and had a long week. I bet she wants to go home and relax without a brood of Daniels making her ears bleed.”
“If she’s tired, then she needs a home-cooked meal and to relax.”
Artie slid back. “I’m just going to order in,” she said.
“Nonsense!” my mom declared. “I’m cooking my world-famous meatloaf and biscuits, and there will be enough to feed an army. You should come. I’m dying to hear about your latest project. How was Zane Potter to work with?”
