by Bromberg, K
I look at her. Shell-shocked. Overwhelmed. Wondering how they knew I’d be here when my original flight wasn’t slated to land for another two hours.
And then it hits me.
It doesn’t matter.
They’ve been waiting.
Wanting a piece of me.
Needing a new shot to sell so someone can create more lies about me.
Shit.
Welcome home to me.
Hayes
“I don’t care. Issue the statement. Set up the exclusive. Do whatever the fuck it takes to fix this or I’ll break the NDA and take my chances . . . if I don’t get paid, then you don’t get paid.” I look out the window to the city below, and chew the inside of my cheek as my comment hits my agent, Benji, where I want it to: right in the hefty mortgage he just acquired when he bought that house off Laurel Canyon.
“Hayes . . .”
I grit my teeth at his placating intonation and his this will blow over attitude. He didn’t see her face or watch her hand fly up to cover her mouth as she stood in front of the damn magazine rack in the airport and read the bullshit headlines he had already warned me about. He didn’t hide in the shadows and watch the woman he loves wipe the tears from her eyes as she touched the tabloids as if to see if they were actually real before skimming the fronts to read what they had printed about her.
Because, fuck yeah, I followed her to the airport. I would have followed her all the way home if I could have but her plane was full. Not even bribery or my celebrity status was able to buy me a seat on the flight. My fight was subdued in comparison to how I felt inside. My need to not draw more attention to her by any lurking paparazzi readjusted my focus. No way in hell was I going to let her head to the airport and face a possible slew of photographers on her own without being there to step in if need be.
But it killed me to watch her hiding beside the trashcan, presumably reading the stories on her phone. Enraged me to know she gave an ounce of her attention to the lies.
Shit, while I watched her from behind my dark sunglasses and beanie, I had half a mind to walk right up to her and not give her a fucking choice in the matter whether I was going with her or not. Charter a damn plane myself if need be to get us out of there together because I’d lost her once and I wasn’t taking the damn risk of losing her again.
Last time it had been right to walk away. I had justifiable reasons. This time? Not a chance in hell.
That look in her eyes. She was spooked. Freaked out by the fucked-up confines we Hollywood A-Listers live by. There’s a helluva lot of privilege but also a ton of bullshit. And the only thing worse than watching her walk away—letting her go face this beast on her own—is losing her.
So I hung back on the other side of the tiny terminal. Wanting to be sitting beside her, talking her stubborn-ass through this, but instead I did the hardest thing for a man to do: I sat and watched the woman I love, knowing she was hurting and all I could do was sit there and fume.
Because fuck yes, I love her.
No doubt about it.
It was hard enough putting her in a car and kissing her goodbye. Biting back the words I feel but knew wouldn’t mean a damn thing to her considering the circumstances. Saying I love you for a second-first time should be special, not because I’m afraid I’m going to lose her.
But I fucked up. Big time.
It was only after her plane took off that I realized my fuck-up. She heard me say the words to Jenna. But not to her. And there’s no way to fix it except to earn the chance to tell her face to face.
But now I’m here.
In New York, my home away from Los Angeles, and way too damn far from her. So I’m depending on Benji to deliver because he’s the goddamn reason I agreed to sign the damn NDA in the first place. His quiet urging. His commentary on how Jenna wouldn’t dare fuck up again because she didn’t manage her finances well and needed this big influx of cash the movie would bring. Trip after trip to a secluded, confidential rehab in Arizona, full of Zen gardens and yoga something or others with the best counselors money could buy, cost a pretty penny.
“Look, man. I’ve always respected your opinions. And I take full responsibility for the bullshit with Jenna, but I think you’re missing the bigger picture. I. Don’t. Fucking. Care.” Each word sounds like another string to my control snapping. “About my image. About the film. About shit. This needs to get fixed and it needs to get fixed fucking yesterday.”
There’s silence on the line. My point has been made. He gets I’m not fucking around.
“I hear you, loud and clear, but no one’s going to listen to you. You’re too good of an actor, Whitley. You’ve had everyone believing you were with Jenna. And then with your silence, you had everyone falling for the broody, bastard boyfriend routine where the guys questioned how you could find better pussy then Jenna Dixon’s. And the women, while hating that you might have cheated, were also pulling back their sheets and patting their Tempur-Pedics in invitation. You never broke character once. You didn’t talk about it. You didn’t—”
“Because I signed the fucking NDA on your advice,” I grate through gritted teeth.
“Your balls were in a vice, man, with the studio acting as the henchman like I’ve never seen before. You had no choice. But you know as well as I do that painting the town red with interviews isn’t going to do shit to change the public tide on Saylor.”
And I fucking hate that. With a vengeance.
My hands fist in reflex. My teeth grind together. I feel the same fucking helplessness I had when she boarded the plane the other day and walked out of my sight.
“Get with Kathy. Figure out how to coordinate face time with Givens, Seacrest, and Cooper. The studio wants me to be their puppet boy? I’ll do their dance, pimp the movie, and while I’m at it, I’ll set the record straight about Jenna and me and where Saylor fits in the fucked-up equation. The studio wants a buzz leading into release day? I’ll give them a buzz like they never expected.”
“Watch it, Hayes. You’ve walked the line this far, make sure you don’t step over it now.” I can sense his frustration. Hear his sigh across the connection. Expect the heeded warning one more time. “I get you’re frustrated. Know you want to shout on the rooftops the truth about Saylor, but I’m telling you your best plan of action is to sit and wait. This will blow over.”
“You’re right. It might. But it will blow over means a completely different thing to me than it does for Saylor. You know what it feels like the first time you open your car door and have a camera thrust in your face? Or hear the click of the shutter from somewhere in the bushes but don’t know where until you catch the glare of the lens? It’s fucking terrifying if you’re not an attention junkie like we actors are. And she’s the furthest thing from that.”
“It will blow over, Hayes.” There’s sympathy in his voice this time, and it’s still not enough.
I hang up without another word. Sit and look at the lights of the city beyond. Wonder how many people out there have read about Saylor today. Wonder if they immediately believed the lies. And then wonder why the fuck they even care about who I date in the first place.
I pick up the beer by the neck and down it. Exhaustion hits me, yet I can’t sleep. I glance at my phone, my thumb instantly swiping to check my messages just in case I missed a text back from her.
But there’s nothing.
Welcome to Hollywood, son, where dreams come true, and the one you want more than any of them won’t fucking text you back because she’s scared of what those dreams entail.
Fuck me.
It’ll blow over. Of course it will. Question is if it’ll be a hurricane or a breeze when it does.
* * *
This is on you, fucker. Figure out how to fix it. All of it. You break her heart again, I’m going to throw more than just a punch the next time I see you. Ryder’s voice rings loud and clear through my voicemail. His threat real . . . I wouldn’t expect any less from him. And yet it brings a smile to my li
ps because it’s the only message today that I fucking deserve.
The table read sucked. And not because I didn’t know my lines or couldn’t step into character, but because of that goddamn scene. The one I rehearsed with Saylor that had gotten me all hot and bothered and had rang too fucking true for the two of us. To our history.
The I’d beg, borrow, and lie again right now to get the chance to see her again. Just like the damn script reads.
So yeah, it was a fucked table read. In my own head anyway.
To everyone else participating in the read, I nailed it. The emotion. The feeling. Everything about it . . . because I wasn’t acting.
Landing the part meant nothing though because I didn’t have her to call and share the good news with.
And of course from there my day went to shit. Like catching the latest picture of Saylor on the scattered newspapers on the table in Starbucks while I waited in line. The one with her eyes wide and purse dangling from her hand as she got out of a taxi in front of Sweet Cheeks. To say the look of utter shock and fear on her face felt like a knife in the heart is an understatement.
But my texts remain unanswered. My messages unreturned. My frustration at an all-time high with my goddamn heart in a vise that squeezes tighter with each fricking hour I don’t hear from her.
Next came the call from Tessa. Her tongue-lashing as to why I didn’t take her somewhere and stage pictures to be taken so she could receive the attention Saylor was. Because no press is bad press, right, Hayes? And she could really use some more press and pictures taken with me to help her keep her visibility up. Talk about a fucked-up moral compass. She’s dying for the attention—heartless, conceited bitch—and Say doesn’t want any of it.
But I gotta admire her. Hollywood takes all kinds.
Then after that, yet another call from Benji and one from my publicist, Kathy. The promises that the interviews were being set up. That a location to hold them was being discussed. Followed by a gentle reminder of what was riding on this.
Yeah. Saylor’s riding on this. The reason. The why. The fucking end game. Nothing else matters.
And of course Jenna’s nowhere to be found. MIA. That little gem of information kills me. The irony that she can cause this tornado of bullshit by dropping malicious hints about Saylor and yet when I want to contact her, her phone goes unanswered. Her whereabouts unknown.
I’ll find her and convince her to tell the press as much of the truth about us as she can. That we ended our relationship by mutual agreement, not because I cheated. And that Saylor wasn’t even in the damn picture when it happened.
Or else I’ll tell them. And with a dramatic flair, I’ll throw in all the little extras that make stories like this juicy to the public. Like drug use and suicide attempts.
Simple.
If only.
What would be even better is if Saylor would pick up the goddamn phone when I call. But she hasn’t and now I need to find another way to reach her. Break through to her.
Convince her that this world of mine isn’t so bad when we face it together.
I just fucking miss her.
Need to be with her.
Hold her when she hurts.
And it’s killing me that I’m not.
Saylor
I’m lost in batter.
Sounds ridiculous but I am. It’s in my hair, on my apron, and smeared on my cheek. My kitchen counter is a clutter of tins and ingredients and utensils. My apartment smells like the bakery should. The timer is beeping. My cell keeps vibrating on the table behind me with alerts I ignore.
And in this chaos, I can finally think. I can figure out which of the two ovens in the brochures on my couch I need and how I can make the monthly payments. I can avoid the looks by my brother downstairs who keeps shaking his head, asking me how I let this happen even though he knows I had no part in it. I can fight the humiliation over the newest round of insults printed. The ones about how I supposedly squirrelled away Mitch’s money—without him knowing—and opened the bakery of my dreams before dumping him at the altar.
Twisted lies. Mistruths believed by the masses.
I look to the vase of black roses on my table. My lovely gift from a Hayes admirer who threatened me for stealing him away from Jenna. They reflect the bazillion comments on social media this morning when I pulled on my big girl panties and decided to log on and brave the storm to see how bad it was. Cruel is an understatement. So I kept the flowers—despite Ryder begging me to throw them away—as a subtle reminder of the crazy I’m stepping into with Hayes. If I step into it.
So I woke this morning wearing the T-shirt he snuck in my suitcase—his welcome scent still lingering on it—before changing so I could bake to avoid my new unwanted reality. More importantly, to have the time to wallow in the empty ache in my heart that’s been burning a hole there over the past twenty-four hours.
I marvel at how the trip to Turks and Caicos was a mere four days and yet they felt like a lifetime with Hayes. How the heart can remember what the mind chooses to erase. How Hayes and I reconnected and slid into being an us without either of us discussing it. Void of overthinking. And how it just felt right.
Was it because we’ve technically spent more than half our lives together so the transition was seamless? Or was it because our hearts recognized our first love deserved a second chance?
Out of everything owning my thoughts, my mind keeps coming back to that.
But then I hear the noise of reporters in the bakery float up the open stairwell. The door is ajar so I can take the cupcakes down to cool quicker in the refrigerated case before frosting them. And then start the process all over again from behind the scenes while DeeDee and Ryder take care of the customers. The customers that have since doubled now that I’m back in town from my secret rendezvous with Hayes.
So up here is where I choose to stay. Away from the prying eyes and crazy assumptions of the assholes and their cameras and the looky-loos suddenly having an urge to buy a cupcake when they’ve passed by every other day of their commute.
And I bake. For the increased demand. To lose myself in my thoughts. To combat missing Hayes. To forget that if I opt to be with him, the two-dozen reporters outside might be my everyday norm.
The day drags on. I shower after my twelfth batch of the morning, then force myself to put on makeup and look presentable just to prove to myself that I can function if Hayes isn’t in the picture.
Yet I’m miserable. I hold his T-shirt to my nose and breathe in his scent. It makes me miss him more but also brings me a sense of calm.
And I wonder why I’m pulling the stubborn card and not talking to him. Is it stubbornness or resilience? If I talk to him, this craziness around us will disintegrate and I’ll only see him. Us.
Maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe that tells me he’s all I need, and if I’m with him, then the outside noise doesn’t matter.
But life can’t be spent joined at the hip with your lover. What happens when he goes on location for weeks on end or is so busy filming we see each other only in passing? There would be no blinders then. There would be no Hayes to shield me from the mistruths being said. The lies being spun about once a cheater always a cheater. Can I handle that? The curious reporter wandering into Sweet Cheeks to try and get an inside scoop on Hayes Whitley? On me?
And hell, just because he was talking about ten years from now, that doesn’t mean us being together is a given. So why am I worried about forever when I can’t even give him today? Shouldn’t I take one day at a time, and see from there?
“Oh my God,” I groan with a shake of my head. I’m becoming one of those sappy, wishy-washy women I swore I’d never be. The one I’d roll my eyes at and tell to suck it up when she acts like it’s a problem to have a man in love with her who wants to make it work regardless of the outside influences.
I’ll give myself a few more days to see how long this kind of attention and chaos lasts. It’s weird how I’ve lived so long without him but in this
short span of time, not having him with me feels empty, sad, and lonely. I’ve been through this before and don’t ever want to feel this way again.
This is more than missing him. This is knowing that without him I’m incomplete, as if half my soul is adrift.
“Saylor. You need to come down here,” Ryder’s voice calls up the stairs and every part of me bucks at the idea.
“What is it?”
“You need to get your ass down here to see for yourself.”
With resignation but grateful that I actually look presentable, I trudge down the stairs, my posture defensive, my attitude sucky.
“Ry? What is it?” I ask as I swing around the corner and almost run smack dab into the backside of a burly guy in the back area between the stairs to my studio and the bakery’s kitchen space. About the same time he mutters an apology, it dawns on me what he’s moving.
“What is this?” I look over to Ryder standing on the other side of the brand new, shiny, stainless steel baker’s dream of an oven that’s being maneuvered into the space.
“It’s a Baxter Rotating Rack Oven.”
“I know what it is.” I laugh feeling flustered as I stare mesmerized at the oven of my dreams. “I’m just trying to figure out how they’re delivering it to the wrong place.”
The guys moving it stop at my words and one of them pulls out paperwork from his back pocket. “Says right here: For one Ms. Saylor Rodgers, Sweet Cheeks CupCakery with a huge paid in full next to your name.”
Startled, I look over to Ryder who just shrugs with a slight smirk playing the corner of his lips, eyes narrowed as if he’s trying to figure out where it came from. A part of me knows the answer before I even ask to see the paperwork. And when I do, I know I’m right. That familiar signature I’ve known ever since he’d scribble on my homework to piss me off in high school. Then there’s the handwritten note next to the name.
