by Roxy Reid
Joshua’s face is stormy, “Sienna, I love–”
He sees my face, and corrects himself.
“–like you. I like you. So fucking much. But this isn’t doing fucking arithmetic during sex. This is my dream. That I’ve been working toward for way longer than I’ve known you. It’s not fair of you to ask me to do this.”
“Which is why I’m not!” I come to him and take both his hands in mine. “I’m not asking you to. I never would. I’m just explaining why this is fundamentally impossible. I can’t choose you over my own self worth. And you can’t choose me over this dream that you’ve worked for your whole life.”
Joshua lets go of my hands, abruptly, “So that’s it then.”
I don’t know what else either of us can say, so I just nod.
He half turns to go, then swears, and turns back to me, “I have to kiss you.”
“What?”
Joshua indicates the peanut gallery outside the conference room, “They’ve seen us fight. If we’re going to keep faking the engagement, they need to see us make-up. I need to kiss you.”
“That’s not the only way–”
“If we had a fight. And you stopped wearing my ring. And I thought I’d lost you. But then I got you to listen, and you agreed not to leave…”
As he’s talking, it’s like I can see that parallel world spooling out before us.
“If I actually got to keep you,” he says. “If I thought I’d lost you, but then I got to keep you, I’d kiss you like my life depended on it.”
I feel my heart rise and my pulse speed up, because he’s right, he’s exactly right, and knowing what I’m giving up is breaking my heart.
I clear my throat. “Ok, then,” I say. “One peck, to sell the bit–”
Joshua kisses me like his life literally depends on it, his hands cradling my face like I might vanish if he doesn’t hold on. I clutch his arms, my knees weak, and it’s everything I can do not to start begging.
Keep me. Kiss me like this. Don’t let me go. Convince me people change.
There’s cheering and applause on the other side of the glass. Of course they believe that we’ve made up. That’s what happens when one of the best actors in Hollywood decides to convince the world he’s in love with you.
Slowly Joshua pulls away, his dark eyes searching my face for something.
“I… I think we sold the bit,” I say.
“That we did, Sienna. That we did,” he sounds so bitter my heart breaks for him. For me. For us.
Joshua closes his eyes, and it’s like I can watch every real emotion he’s feeling disappear. When he opens his eyes, his pain is hidden, locked away behind a fake grin and a cocky mask.
He takes my hand and kisses it with an easy possessiveness, before turning to the rest of the office and lifting our raised hands like we both won a boxing match, and deserve applause.
People laugh, and oblige him, cheering harder, because how could they not?
He’s Joshua King. He’s impossible not to love.
He let’s go of my hand, “I’ll tell Darian we’re on again for the cocktail thing tomorrow?”
I nod, watch him leave the office. If you just watched the way he moved, you’d think he was a triumphant king leaving his newly conquered territory. But either his acting is getting sloppy, or I know him better than I think. Because when he looks back at me one more time before getting on the elevator, I can tell he’s miserable.
Then he leaves me behind, alone in a cold world of glass and gossip and people who don’t know me at all.
18
Sienna
The rest of the month passes by in a dull blur. Between planning the last stages of the launch, and attending public events together, Joshua and I see each other fairly regularly. We’re both polite and distant and it’s hell. I’m seeing him often enough that I can’t get over him, but not often enough to fill the Joshua shaped hole in my life.
In an effort to shake him out of my head, I call Jax and beg her to go shopping with me to find a dress for the launch party. Which is how I end up in an upscale boutique in Santa Monica, trying on a slinky red dress I can’t afford.
I mean, I can technically afford it. But where am I ever going to wear it again? There won’t be any more movie premieres after Joshua.
My throat gets tight thinking about it, and I start to take off the dress.
“Daaaaaaaamnn, girl. Look at that ass!” Jax comes up behind me and slaps my but. “You have to get this dress. You have to.”
Jax is a gorgeous, husky voiced redhead, who is an incredibly talented actress. But she has a hard time getting leading lady roles since she tends to be half a head taller than most of her potential co-stars, and Hollywood is a worthless hellhole filled with men who break your heart.
I meet Jax’s eyes in the mirror, “Remind me again why we live in this horrible city?”
“Because I’m still waiting for my big break, and you need a city with at least 46 shoe stores per capita to be happy in life.”
I roll my eyes, and head back behind the curtain to take off the dress.
“You’re getting it right?” Jax calls over the curtain.
“Not really in my budget right now,” I say.
Jax peeks around the curtain, “Yeah, but it’s in Joshua King’s budget.” She does a salacious eyebrow wiggle.
And suddenly the dam bursts, and I start crying. I sink to the floor in a dress that’s worth half a month’s salary, and I just start sobbing.
“Oh honey! What did I say?” Jax crouches down next to me. “What’s wrong?” Thunderclouds gather over her face. “Is he really cheating on you?”
“No! No. Joshua isn’t like that,” I wipe my cheeks dry with the heel of my hand.
“Then what is it?”
I sigh. I’m so tired. I’m so damn tired. It’s been a month of feeling like my emotions are bruised. Which would be bad enough. But I can’t let anyone know that I’m hurting, because then I’d have to let them know why I’m hurting.
But I need to tell someone at least part of the story. And I can trust Jax to stay silent, even if she does give impractical advice. She’s the kind of friend you can go half a year without seeing, and then pick up exactly where you left off.
I take a shuddery breath, “I can’t tell you the whole story, and what I can tell you, you can’t repeat to anyone. Not yet, anyway.”
“Ok,” Jax says cautiously.
“Joshua and I are broken up. We have been for a while. It’s complicated. We’ll tell everyone after the launch. But I can’t get over him.”
Jax rubs my back, “Well, sometimes it takes a while to get over men when they dump you out of nowhere.”
And I start crying again.
“What? What did I say?” Jax, asks, frantic.
“I dumped him!” I wail.
“Wait. Hold up. You dumped Joshua King? My girl dumped Joshua King?”
I wail louder.
Once she gets over her glee that her best friend dumped a celebrity, Jax helps me stand up and get out of the dress. Then she passes me a water bottle and tissues and we camp out on the dressing room floor until I’m all cried out.
“So, um, do you want advice?” Jax asks. “Or will that make you cry again?”
I square my shoulders, “Advice. I’m ready to move forward. But practical advice only.”
“Why don’t you get him back? You obviously care about him.”
But I’m already shaking my head, “I do care about him. I care about him so much. But the reasons I broke it off haven’t gone away. And I don’t want to go back to him just to do this all over again in a couple months. I’d rather make a clean break.”
“But it’s been a month and you’re not making any progress getting over him.”
I aim a finger gun at her, “Bingo.”
Jax wraps her arms around her knees, thinking, “In my experience, you can’t force yourself to get over someone, until you want to be over them.”
; “I want–”
“You want to be over him up here,” Jax taps my forehead. “But your heart doesn’t want to stop caring yet.” She taps my chest. “Once your heart’s ready, I’ve got a foolproof ten step plan. Delete his number, rant about his flaws, tequila, ice cream, clubbing, setting things on fire, social media purge, rebound flirting, the works. So you tell me when you’re ready, and I’m there. But until then…” Jax shrugs. “You just have to feel it, babe.”
I heave a heavy sigh, “Yeah.”
Jax stands and offers me her hand. I take it, and she hauls me up too.
“You should absolutely get the dress though,” Jax says.
“What?!”
Jax coyly inspects her nails, “Your last event as a couple is this champagne launch party, right? Then it’s kind of your goodbye party, except only you and he know it. And a goodbye party with an ex absolutely requires an eat-your-heart-out dress.”
Jax holds up the dress in front of me, and I remember how good I looked in it.
“Will it make you feel strong and powerful?” Jax asks.
Yes. Hell, yes.
I grab the dress from her, “Fine. I’m getting it.”
Jax claps me on the back. “Good, because we just monopolized their dressing room for an hour, so we have to buy something. And this place is hella out of my price range.”
My alarm goes off at five o’clock the morning before launch day, but I’m already up and pacing the room, texting Darian to finalize details. My red dress hangs on the front of my closet door, a daily reminder that I can be strong and powerful if I need to be.
I think it’s because it’s so early in the morning that Darian lets slip that Elinor Swift hasn’t signed the contract yet.
What. The. Literal. Fuck.
This woman has been stringing Joshua along for three months. I had a fake engagement because of her. I had real sex because of her. Also real heartbreak.
And she hasn’t signed the fucking contract?
I glare at the red dress in front of me.
Not your fight, the red dress whispers back at me. Let it go. Say goodbye, and let go.
So I try not to think about it, and pad into the bathroom to brush my teeth.
Ok, but until she signs the contract, this thing isn’t finished. And I don’t leave a job unfinished. I lean over the sink and spit.
I study myself in the mirror. Maybe I can’t let go until I know Joshua is going to be ok. Until I know this project that he’s put his whole life into has the best chance of succeeding that it possibly can.
If I can get Elinor Swift to sign… It would be like a goodbye gift to Joshua. The perfect goodbye, to say I wish him well. And I’ll never regret knowing him, or kissing him, or getting to know his kid.
I’ll never regret that he was my first.
I roll my shoulders and tilt my chin up. Time to get Joshua King the gift of a lifetime.
I head back into the bedroom and grab my phone. I’ve got a string of questions about the launch party from Darian.
I ignore them all and write back, Does Joshua still want Elinor Swift for the movie? Because if he does, send me the contact information for her assistant. I have a plan.
19
Joshua
It’s the morning of the launch of my production company, and I know how I’m supposed to feel. I’m supposed to be excited. I’m supposed to be thrilled. I’m supposed to have that tense energy buzzing under my skin that I still get before a product launch, or on the first day of shooting.
At the very least, I should be panicked that although she agreed to do the role, Elinor Swift seems to be avoiding Darian’s calls and hasn’t signed the contract yet.
Instead, I’ve got a pit in my stomach because today’s the last day I’ll see Sienna. I’m opening a permanent account with her firm, but she told me she won’t be working on it. She wasn’t angry when she said it, but I know a brush off when I see one, and I have a sneaking suspicion that she’ll always have a reason to be out of the office whenever I stop in for meetings.
My suit’s hanging on my closet door in its dry-cleaning bag. It’s my favorite suit, and certain celebrity gossip sites have mocked me for wearing it so much.
But now when I look at it all I see is what I was wearing the first time I kissed Sienna.
I rub my hand over my face. I’ve never been this hung up on a woman before. Ever. It’s been a month, and I’m still dreaming of her scent, of her curves, of her eyes. I wake up hard from hot dreams of her in my arms, and then crash back down to earth when I remember she’s kicked me out of her life for good.
It doesn’t help that she’s gotten more peaceful, the last few times I saw her. Before, I could tell seeing me was fucking her up. Sienna’s not nearly as good at hiding her emotions as she thinks she is.
But now, she smiles at me and means it. It’s like she’s finally made peace with her decision.
Well, bully for her. Because I haven’t.
I stomp downstairs and pour myself a bowl of lucky charms. And then a glass of whiskey because fuck it, why not.
“Why are you mad, Daddy?” Poppy says, from the kitchen doorway, rubbing her eyes, a stuffed animal Sienna gave her dangling from her hand.
She just woke up, and it makes her sound her age. Poppy’s so tough and outgoing, I tend to forget how young my baby still is.
“I’m not mad,” I say. “I’m just sad.”
And as I say it, I realize that’s the truth. Underneath the frustration and loss and stress… I’m sad.
I’ve been saying I’m hung up on Sienna, but that’s like saying the Grand Canyon is a moderately sized crevice.
My heart is fucking breaking.
And I’m sad about it.
I pour some whole wheat cheerios for Poppy — the little weirdo doesn’t like Lucky Charms — and she climbs up onto the stool on the other side of the kitchen island. I sit down next to her with my sugary cereal and whiskey.
Here’s the thing about heartbreak. It hurts like a motherfucker. But it hurts a smidge less when your kid is sitting next to you, humming tunelessly.
Until you realize she’s humming a song the woman who dumped you taught her. Then your heart just gives up and shatters into a million pieces.
“Why are you sad?” Poppy asks, in that matter of fact way she once asked me why the sky is blue.
I didn’t have an answer for that one either.
“Well, kiddo. Um. Sienna and I aren’t going to be friends anymore. And that makes me sad, because I like her. I like her a lot.”
Poppy slurps up her cheerios, “Why can’t you be friends anymore?”
“Because…” I look at the ceiling, searching for an age appropriate answer to that can of worms. “It’s big and messy and adult and complicated. But the gist is, I can have this big dream of mine that I’ve been working toward for a long time, or I can have her. But I can’t have both, and she didn’t want to make me choose, so…”
I rub Poppy’s back, and tuck her hair behind her ear. I hope she never has to make a choice like this when she grows up.
“So you want your dream more?” Poppy asks.
“Well… Not this second, no, if I’m being honest. But that’s just because I’m sad right now. Down the road, I’ll be glad I made this choice.”
At least I hope I will. Otherwise I’m fucked.
Poppy frowns down at her cereal, still trying to understand. Then her face suddenly clears, and she beams up at me. “I know. You can work on one now, and one later. Can Sienna wait, and be our friend later?”
Slowly I shake my head, “That’s a good idea, hon, but I don’t think –”
“Then can you do your dream later?”
I start to say no out of habit, but as my lips are forming the word, I realize it’s a lie.
I can launch the production company later, if I have to. I want to do it now, with this script. But I don’t need to. Or I can launch it now, without the security blanket of Elinor Swift, and just wor
k that much harder for the next ten years to be taken seriously.
All I have to do is open my hands. Tell the truth. Let go. Lose control.
There’s no denying life will be cleaner, more manageable, if I let Sienna go. Especially given what I’d have to do to get her back.
And there’s no guarantee she’d take me back. I could lose everything.
But if it works...
My life with Sienna in it would be bright. Vivid. Hot. Unruly. Challenging. Complete.
Why the hell would I want an easy life when I could have Sienna Bridges?
“Thank you, sweetie,” I say, hopping off the stool and kissing Poppy’s forehead. “Thank you so much.”
I call Brittney, and she agrees to come watch Poppy earlier than we originally planned.
I race upstairs to grab my suit. I’ve got a launch party to ruin.
Thank God Elinor Swift hasn’t signed that contract yet.
20
Sienna
The launch party is a huge success by normal metrics. Journalists, celebrities, influencers, and distributors buzz around the courtyard of the winery, glasses in hand. Everything is running on schedule.
But this isn’t a normal launch party. Joshua still needs to make his speech, where he’ll toast with the new champagne and announce his production company. And I still need to snag one guest in particular and convince her to sign the contract I got from Darian.
I may have technically blackmailed Elinor Swift’s personal assistant to get the launch party on her schedule, but that’s not important.
And then I spot Elinor Swift. Wandering through the crowd with an air of untouchable elegance.
I pop up at her elbow, “Excuse me, Ms. Swift? Mr. King wants to talk to you inside.” Before she can protest, I lead her into a small room off the courtyard.
She follows like a woman used to being needed. As soon as she’s inside I close the door with a heavy clink, and whip out the contract.
It’s possible I never work again in Hollywood if this goes wrong, but I ignore that thought, “I’m so sorry ma’am, but we realized today there’s been an oversight and you never signed your contract with King Productions. If you can just sign here, I’ll be happy to escort you back to the party.
