Famously Mine: A Contemporary Romance Box Set

by Roxy Reid

  “I don’t get it,” I say. “Why?”

  “Because you didn’t want to be a secret. So you’re not.”

  “I’m also not dating you anymore. Why would you—”

  Slowly he stands, and I’m reminded again of how tall the man is. They say C.E.O.s are disproportionately tall, because people wrongly associate height with leadership ability. Only in Wade’s case, it’s actually true.

  “I did it because I want you back,” he says with a quiet firmness that send butterflies racing through me, and reminds me of exactly who I’m dealing with. “And I need you to believe me, when I say I’ll do whatever you want to make it work. Tell Duke. Tell the whole world. Whatever you want, Stella.”

  I swallow. I feel like I need to pinch myself.

  Before I knew I was pregnant, I fantasized about him showing up and saying exactly this.

  But that was before.

  “Wade, I can’t—”

  “Please listen. Just this once.” Wade takes my hands like they’re precious. Like I’m precious. “Stella, you make me so incredibly happy. And I think I make you happy too, right?”

  “You do,” I admit. “But—”

  “But it’s more than that,” Wade continues. “You make the world settle into where it’s supposed to be. You make it so I can breathe. You make every place you go a place I want to be.”

  “Wade,” I beg, throat tightening against tears, but he doesn’t release my hands. And I can’t make myself ask him to. I know exactly what he’s talking about. Every place he goes is a place I want to be.

  God, he’s killing me.

  He releases my hands to cup my face. I’m staring deep into his eyes, and I can’t breathe.

  “I love you,” Wade says, and his voice breaks. “I love you, Stella. I think I always will. Please give me another chance. I’m so sorry.”

  I kiss him. I throw myself at him, arms around his neck, leaning up on tiptoe. I kiss him with my whole heart, my whole self, and he responds, fierce, clutching me too him. I kiss him like I’m never going to kiss him again.

  Because I won’t.

  I make myself break away when Wade reaches to open the door to my apartment building.

  “No,” I say. Quiet. Firm. Surely it’s another woman’s voice coming out of my mouth, because inside I’m sobbing. “That was the last time.”

  His hands tighten on me reflexively, and there’s a part of me that wants Wade to dig his fingers in so tightly I bruise, to never let me go. Screw dignity. Screw needing to know he’d pick me forever, even without T.L.D. Screw needing to protect him from feeling trapped, unhappy, like he told me he did when that pregnancy scare ended his last relationship.

  But I can’t get over that last fear. I couldn’t bear to have Wade look at me and feel trapped. Long-term, forever unhappiness like that? That would be more than I can carry without breaking.

  “Stella,” Wade says, and his voice is so soft and deep I can feel it on my skin, in my bones. “Please,” he begs. “I’ll do anything.”

  I know I’ll remember this moment until the day I die. The fresh cut grass, the late sun, the jagged turmoil inside me.

  And Wade, standing before me. Holding me as much as he dares. Waiting.

  I draw on strength I didn’t know I had, and I say it.

  “No. It’s too late.”

  Wade closes his eyes, and I don’t know if I’ve ever seen a man in so much pain. “Are you sure?”

  That one’s easier. “Yes. I’m sure.”

  Slowly, Wade lets go of me, with all the reluctance of a man dangling from a cliff, forcing himself to let go.

  I step inside the apartment before I lose my nerve.

  “See you around, Wade,” I say, but he doesn’t speak.

  Instead he just nods once, to show he heard me.

  When I close the door on him, it feels as loud as a thunderclap.

  There, I tell myself. What’s done is done.

  Only it isn’t, because that night, I can’t get the hurt on his face out of my mind. I can’t think of anything else, knowing Wade’s hurting.

  Why did you have to fall in love with me, you idiot? We’re not good for each other anymore. We can’t be.

  I reach for my phone, not sure what I’m doing, but knowing anything involving phones and heartbreak and 1:00 a.m. is probably a bad idea.

  I call up the last text he sent me. Stella, can we please talk?

  And then today. See you around, Wade? What was I thinking?

  These can’t be the last things we say to each other.

  I start and stop at least ten texts. Finally, I just write Are you okay? and hit send.

  I see the little dots flickering across the screen. Then stop. Then start again. I’m fully prepared to get blasted with a message telling me I’ve lost the right to ask that, and to leave him alone.

  Finally, his message pops up.

  It’s fine, Marigold. Are you okay?

  I curl up in a ball around my phone. Wade hasn’t answered my question, but it’s so good to have even this little piece of him to hold on to. And he called me Marigold.

  I will be, I text back. Thanks.

  I breathe out a sigh of relief. See, this is a much better note to leave it on. I roll to put my phone on the ground next to my mattress, when it buzzes again.

  Text me tomorrow? he asks.

  My heart leaps. I shouldn’t. If I don’t make a clean break, we’re just going to land back in this place where we keep hurting each other.

  My phone buzzes again. I know you’re not changing your mind. But we can still be friends, right?

  It’s a bad idea for a million reasons, the most obvious being that if we stay friends, at some point he’s going to want to see me in person, notice I’m pregnant, and do the math.

  But I’m weak. And the idea of checking in with him tomorrow night? That makes tomorrow morning a lot more bearable.

  Ok, I say. I’ll text you.

  He texts back a thumbs up, and I laugh. Leave it to Wade to end this emotional wreck of a day with a thumbs up emoji.

  I set my phone to the side, and sleep soundly for the first time since I walked out of his office.

  The next two months fall into a pattern. Prep lesson plans. Throw myself into learning everything I can about marching band drumming. Connect with the main music teacher at St. Mary’s to get a better idea of how I can support the existing program. Blow out my credit card buying baby things. Reconnect with a few old high school friends still in town.

  I avoid Duke’s calls, because I don’t know how to explain why I’m saying no to Wade. Some days I’m not even sure why I’m saying no myself.

  Is it really because I’m scared of him getting custody? Or is it just because I’m scared of being hurt again?

  Every night I text Wade. Well, after the first week, sometimes he texts me. He tells me about recommending our favorite diner to Clara Covington. I tell him how excited I am to find a nonprofit that’s just a place where musicians who are recovering addicts can go to jam out on musical instruments they may not be able to afford anymore. The founder has a statement on his website about being inspired to start it after his own battles with addiction left the music scene a tricky thing to navigate without falling into old patterns.

  I also tell Wade how disappointed I am when I call the nonprofit, and the man who answers the phone admits they don’t have a drum set. No one’s donated one yet. But if I want to try guitar or bass or French horn …

  I thank him, give him my number, and he promises to call me if anyone donates a drum.

  It’s not a big deal. I start at school in a few weeks, and there will be drums there.

  But those will be be-on-your-best-professional-behavior drums. I need beat-your-heartbreak-into-submission drums.

  And I definitely don’t tell Wade about T.L.D. How I’m showing now, which is going to be a fun conversation with my boss when school starts. How I’ve got morning sickness, and pretty much live on saltine crackers
until noon.

  I do try to include Wade in small ways, not that anyone but me will ever know. I buy the green baby blanket, since it’s his favorite color, and I cross out all the names I know Wade wouldn’t like in the baby book.

  And I slowly start to feel ok. Even excited. It feels like my life is held together with scotch tape and good intentions.

  But for right now that’s good enough.

  I’m in the snack aisle at the grocery store, restocking my supply of saltines, when I accidentally back into someone behind me.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry …”

  The words die down in my mouth as I realize who I’ve backed into: Judy Blandena, reporter extraordinaire. The woman who tried to get a photo of me and Wade at Annabeth’s all those weeks ago.

  She’s also probably the only person other than Wade, Duke, and Beverly, who could look at my stomach and put two and two together.

  My heart sinks. If Judy thought she had a story with Wade’s dating life, imagine what she’ll do with the story about his love child.

  My eyes skitter away, and I try to pull my stocking cap lower. Luckily, I couldn’t look more different from how I did that night at the restaurant if I tried.

  I’m in sweats, I’ve got a stocking hat pulled over my pink hair, and I’m not wearing makeup. Oh, and I’m twelve weeks pregnant.

  Judy frowns, “Do I know you?”

  “Eh, sorry mate,” I say, whipping out a truly horrific British accent. “I’ve just got one of those faces.”

  I escape to the register with my box of saltines, my heart pounding.

  That night I stare at the phone, wondering if I should tell Wade. If Judy figures it out, and publishes, my plan to keep this baby a secret from Wade is toast. And if that’s going to happen, I’d rather he find out from me than the society pages.

  There’s also his stupid morality clause in the Home Sweet Home contract.

  Suddenly I’m angry. It’s such complete bullshit. Wade’s doing a good job with them. A really, really good job. Everything he’s worked for shouldn’t be put at risk because of an expired condom.

  I run my hand over my stomach, and look down. “Maybe she won’t recognize me,” I say. “She always used to forget my name in math class.”

  T.L.D. doesn’t respond.

  “You’re right,” I say. “We shouldn’t tell him. It’s probably nothing.”

  For the first time in over a month, I fall asleep without texting Wade.

  16

  Wade

  I’m sitting alone in a family diner, surrounded by happy families and blissful couples, drowning my sorrows in a milkshake, when I hear my name.

  I look up to see Clara Covington standing over my table with a giant to-go bag and a tray of milkshakes.

  “Wade! It is you. I wanted to say thank you for recommending this place. Lee loves it.”

  I look at the sheer amount of food she’s holding. I hope Lee is half her age, or has a great heart doctor. “I can see that.”

  Clara laughs. “Oh no, this is mostly for the grandkids. We’re giving my son and daughter-in-law a much needed date-night. Speaking of dating. How’d your big romantic gesture go?”

  I look down at my milkshake.

  When I realize she’s still waiting for an answer, I mumble, “Fine.”

  “Oh honey.” Clara sets her bags on the table, and settles in the booth across from me.

  She doesn’t say anything else, just waits for me to speak.

  “I’m glad I did it,” I say finally.

  “Because you’ll always know you put yourself out there, and did everything you could,” she says, nodding supportively.

  “No. Because I got to see her again.” My voice cracks. “I haven’t seen her in months. I know what you just said is supposed to be my answer, and it kind of is, but mostly it’s just that for a second I got to be near her again.”

  Clara smiles gently, but her eyes are sad. “I remember that feeling.”

  “What did you do? How did you get him back?” I ask. This woman has sold romance to millions of people for longer than I’ve been alive. Surely she’s got a trick up her sleeve. Surely she’s got something.

  But Clara’s shaking her head. “I didn’t. I let him go. I made my choice, put myself out there. And then he made his choice, and said no. And then I moved on, and met the love of my life.”

  “Just like that?” I ask, stunned. I can’t imagine anyone replacing Stella that quickly. I can’t imagine anyone replacing Stella ever.

  “Well, no. There was crying, and a vacation, and diving into my work. There was a truly horrifying amount of peach schnapps.” She makes a face and shudders. “But then, bit by bit, on the other side, there was light. And at some point I realized I wasn’t carrying it around with me anymore. And then there was Lee.”

  She nods to my milkshake. “So what brought on the emotional eating? Anniversary?”

  “She didn’t text me last night.”

  Clara raises her eyebrows over her glasses. “And how often do you text each other?”

  “Every night,” I say miserably. It’s the best part of my day. I’ve been throwing myself into work, calling Duke, popping by to fix stuff at my mom’s because no matter how many times I explain the concept of being a billionaire, she’s still convinced repairmen are a waste of money.

  It’s not like I’m walking around crying all the time. I laugh. I check on the people I love. I get stuff done.

  But all of it feels like I’m going through the motions, until I’m talking to Stella again. That’s the only time I feel all the way alive.

  Clara’s eyebrows shoot up so high they disappear under her bangs. “Who started it?”

  “Um …” It depends how you define start.

  “You know what, it doesn’t matter,” Clara says, in that decisive, I’m-taking-charge-of-this-mess voice most successful business people have. “You need to stop. Both of you.”

  “But—”

  “No. It’s not good for you. It’s not good for her. Do you want to be happy again?”

  I stir my milkshake mulishly.

  “Wade. Do you want her to be happy again?”

  That gets me to look up. “Yes.”

  “Then you need to let her go. For both of your sakes.”

  I know she’s right as soon as she says it. It’s the answer I’ve been fighting off for months.

  Clara points a finger at me. “No contact until you don’t love her anymore. After that, you can try the friends thing if you want. But first, you need to stop texting her. Understand?”

  I nod. I know she’s right.

  Clara stands up to leave. “I need to get home before the food gets completely cold. Make good choices, Wade.”

  I watch her go.

  Then, for the first time in months, I turn off my phone, and drink my milkshake in peace.

  It’s amazing how much more space I have in my head when there’s not a part of me waiting for Stella’s call. It’s lonely, but it’s also peaceful. And for the first time in months, it feels like there’s room in my head for the future. I don’t know what that future is. I don’t know what I want it to be. But I know it’s there.

  But first there’s something I need to do.

  At home, I look up the name of that nonprofit Stella was talking about. Then I call them.

  “Yo. Rock-A-Holics Anonymous. What can I do for you?” a man’s gravelly voice says.

  “I’d like to donate a drum set.”

  “No shit! Seriously? We just had someone call about that the other day. Would you like us to pick it up? We can pick up from any place within the city limits, and we can fudge that a little if you’re not too far out.”

  I clear my throat. “I don’t actually have it yet.”

  “… Okaaay,” he says, clearly confused.

  “Sorry. I should have said I’d like to donate enough money for you to buy a drum set. A good one.”

  “Ah! Okay. No one’s actually done that before. Mostly p
eople donate old instruments, or chip in to pay the rent on our space. But sure, why not? How much would you like to donate?”

  “Whatever the full cost is, is fine,” I say.

  The guy on the other end of the line clears his throat. “I’m trying to be polite about this, 'cause I do appreciate your generosity, but a good top of the line set can be $13,000. But there are also some solid options around the $1,000 mark, and we can look into second hand too. We can absolutely make this happen, whatever your budget is.”

  “I can do the $13,000. I’ll drop off the check tomorrow if you’re open?”

  “I … yeah. Yeah, for $13,000 we can be open whenever you want.” Then, a little suspiciously, “I’m sorry, what did you say your name was?”

  “Wade St. George.”

  There’s the sound of something being dropped on the other end of the line.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name,” I say.

  “Isaiah Jones, founder.” He pauses. “Are you … that Wade St. George?”

  I can practically hear Stella snickering in my head.

  “Yeah,” I say on a sigh. “That’s me.”

  “Do you mind if I ask … why us? There’s charities all over the city that have been trying to get your attention since you moved back.”

  I wince. I should have known this was coming. I don’t want to betray Stella’s privacy. And I certainly don’t want it to get back to her that I bought the drums.

  “Let’s just say there’s someone I know whose life is a lot better because of groups like yours.”

  “Groups like ours, or ours?” Isaiah asks.

  I don’t say anything.

  On the other end of the line, Isaiah sighs. “I’m just asking because, if I’m being honest, our funding isn’t exactly stable right now. I thought we were the only nonprofit in the area doing work like this, but if there’s some other place that’s got a better shot of making it through the year …” He takes a deep breath, then says the next part like he’s pulling out teeth. “If there’s another more stable group, that’s probably who you should give the $13,000 drums to.”