Picking up Zane means waking up even earlier than before. At five a.m. I roll out of bed, pull on clothes, and stumble to the kitchen for a protein bar. They need to start packing them with caffeine. Days like today, I don’t have time for coffee. Mostly because I spent seven minutes sitting in Oliver’s room watching him sleep and soaking in my baby’s presence to get me through the day.
I gave in last night. Told Mona that preschool would be fine.
Fine hasn’t actually meant fine since I married Todd, but I doubt anyone else knows that. He used to ask me how I was doing during dinner. One look at my shaking frame and he must have known I was terrified, but maybe that’s why he asked. He had to prove to himself that he wasn’t the problem.
It was me.
Always me.
“How are you?” he’d ask me.
Without looking up, I’d always answer, “Fine.”
It wasn’t a lie. He just didn’t understand what it meant.
It was an acrostic.
Frightened.
Insecure.
Numb.
Erratic.
“Fine”.
It still feels like an accurate answer for letting someone I don’t know take care of my son. I don’t care how many times Mona assures me she’s known these women since they were kids, the fact is that I haven’t.
But the voice inside me that keeps my anxiety from ruling my life thinks it’s worth a chance. If I didn’t listen to that voice every now and then, I might stay locked up in the ranch house and never come out.
Oliver is behind other kids his age. In learning, in speech, and of course in social skills. I’ve known it for a while now, but I don’t know enough to fix it. Fact is, I don’t have a lot to go on in general. Mona didn’t take me in until I was eight. Everything before that was a blur. She managed to keep me alive, and she’s promised to stay with him today. We can try it, at least for the rest of this week.
But the other voice inside me, the one that knew when the beatings would come, the one that told me when I needed to hide, the one that kept me alive all those years, that voice is hard to silence. I fight it all the way to 2384 Murphy Street, the address Zane gave me.
I know this place. I mean, that’s not news in a town with a population under a thousand, but this is more than that. And I can’t believe she didn’t tell me.
I jog up Cecelia’s steps, past her hydrangeas and marigolds, camellia tree and the hibiscus no one believes she’s kept alive in this climate. Stupid that I didn’t recognize the address, but I don’t think I’ve ever taken the time to learn it.
My knuckles rap twice because I know the doorbell has been out for a few years now. Wilbur, Cecelia’s husband says he’ll fix it every weekend, but we all know he hates the racket it makes. More than once, I’ve heard him mumble about the “unholy invention”. He’s a trickster. He broke the doorbell playing a prank on Cecelia. Forever scheming up some new way to prank not only his wife, but everyone else crossing his path. I brace myself for whatever goof he’s got planned for me.
But it’s not Wilbur who opens the door. It’s Zane. His piercing stare is a little intense this early in the morning, and my gaze goes to my feet in a split second.
“Mornin’, not Glenda.” Zane pulls the door closed behind him. “Thanks for coming.”
I nod and start down the stairs. My tongue has fallen into my throat. That’s the only way to explain why I can’t form any logical sentences now that he’s next to me. Maybe I’m having an allergic reaction.
To what?
His swagger? I’ve ignored every other arrogant jerk up to this point.
His cologne? I hope not, it’s amazing.
His good looks? Probably. Like medusa in reverse. He’s so handsome I might turn to mush instead of stone.
“Can we stop by the side of the house? I want to see if I can get my bike in your trunk so I could exercise between takes today.” He draws in a breath of cold morning air. “Good for sobriety, I hear.”
“It won’t fit.” I drop down from the last step. Looking at him is like staring at the sun, so I focus anywhere but his face.
“I can take the wheel off,” he says, starting for the back of my sedan. “Pop the trunk. I’ll know by looking.”
“It won’t fit. The trunk is full,” I tell him with a momentary glance at his face. I catch my breath and hope he’s not going to be angry about this. Sure, I told Mona all about his chivalry the day before, but I’m the first to tell people that it’s easy to hide true nature. At least for a little while.
“Just pop it,” Zane says without trying to hide his annoyance.
I blow the air from my lungs through my clenched lips before I press the button. The back hinge clicks, and the trunk bounces up just to be caught in his strong grip.
“Mercy, woman,” he breathes the words out like a prayer. “What is all this?”
Drowning in reluctance, I move to his side and glance in my trunk space. Like I told him before, it’s full. There’s Oliver’s jog stroller I keep for emergencies, and two diaper bags, plus his sand toys from the playground last week. I count no less than six sippy cups, and a half-eaten sandwich in a baggie.
The sandwich was mine. I managed a couple bites before Oliver threw sand at the little boy who touched his favorite dump truck. After stopping the altercation and being berated by the other mother, I didn’t have an appetite. There’s more junk stuffed in the cracks and crannies, but I feel like I can answer his question with a few words.
“I’m a mom. This is mom stuff.”
He’s still staring. I wish he’d close the back. Can’t he see me withering in shame? Instead, he’s looking at the contents like he’s made an archeological discovery that will change the course of history. I can only imagine if this was found a thousand years from now and marked, “Single mother’s trunk” in some museum.
A British curator’s voice pops up in my mind, “See the pattern of the lonely mom, all equipment for her child and a lack of care for herself. This is why the single mothers all died off”.
I have to escape this crushing feeling, so I shrug it off like it isn’t embarrassing. “On the plus side, I won’t get kidnapped.”
That earns me a curious glance before Zane asks, “What do you mean?”
“In crime shows, they always smack the chick in the head, or drug her and then stuff her in her trunk.” I run my arm over the space above my trunk like a gameshow girl showing off the prize. “Jokes on them, I won’t fit.”
Wanting to end this, I slam the trunk closed and start for the driver’s seat. Zane follows my lead and slips into the front seat, still laughing at what I said. “You know, I have heard a lot of self-defense hacks over the years, and this one’s new to me. You mind if I share it next time I’m in mixed company? I’ll call it the Finley Fake-Out if you want credit.”
At the sound of my name, I can’t help but look at him. He knows I’m more than ‘not Glenda’. I look away before my heart starts racing again. I’m a chauffeur for a recovering alcoholic, that’s all. The engine starts up easy, and I pull away from Cecelia’s house toward the filming site outside town.
“You don’t keep a bunch of stuff in the back of your car?” I ask as we turn on to Main. It’s more than small talk. I’m curious how other people live. Living a sheltered life, it’s not like I’ve had much experience. Mona’s trunk is worse than mine, and she doesn’t even have Oliver to blame.
“Maybe a few reusable bags if I’m planning to go to Whole Foods. I never have them if I don’t leave them in the car. Then I have to buy ten more. I swear, this bag ban has done more to hurt the environment because idiots like me can’t remember the reusable ones.”
Reusable bags? Bag ban? I swear these Hollywood people come from another planet.
“What are you talking about? You carry luggage around in your car?”
“Oh,” it’s as if the thought just occurred to him, “we’re out of state, aren’t we? In California, plastic bags are illegal. We have to bri
ng our own, or buy more, which is what I always end up doing.”
“Illegal? You made plastic bags illegal? How does that work? Will you go to jail?”
I’m imagining hordes of people waiting for mugshots still clinging to a wrinkled grocery bag. No wonder California jails are overcrowded.
“No, I mean, it’s not a misdemeanor or anything, just helping the environment and enforcing it with fines.”
I can’t help but glance at him for a second across the cab. He has to be kidding.
“With all the problems you have in that state, you went after plastic bags first?”
His grin is a little lopsided, kind of like Oliver’s when he’s got a cookie hidden behind his back. “Oh yeah, we’re good at that. I mean, drugs, human trafficking, race wars and gangs, we’ve got it all, but no we spend our legislation banning bags and making sure chickens have room to stretch.”
I can’t help but defend the underdog. “Maybe they’re just fixing the problems they can fix.”
“Or avoiding the problems they can’t,” Zane counters back. “I love my state, but I love it like you love family. You know they’re a mess, but hey you have to love them anyway. Granted, a place like Ridgedale, this place could change my mind entirely. You live here long?”
“Pretty much my whole life. My mo—” I catch myself because even after all these years I still can’t say it, “Mona raised me here from eight years old on.”
“You’re adopted?” he asks. Normally, I’d sidestep the question, but he’s asking with genuine curiosity and no pity. The truth falls out.
“Yeah, Mona adopted me eventually. Mona ran her own foster home of sorts for years. Gave us all the option to choose adoption before we aged out of the system.”
“Sounds like a great lady.” Zane clears his voice before he asks, “You don’t call her mom though?”
The question is over the line, and I’m back to side stepping. “Cecelia, the woman you’re staying with, she’s actually one of Mona’s best friends. They run a nursery in town with another friend, Ester. I’m sure you’ll meet them all.”
Zane hasn’t missed the fact that I didn’t answer his question. My hands twist on the steering wheel as my anxiety churns in my gut.
“I’ll clean out my trunk tonight,” I say after a little silence. It’s a peace offering at best. My hope that he’ll forgive my issues and move on.
Zane only nods and turns his focus on the scenery passing out the window.
Once more, I’ve screwed everything up.
✽ ✽ ✽
I’m set up in the wardrobe trailer, jammed in the corner, but I don’t care because I can feel my fingertips today. Ridgedale is known for fog thick enough you could scoop it up and use it like cream in your coffee. Ester tells me it’s just like the fog on the moors of Ireland. Usually, within seconds of her declaration, an argument will erupt between her and Mona about whether she’s actually gone or not. There’s also the local folk tales of people drowning in the fog, breathing in so much of the moisture that their lungs cease working. Obviously, it’s not true, but mornings like this make you wonder.
Moisture flecks Zane’s stubbled beard as I work. It’s faster today because I don’t have to check the placement as much. Anton snapped a picture and hung it on the mirror he set on the wall above my table. Quick glances from the picture to Zane’s face tell me I’m right on track.
It’s soft.
Stupid that I keep thinking that. But the texture of his beard surprises me. It doesn’t prick my palm to keep his face steady while I work. My wandering mind won’t stop ruminating over whether it would be soft against my cheek as well.
“How’s your plant?” I ask as I paint in what’s faded from his tattoo.
His cheek shifts under my palm as he smiles. “Alive. Healthy even. Cecelia gave me some food for it. I imagine it’s going to be double the size by the time I come back tonight. Something out of Shop of Horrors, I think. I’ll name him Ernie.”
It’s the first we’ve talked since I shut him down in the car. At the time, I thought he was mad at me, but now I’m realizing I might have pricked him a bit with my avoidance. Shame burns in my heart that I can’t get anything right.
“You know where I can get a fish?” Zane asks with a playful lilt in his voice. I expected him to make me pay for what I’d done in the car, but it feels like he was waiting on me to start up our conversation again.
“There’s a stream nearby,” I say, matching his tone.
“Do you know if Cecilia has a pond?”
“Maybe get a beta fish instead.”
“You wanna drive me to pick one up after shooting today?”
“I have to go home. My little man is waiting for me.” I pull back and take in my work, comparing it to the picture behind him. “Besides, what’s the rush?”
“No huge rush,” Zane says, leaning forward as I leave him to clean my brushes. “Wanted to keep my options open. I met someone who might have sparked my interest.”
My hand jerks in the cup. A half a second longer and I’d be wearing the contents on my top. “Oh?” I ask as if any of this is my business.
“Yeah,” Zane confirms. Through the mirror I watch him glance over his shoulder at the wardrobe team sizing Tabitha for her dress she needs tomorrow. Happy that they’re occupied, he finds my eyes in the mirror. “But I don’t know if she’s involved with someone. No ring on her finger, but maybe she doesn’t wear it when she works. I thought she was single, but I found out she’s a mom, so now I’m not so sure.”
I turn my focus back to my brushes, acting as though this is the most important work right now. Meanwhile, my mind is racing faster than my heart, and that’s saying something.
“Why would you even notice her?” I ask before I can stop myself.
It’s the truth.
Or at least it’s my truth.
By the world’s standards, I’m nothing to nobody.
By Hollywood’s standards, I’m even less.
“I don’t know. She’s funny when she thinks no one will hear her. She’s clever, and sweet.” Zane lets his gaze burn through the mirror. “She’s got me hooked pretty badly. She’s not like the rest of them.”
“The rest of who?”
“The world,” he says.
My breath echoes in my ears. The leather chair groans as he stands up. I pull the brushes from the water and use a towel to dry the bristles. I have to calm down or there won’t be anything left of them with the way I’m yanking at the tips. I dare not look up, but I feel his heat behind me. Not close enough to touch, still three or four feet back, but intentional. He’s giving me my space, but I feel like he wants to be closer.
“It’s not serious,” Zane says, as though he can sense my nerves and that he’s the cause of it. “But I’m debating asking around about her, or maybe asking her directly.”
“Asking her what?”
“If she’s married or has a boyfriend or anyone for that matter. I don’t want to overstep.” Zane pauses for a moment before he moves, but he doesn’t take the space directly behind me like I expect him to. Todd would have done that. Moved into my immediate space and used his body to control me for good or for evil. It wouldn’t matter which, as long as he got what he wanted in the end.
But Zane moves to the side of my table, leans his weight against the edge and shoves his hands in his pockets like a little boy in a china shop. “I don’t want to scare her away either.”
After Todd dropped out of my life, I promised myself that I wouldn’t skirt issues like I used to. I’d take them head on. Promise or not, I’m lousy at it, but I can feel the courage shoving me into trying anyway.
“Jay has rules,” I whisper to him. “And you don’t have a fish yet. And I’m…” my voice trails off because the skeptical parts of me can’t begin to imagine that he’s talking about me.
“You’re fragile,” he answers for me. I meet his eyes for half a second before I return to my work. The table creaks as his weigh
t shifts. Ducking low, he finds my eyes again. “I’m asking if you’re married, that’s all. I’m not one to go breaking up a happy home.”
Agitated nerves drive me to pack up what I’ve worked with. His scars are in place, but not even those can diminish his attractive features. My head spins. This conversation wasn’t in the plan today. I don’t do well veering off schedule.
Still, he waits for my answer.
“I’m not married.” I drop the last piece in the storage tub. “Divorced,” I tack on, so he knows at some point in time my child had a father, even if Todd was never worthy of the title. “But all things considered, I don’t think this is—”
“Prudent,” Zane finishes for me. “I get that. I really do. I won’t bring it up if it makes you uncomfortable. I’ll even get a new driver if you need space now that I’ve said something.”
“No.” It’s the money that blurted the answer out, or at least that’s what I’m telling myself. “No, it’s fine.”
There it is again.
F.I.N.E.
Fearful.
Insecure.
Nervous.
Erratic.
Fine.
“Zane, we’re ready for you over here,” Kiara, head of wardrobe, calls across the trailer. “If you’re done, that is.”
The weight of his stare falls on me. I nod my approval without looking up. “You’re ready. Knock ‘em dead.”
Words hang between us.
My secrets.
His confessions.
All unspoken, and yet screaming to be heard.
If I could scoop them up and toss them in the trash, I would. But they’re as tangible as the fog and twice as hard to capture.
His hand brushes mine, pausing for a second against my pinky as he lingers. In a voice barely even audible to me, Zane says, “I know it’s not smart, but chemistry like this is hard to ignore, don’t you think?”
Even a few hours later, I still don’t know how to answer that question.
Chapter 6
Six hours shooting on Main, then three more in the forest, with touch ups, wardrobe and makeup changes for all actors, but mostly Tabitha. I wish I could be like her. I doubt anything scares her. She’s all bubbles and rainbows. She’s the fairytale before anything ever goes wrong. The princess in stories who grows up with two parents, not a girl like me who never knew different. There’s a shadow where my parents should be. A lurking mist, or a black hole of memory as if I should know who they were, but my brain forgot to record it. The space is there, but the blank air hums static.
Shards of My Heart (The Forgotten Ones Book 2) Page 5