“Wook at me, mama!” Oliver yells from the top.
“I see you, sweetheart!” I call back. “Are you okay?”
“Uh huh, Zane gonna keep me safe,” he says as Zane falls in a heap from the last hurtle. “Comon’ Zane,” he says with a tug.
Never complaining, Zane follows Oliver to the bridge that spans the top level. Oliver stops in the center and shakes it side to side until Zane drops to his knees with wide eyes.
“Mama, wook at me!”
“Yeah, Finn, look at us,” Zane calls from where he’s clinging to the swaying bridge on all fours. “Does this ride come with barf bags?”
“Dats, Mama,” Oliver says in his serious tone.
“That’s your mama,” Zane says, “but that’s my Finn.”
“Who’s you Mama, Zane?” Oliver asks without any sense of propriety.
Zane hesitates for a second before he says, “Caroline. My mom is Caroline.”
Oliver scrunches up his nose and says, “Where’s you mama at, Zane?”
It might be the red and blue stripes playing tricks on me, or it could be that Oliver hasn’t stopped swaying the bridge for even a second, but I swear Zane’s face pales a few shades.
“Illinois,” he says, but he keeps his eyes down, focused on the slats beneath him.
The torture treatment has gone on long enough. North Korea should employ this play place. It’s more information than I’ve learned from Zane in the almost two months I’ve known him. Sensing his need for rescue, I call up to Oliver, “Go down the slide, I think the food is almost here.”
Easy to distract, Oliver jumps from the bridge and reaches back to drag Zane from the apparatus. Zane laughs as he wiggles his way through. “I’m having flashbacks from Call to Arms right now. I’m a shell-shocked marine and bombs are going off everywhere.”
I’ve seen that one, and I know why it received three Oscar nominations. But the red and blue striped bridge is a bit of a stretch. It strikes me once more, Zane’s talent for compartmentalizing his emotions. One second he’s clearly shaken by Oliver’s questions and the next second he’s back to his carefree attitude I know too well. Or maybe he was only worried about losing his lunch on a play place, and I’m reading into things as usual.
True to my promise, the food arrives as they pop out the base of the slide. Oliver scoots in on Zane’s side, slapping the seat for his new buddy. By his hesitation, I can tell Zane had planned to slip in next to me, but Oliver has a draw about him that’s hard to resist.
Oliver jabbers on through dinner, telling his exploits of the bridge and the tunnel like I hadn’t watched it firsthand. Granted, hearing it from his side, it’s a far grander tale complete with dragons and lava, not to mention the monster that grabbed Zane’s legs. Meanwhile, Zane locks eyes with me, content to have his own conversation without words. My skin tingles with the intensity of what he’s feeling. I swear he’s touching me without lifting a finger. Every time I meet his stare, I can feel his lips against mine, or remember the way they glide over my neck, the heat from his breath leaving trails of ignited passion like a path to the center of my heart.
“Zaaa-ane,” Oliver says, “you’re not wistening to me.”
Pink flurries in his cheeks as Zane realizes he was caught.
“Sorry buddy, I guess I got a little lost for a second,” he says. “What do you need?”
“Wook!” Oli jams two fries under his top lip and looks up at Zane. “I’m a wawus.”
I laugh because no matter how many times we have fries, that’s always his favorite trick. But I don’t expect Zane to join suit and stick two smaller fries under his top lip.
“I’m a vampire. I vant to suck your blood,” he says to Oli in a horrible accent.
“I haven’t seen that one yet,” I say through my broad smile. “Is it any good?”
He knows I’m referring to his vampire film, Bleeding Love. And he shrugs. “Overdone. You’d hate the makeup choices. Went all gothic, but heavy handed. We looked like angsty, unemployed millennials, not the legion of the undead.”
“Tabitha liked it,” I say before I can stop myself.
“Tabitha liked the leather pants,” Zane says before I go any farther.
“Mona wiked it,” Oliver says.
We both look at him in surprise, but it’s Zane who answers him.
“Mona likes everything.” He releases a tickle attack, and Oliver squirms and giggles until I worry he might wet his pants. Zane gives into his pleas for mercy and ruffles his hair. “Eat your dinner and stop eavesdropping, kiddo.”
It’s easy being with him. I never thought it would be. I never thought someone of Zane’s caliber could slide into a suburban lifestyle without flinching, but here we are, some makeshift pseudo family enjoying dinner at a local fast food joint with cracked vinyl benches.
“How’d that work, growing up with Mona as your mom?” It’s obvious by the way Zane’s waiting on my answer that he’s given a lot of thought to it. “She’s what? Sixty now?”
“She’s in her seventies, actually. I can’t tell you her real age because she’ll murder me, but she was in her late fifties when she adopted me.”
“How old were you?”
“It took a while for me to decide that route. I guess I finally trusted that she wasn’t going anywhere after a couple years, and she adopted me at ten years old.”
“And before that, where did you live?”
I draw in a breath because I don’t talk about any of this, especially not in front of Oliver, but he’s got two fries engaged in ferocious battle on his napkin, so I doubt he’s paying attention.
“I was in a Catholic orphanage until I was eight.” I try not to think of those times. The nuns were kind enough, but we weren’t their children. We were taught morals, we were fed, and we were dressed and waiting for the potential families on adoption day.
“Nuns and everything?”
“And everything,” I tell him.
“Did they ever spontaneously burst into song? How do you solve a problem like Sweet Finley?” He grins and quirks his eyebrow like a dare, but I don’t know the film he’s referencing. The idea of Sister Mary Bennet singing anything but an off-key hymn feels foreign to me.
“No, no songs. But I’ll never forget Mona coming to pick me up. She looked like the grandmas I’d read about in books, and when she told me I was coming home with her, I said every prayer of gratitude the nuns had taught me.”
“Is she really like a grandma?” Zane perches a fry between his lip and nose like a mustache and makes a face at Oliver, so he’ll giggle.
“Pretty much. She bakes cookies for Oliver. When I’m sick, she makes me soup from an old family recipe. She carries candies in her purse that are decades old and hard as a rock. And she falls asleep almost everywhere we go.”
Oliver is still trying to copy the fry mustache trick, and Zane is bursting with pride at the awful table manners he’s taught my child.
“Sounds like my last girlfriend at The Oscars,” he says without looking up. He must feel my questioning eyes burning into him because he glances up with his crooked grin. “She was falling asleep through most of it because she was wasted, and she had her own kind of rock candy in her purse.”
“What’s rock candy?” Oliver asks as the fry falls to his lap.
Zane’s eyes go wide as he realizes his mistake. “It’s something you shouldn’t ever have, buddy. It’s a bad idea.”
“Are you really teaching my son about crack?” I ask, half-teasing, half-serious.
“Never too soon to start,” Zane says.
“I think four is a little young,” I say, but I’ve lost the teasing tone along the way. “Oli, why don’t you go play?”
“You coming, Zane?” he asks, but Zane shakes his head.
“In a minute. I don’t want your mom to get lonely.”
“Dats good,” Oliver says. “She cries a wot.” With a quick hug to Zane’s arm, he’s off again thumping and bumping all over the pla
y place.
“I’m sorry,” Zane says once he can’t stand the silence anymore. “Sometimes I don’t know when to leave a joke in my head. I wasn’t trying to teach him anything. You’ve done a great job with him.”
“It’s fine,” I say. “It’s not like he understood it. All he’s going to remember about today is playing with you and learning about mustache fries.”
Zane looks up to the play place and waves at Oliver from where he’s dancing on the top level. “No one ever taught me anything,” he says and for a second, I don’t understand the connection. “About drugs being dangerous, I mean. It didn’t come up until it was too late.”
“When was too late?” I ask, hoping I’m not overstepping.
“I had my first real hit at ten. By twelve, I was in over my head.”
If I look closely, I can see the tremor in his hands where he’s rubbing them together.
“My sobriety’s been off and on for ages, but this last year is the most sober I’ve been since I was nine years old,” Zane says. “It’s a wonder I’m alive.”
I’d like to disagree with him, but he’s right. “You must have a whole legion of guardian angels.”
He cracks a grin. “I attract the workaholic angels. The ones who go after the unsaveables. They’re up there in heaven bragging about how they’ve kept Zane Alexander alive longer than anyone else could have.”
“Do angels brag?
“Mine do. Or we’d never get along.”
“But it wouldn’t be Zane Alexander, would it?”
Zane looks up from where he’s stacking fries. My words strike him hard, like I’ve torn off all his clothes, and he’s raw and vulnerable without them.
“I guess not,” he whispers.
The tremor increases. He rubs his hand on his jeans to try to ease the feeling.
“What’s your real name, Zane?”
He stares up at Oliver as if he hasn’t heard me. He tries to smile when Oliver calls his name, but only manages a wave. Whatever happened in his early years still haunts him. I wonder if they’re swirling around his head whispering all the secrets they’ve kept his entire career.
“No one knows that name, Finn.”
“Why not?”
“Because he’s dead,” he says. “Zane Alexander killed him, and no one will ever find him. He’s gone.”
The finality he’s speaking with chills me. Rage clings to his words as if that death was inevitable. One of them couldn’t survive, and he, being the stronger one, conquered all.
“I didn’t actually kill anyone,” Zane says as he looks up at me. “If that’s what you’re thinking. But I buried my life from before. I don’t talk about it. I don’t think about it. It’s the only way I can stay sober.”
Even with his hand clenched, I spot the emotion he’s struggling against. My hand slips over his, ceasing the tremble, easing his agitation. As tangible as a sigh, the tension melts and his fingers lock with mine. As he inhales, he looks to me, eyes exhausted.
“Please don’t stay mad at me. I need you.”
Every step is a trap door, as if my words are all pitfalls and destined for defeat. But I can’t help but reach out to him anyway.
“Are you still struggling with your addictions?”
His grip tightens on my hand as if I’ll keep him anchored to his seat. “In this moment, yes. I can’t tell you how much I’d like a whiskey sour right now. But it’s not like this all the time. I like spending time with you two. I feel like myself. You never look at me like an addict.” His grin goes crooked. “Must be your strong Catholic upbringing.”
“I haven’t said a Hail Mary since I was a kid. I don’t think we should hold me up to too much scrutiny. I’ll come up short.”
“Fractured, right?” Zane waits for my nod before he says, “That’s still better than shattered. I like you the way you are, cracks and all.”
Zane acts like he’s headed to the play place, but he holds back for a second, a thought brewing on the tip of his tongue. “My life is finally coming together, maybe for the first time ever. And it all started with you, Finn. Of all my guardian angels, you’ve done the most for me.”
He lets go of my hand and charges up the stairs to surprise Oliver. My son’s squeals of delight bounce off the walls. I feel like I know two different Zane Alexanders, this one who plays with Oliver and laughs from deep within his soul. Then there’s the Zane the rest of the world knows, charismatic, collected, calculating. But how do I know which is real?
We’re alone in here, there are a few other people on the other side of the glass pane that separates us from the lobby, but we might as well be alone in the world. If only I could keep the rest at bay. If only I could stop time and shut it all out.
Then we might have a chance.
✽ ✽ ✽
It’s all my willpower to make it home without looking at the magazine. Then it’s some more willpower that I found under a cushion somewhere because it’s late and Oliver needs to get into bed. A full hour passes before I drop my purse on my bed and take in a deep breath.
“Now or never,” I say out loud.
For a second, I consider never. Isn’t it easier to keep your head in the sand? Todd and I were relatively happy for the first year. It wasn’t until I called him out on some pictures I found on his phone that it all fell apart. Maybe if I’d turned a blind eye to his affairs, we’d still be together.
But that’s no way to live.
And I have to know.
It’s slick between my fingers, as if the pages themselves know just how slimy the material is. The title splays out in front of me in full capital red letters.
Happily Ever After for this Leading Couple?
Zane’s holding Tabitha’s hand in the picture, strolling down the streets of Ridgedale. He’s not wearing his scars. He’s not in character. I flip open the magazine and scroll page by page until I find the article.
“Cozied up in a small town, we caught these lovebirds flying the coop between takes. Zane Alexander is well-known for wooing his leading lady. Is it all hearts and sunshine for Tabitha and Zane? Only time will tell if we see a happy ending for this new couple.”
There are two more pictures. One with Tabitha looking over her shoulder to wave at the camera, the other with Zane’s head tucked into her neck. Water splatters on the article. One drop. Then two. My fingers clench down and crumble the page to a ball, relishing the ripping paper as it refuses to give in.
Will I never learn?
Am I really this naïve?
Here you go Alice, fall down another rabbit hole.
Cinderella, take that pumpkin for a spin.
Maybe Aurora wants some more time at the spinning wheel.
I’m right there with the rest of them.
Bright-eyed, clueless, and heartbroken once more.
Chapter 16
A quick glance at the call sheet, the list of actors who are required for filming today, and I can see Zane has the day off. At least I won’t have to deal with touching him when I want to leave real scars instead.
Who am I kidding? I’m more hurt than angry, but angry is easier. Angry doesn’t ache as badly. The tabloid is rolled up in my purse in case he shows up and tries to deny anything. In the meantime, it’s a sea of extras who need the basics and I’m oddly happy for the busy work. It keeps my mind distracted, instead of dwelling on the fact that I’ve done it again.
No, Zane doesn’t beat me, or bash my head against the wall, or use his hand to smother— Zane doesn’t hurt me. But cheating on me? That’s not acceptable either, even if it doesn’t make me bleed.
But that’s where my thoughts truly run rampant because technically, we aren’t together. Technically, we aren’t a couple. It’s not like I have anything to be upset about in that light. I mean, obviously he lied when he told me he loved me, but don’t we all lie? I lied last summer when Mona asked if she could pull of a tube top. No one got hurt. Well, a few people at the beach were scarred psychologically,
but no one was bleeding.
Circles.
I’m talking myself in circles.
I haven’t said a word to anyone by the time lunch is over, the least of which is Tabitha. She babbled on for what felt like two lifetimes about her excitement for her date with Zane tonight. She told me all about her dress, the one with the slit up to here and the plunge down to there. Close as I can tell, one stiff breeze and there won’t be much to the imagination, like one of those little cheeses with the wrapper you can peel.
I groan at the thought of it and lean on my makeup table for support. Tabitha plows on like a steamroller. No thought of what she rolls over the top of, just getting what she needs.
“Hey Tab,” Zane’s voice comes from the front of the trailer, “can I talk to Finley for a minute?”
Tabitha, startled by the interruption to her monologue, glances at me for approval, but I can’t even look up at this point. It’s all my strength to stay upright with him walking up the steps.
“I guess I’m done,” Tabitha says as she rises from the chair. “I didn’t think I’d see you until tonight.” I straighten in time to see her plant a kiss on his cheek before she whispers, “I can’t wait.”
Zane shoots her a baffled glance, for my benefit I’m sure, before he pulls the trailer door shut. The lock clicks into place. The room dims without the natural light from outside. If he were anyone else, I’d be terrified. But he’s only dangerous to my heart.
Zane takes a few steps towards me, but I can tell he’s struggling. Obviously, he knows about the tabloid. He knows his little game has been exposed, and he’s got to come up with some excuse, or a sob story for why we wouldn’t work.
“I didn’t think I’d see you today.” I copy Tabitha’s words in a snarky tone. “You’re not on the call sheet. Did Jay change something?”
“No, I went to the store to pick something up for Oliver and I was worried you might have seen one of the tabloid covers. You haven’t returned a single text all day, so I figured you’re mad at me. From the way you’re acting, I must be right.”
I start slipping my brushes back into their slots. “Did you play a genius in one of your movies? However, did you figure that out?”
Shards of My Heart (The Forgotten Ones Book 2) Page 15