by Monroe, Max
“Wait…n-no…” I attempt to stutter through an explanation. “I’m not missing.”
Confusion shoots across her face.
“I was never missing,” I add. “I think there’s been some kind of mistake.”
“You weren’t missing,” the woman repeats, but I think I’ve baffled her so much, her head is about to explode. “But why do they think you’re missing?”
“I have no idea.”
Again, why is this happening right now?
I go on a hiking trip with fucking Luca Weaver and come back with a broken heart and my face on a goddamn missing person’s flier!
Jesus, Mary, and all the saints, this has to be the worst day of my entire life.
It takes me over two hours to get everything straightened out with Sheriff Townsend.
Once the search party realized the missing girl had been found, it turned into a freaking circus. First, they were all relieved and asking me if I was okay and what happened, a small-town crowd of people surrounding me with concern and worry in their eyes.
But once I explained I was never really missing in the first place, the tone changed and they all kind of turned on me for wasting their time.
I can’t blame them. I’d probably be pissed, too.
But at the same time, I’m not the one who called in a missing person’s report on myself.
Good God, I need to get the hell out of Dodge before something else goes wrong.
Before I leave the sheriff’s office, I use their phone to call the lunatic who got me into this mess.
“Hello?” Birdie answers on the first ring.
“Hi. It’s me,” I respond. “Your not missing sister.”
“Oh, thank god!” she exclaims so loud, I think my eardrum might’ve burst. “You’re alive!”
“Oh, I’m alive. So alive that I got to join my own fucking search party,” I say. “Did you seriously put out a missing person’s report on me?”
“Of course I fucking did!” she shouts. “And I was about an hour away from heading to the airport and coming to Alaska myself!”
“You knew I was looking for someone who lives off-grid, Birdie.”
“Yeah, but you didn’t call or text me back for over a fucking week!” she exclaims. “I had no idea what happened to you! I thought you got eaten by a bear or something!”
“Well, funny thing. Out here in no-man’s-land, the cell service is non-freaking-existent. Not to mention, I shattered my fucking phone on a rock. So, yeah, I haven’t been able to call you, and I couldn’t remember your fucking number when I could call you from Lou’s sat phone. But I did send you an email.”
“Who the fuck is Lou?”
I’m two seconds away from telling her I’m referring to Louis Lennox, famous Hollywood actor, but think better on it. Now is probably not the time. “It doesn’t matter, but I did send you an email.”
“I know I’ve been busy with rehearsals and shit, but Neil stays on top of my emails, and he never mentioned one from you. Which, seeing as I had to leave rehearsals early yesterday because I was so freaked out that I hadn’t heard from you, I’m pretty certain that’s something he would’ve fucking mentioned.”
Neil is her manager. “Well, that doesn’t make any sense because I sent you a damn email. It said all of the things that would’ve prevented you from calling out a fucking search party.”
“What email address did you send it to?”
“Are we really getting into the logistics of this right now, while I’m still standing in the police station? Any second, Sheriff Townsend could change his mind and arrest me for inciting panic.”
“What email address, Billie?” she asks, her tone hard and firm with annoyance.
“Your Hotmail one,” I answer.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” she retorts, and her voice starts to rise to ear-shattering levels. “I haven’t used that one since high school! And who in the hell uses a Hotmail address these days?”
I probably should’ve figured [email protected] was an email address of the past. Whoops. But in my defense, I couldn’t use my cell phone for reference, and I was a little distracted with… Yeah, no need to recount the painful details.
“Goddammit, Billie! I was so freaking out over here!”
“Jesus. Just calm down and stop yelling. I’m okay. Everything is okay.”
“I thought the worst had happened,” she says, and her voice is a near whisper.
Considering Birdie and I have experienced the worst firsthand, I know exactly what she means.
Fuck. My gut clenches with guilt.
I was so wrapped up in all things Luca Weaver that I pretty much forgot about everything and everyone else. God, I’m such a pathetic asshole.
“Dammit, Billie,” she mutters on a sigh. “I was so worried.”
“I’m so sorry, Birdie. I really didn’t mean to make you think I’d gone missing.”
She sighs again.
“Please forgive me?”
“Forgive you?” A soft laugh escapes her throat. “It’s going to take me a long-ass time to get over this.”
“That’s understandable.”
“Like, at least six months. Probably a full year.”
“Again, I get it. Take all the time you need.”
“Maybe even two years,” she adds. “God, Billie, I was really thinking the worst over here.”
“I can only imagine. Again, I’m so, so, so sorry.”
“So, you’re okay?”
“I’m okay.”
“And everything went okay on the hiking trip?”
“Not at all. Everything is pretty much one step down from the worst-case scenario you’ve been picturing over here. No bears involved,” I say. “Just a broken heart and a career that’s about to go up in flames.”
“Jesus. What happened?”
“It’s a long story…” I pause, and the stress of the day starts to wear on me. Tears flood my eyes again, and all I can think about is getting home. I just want to get the fuck out of Alaska. Also, I don’t want to have a crying jag in the middle of this police station. Lord knows, even though this town is so small the police department consists of one sheriff and two officers, I’ve wasted enough of their time today. “But I’m not quite ready to talk about all of it, and I really just need to get out of here.”
“Whoa. It’s so bad that you’re not even ready to talk about it?”
“Yes.”
“Christ.”
“I’m going to head to the airport now, try to get a last-minute flight back to LA, and then, once I get home, I should be ready to tell you the whole sad tale.”
“Your ass better find a way to get a new cell phone so you can text me every minute with updates.”
“I promise I will do my best to keep you updated, even if it’s via email from my laptop. Which, thankfully, should still be in the back of my rental car with the rest of my stuff.”
“My current email.”
A soft chuckle leaves my lips. “Love you, Birdie.”
“Even though you nearly gave me an early death over here, I love you too, you little asshole.”
Once I end the call, I start my journey back to LA.
There is no way I’m going to spend another night in this state.
I don’t care what I have to do, but I will find a flight out of here tonight.
For the first time since I started this trip, it doesn’t matter that I’m headed to the public execution of my career on Monday. I’ll head anywhere if it’ll get me out of Alaska without having to look back.
Good-fucking-bye.
Luca
My life is officially a country song. Just me, my dog, and both our broken hearts.
“C’mon, Bailey,” I call over my shoulder as I open the front door.
But he just lies there, head resting on top of his paws, with the same sad expression he’s had on his face for the past two days.
“C’mon, buddy. Let’s go outside.”
&
nbsp; He huffs out a breath and stretches onto his side, his eyes facing in the opposite direction from mine.
“Fine,” I mutter and shut the front door behind me.
If he wants to spend the whole damn day moping around inside, that’s his problem.
I, on the other hand, refuse to sit around thinking about what went down Friday morning.
I refuse to think about her.
Ax in my hands and a whole stack of long logs to chop, I put myself to work.
I chop and I chop and I chop so much fucking wood that my arms start to burn.
Heavy pants escape my lungs and sweat beads at my forehead, but I just keep on chopping.
When visions of green eyes and long blond hair fill my mind, I stop, toss my ax to the ground, and try my hand at clearing out the shed in the back.
I manage to get all the dust swept from the large concrete floor. I even succeed in reorganizing half the shelves near my workbench. But when I start on the other half of the shelves, she’s in my fucking mind again.
Her smile.
Her laugh.
The way she looked two days ago.
I’ve never seen eyes that fucking sad.
Her pretty lips were turned down at the corners, and her shoulders sagged.
Her hands shook at her sides.
And her whole body vibrated with…pain.
My words hurt her.
“Fuck,” I mutter into the quiet of the shed and drop the bin full of nails onto the shelf. Rough hand through my hair, I sigh.
I hurt her. That’s probably what makes me feel the worst. Because if my words were potent enough to cut her so deeply, she had to at least care about me a little bit. There had to be something there—something between us—other than a ticket to the top of her career ladder.
Why did she have to push me so fucking much?
Maybe if she’d backed off, I would have been able to stop myself from spouting a whole bunch of shit I wouldn’t have even muttered had I not reached my breaking point with the Hollywood topic.
I head back into the house and find Bailey in the same place I left him.
Sure, he’s turned over onto his other side. But otherwise, he hasn’t budged an inch from his new moping spot.
He’s been that way for two days straight, ever since Billie left.
A bright ray of sunshine in my otherwise drab world and I basically told her to fuck off.
God, I’m a dick.
I grab my hardly used satellite smartphone from the junk drawer in the kitchen and scroll through my contacts. But it’s pretty much useless because I don’t even have her fucking number.
How goddamn ironic?
The one and only person I want to talk to, and I don’t even have a way to reach her.
I wonder if she made it back to LA, if she’s okay…if she hates me.
When I spot my sister’s name in my contacts, one of only a few names and numbers I saved into my sat phone when I moved out here, and I think about what Billie said.
“But it is that easy.”
It’s been years since I’ve talked to Rocky. Fucking years. My one and only sibling—pregnant without me even knowing. And I’m the bastard who has been avoiding everything and everyone since the day I stormed off a movie set and left Hollywood for good.
I tap her name in my phone, and then, after a deep breath, I hit the phone icon and call her.
But it rings once, and then an automated message fills my ears. “We’re sorry, but this number has been disconnected.”
It’s been so long since I spoke to my baby sister that I don’t even have her actual number anymore.
Jesus Christ.
On a sigh, I scroll through the very short list of contacts in my phone until I stop on Lou.
I war with myself on whether or not I should bother him with my bullshit, but in the end, my bullshit wins out.
He answers on the third ring.
“Hey there, Luck. How’s it hanging?”
I’m tempted to lie to him, to tell him all is well and just act like I’m calling to check up, but I force myself to be real. To face my emotional shit head on for once in my damn life.
“I think I fucked up.”
He sighs, heavy and beleaguered like a man who’s been on the other end of that kind of disappointment from his late wife enough times to know it well. “I had a feeling I’d be getting a call like this.”
A shocked, harsh laugh escapes my throat. “What? Why?”
“Shoot, son, when you’re as old as me, you tend to see things coming before they even happen. Lived a lot of life, and I could see this trainwreck coming from a mile away.”
“So, now you’re a fortune-teller, too?”
He chuckles. “No, but I’m someone who knows the look a man gets when he’s falling in love. Had it myself, back when I first met Shirley, and you were so deep in that shit with that little gal you brought along, you could barely pick your head up long enough to take a breath.”
My first reaction is denial. I spent ten days with Billie, and falling in love with someone in ten days is about as reasonable as a goddamn alligator in Iceland.
But the feeling in my chest is at war with my mind. It’s overwhelming and painful and makes me want to believe that a cold-blooded reptile can survive in the snow.
Am I in love with Billie?
“Let me guess,” Lou continues, “she wanted you to come to LA, but you didn’t go.”
“She wanted me to go to LA because of that movie, because her fucking career was on the line,” I say out of self-preservation.
“Luck, open your damn eyes. That’s not the only reason she wanted you to go. You know it deep down. Look inside yourself and be honest with yourself. You’re in deep. And that girl feels exactly how you feel.”
I sigh. I don’t want him to be right about this. I don’t want to face the fact that I was short-sighted and hot-tempered and that I hurt someone without a leg to stand on.
And I don’t want to face the fact that there might only be one way to fix it.
“Do you miss her?”
“Yes.” The word flies out of my mouth before I can stop it.
I glance toward my living room and see Bailey still lying there on the floor like a pathetic sack of sadness. And I’m not the only one.
Fuck.
“Do you want to see her again?”
There’s no use in hiding my truth now, but I don’t even have the chance to. Lou doesn’t wait for me to answer—the old bastard knows me too fucking well.
“That’s what I thought, Luck. You know what you need to do.”
I grit my teeth against the reality I’ve known was coming since the moment I picked up the phone and dialed Lou’s number with the intention of picking over my feelings, and run through a list of excuses that are flat even to my own ears.
“I can’t just up and go to LA. What about Bailey? What about you? I can’t just leave you hanging without anyone to bring supplies out to you.”
“Stop making excuses, Luck,” Lou responds without hesitation. “I’m sure Bailey would love the California sun, and you know full and well that I’ll be fucking fine out here. I have more than enough supplies to last me three winters.”
Wordless, I let it all sink in.
Go to LA? For Billie? It’s the only option.
My chest tightens. Jesus Christ. I was never supposed to end up back there, in that fucking city that stole my parents, my childhood, and damn near turned me into a shell of a fucking man.
“You gotta let go of the past, Luck,” Lou says. “You’re not the same man who left Hollywood years ago. You’re different. You’re stronger. And you’re ready to handle anything that’s thrown your way.”
But am I?
And, more than that, do I even want to?
The answer to both of those questions terrifies and excites me at the same time.
And when I end the call with Lou, I dial another person’s number.
One of the only Holly
wood people I’ve kept in any sort of contact with since I left.
“Adele Lang’s assistant.” A male voice fills my ears. “Can I help you?”
“I need to speak with Adele.”
“It’s Sunday,” he retorts, but he doesn’t expand.
I narrow my eyes. “And that’s important because why?”
“Because all of Adele’s office calls are routed to my phone on the weekends. But I can give her a message—”
“This is an emergency,” I cut him off before he can rattle off some bullshit about waiting until tomorrow, when she’s actually in the office. “Tell her it’s Luca Weaver calling. I’m sure she’ll be glad to take my call.”
“Oh…” He pauses, surprise evident in his voice. “Just a minute, Mr. Weaver.”
Not even two minutes later, Adele’s raspy voice is in my ear.
“Well, well, well, Luca Weaver calling me on a fucking weekend spouting shit about an emergency. I can’t deny this is a phone call I only half expected to get. I guess that girl really does have something special.”
My chest squeezes at the mention of Billie and her ability to get people to do things they don’t want to do. I could get angry at Adele since she obviously led Billie to me in the first place, but even I don’t like to be a total hypocrite. “I need you to help me get a meeting with someone important.”
“You planning on making a comeback, kid?”
Kid. I laugh. “I’m definitely planning something.”
Billie
The fashion for a nervous breakdown is oddly stylish. Dressed in black from head-to-toe—shirt, skirt, heels—I head into work, ready to attend the funeral for my career.
The one good and bad thing about getting back from Alaska on a Saturday was that I had the whole weekend to cry on my sister’s shoulder via several telephone conversations—with my new, not-broken phone—about what really went down between Luca and me, and I had time to think about this morning’s team meeting.
I played every possible conversation in my mind, and I’ve decided there are two likely scenarios—either Serena is going to fire me in front of everyone and Charles is going to sit there with a big fat fucking smile on his face, or Serena is going to fire me in front of everyone and Charles’s big fat fucking smile is going to push me over the edge and I will end up on Dateline.