Something is happening beneath the surface of my skin, bubbles of carbonation rising to the surface, electricity moving along a wire and threatening to short out.
“Do you want to try doing this?” he asks quietly.
“I do.” My fingers twist in the fabric of his shirt. “But you can’t get involved every time people talk about me—because they will.” I look up at him, back and forth between those mossy-green eyes. “But also, Sam, we can never speak publicly about London. If we’re really doing this, we have to start over, completely. A clean slate. If it ever gets out that you sold the story to the Guardian, it will be all anyone talks about. Even years from now, every mention of our names will include a footnote about London and what you did. We’ll never be able to move past it. They’ll never let us move past it.”
His eyes are wide, and he nods once. “No, that totally makes sense. I would never betray you again.”
I press a kiss to the side of his mouth. “We’re almost done here, and then we can figure out what we’re going to do next.”
He growls, grinning into a kiss before dragging me to the edge of the table, and along his body. With my feet safely on the ground, he takes my hand, bringing it to his mouth to press another kiss to my palm. It turns into a bite, and he moves his mouth up my arm.
“Stay with me tonight?” I ask.
He pulls my hips to him, bending to suck my neck. “How long do you have to be at the party?”
“Maybe another hour?”
Sam steps back reluctantly, and we step back outside. The temperature has dropped and the air is a shock after the heat of the greenhouse. Sam closes the door behind us and we turn, stopping short when we see who’s standing there.
“Dad.”
He’s not even coming to a stop; he’s completely still, as if waiting for us just on the other side of the hazy glass wall.
“Hey, honey,” he says calmly, looking between us.
I’m tempted to take a step away from Sam, but I don’t want to look guilty. My heart climbs up in my throat as I try to gauge where Dad could have been coming from and what he heard and why he would just be standing there.
If it ever gets out that you sold the story to the Guardian, I said, it will be all anyone talks about. Even years from now, every mention of our names will include a footnote about London and what you did. We’ll never be able to move past it.
Finally, Dad cuts the tension, blinking back up to my face. “Did you find Nick?”
Shrugging, I manage an even “Someone said they saw him come around this way with Deb, but I didn’t see them.”
“I think they’re back at the party.” With a smooth tilt of his head, Dad turns his attention to Sam. “Sam, in case I don’t see you before we leave, it’s been a pleasure. Thank you for writing such a beautiful script.”
What a weird thing to say. Admittedly, I don’t know the nuances of his moods—and he’s a great actor—but I can’t read Dad’s tone at all. Even in the moonlight, Sam looks pale, sobered by the possibility that Dad knows he’s the one who sold us both out.
Even so, he manages to reach out and shake Dad’s offered hand. “It was a dream to have you play the part. Thanks for being so welcoming on set.”
Dad nods, and his smile goes from friendly to faint when he looks to me again. “Tate, I was looking for you because I spoke to Althea. Looks like Christmas is wide open.”
My eyes widen, pulse slowing to a steady beat. I realize a part of me never expected a real answer, assuming he’d conveniently forget or leave Althea to come up with some excuse. I certainly never expected one so quickly. “Wow. That’s great.”
“We can talk later, but think where you’d like to go, okay? The house in Telluride would be great, or we could go somewhere else. We could even do your place and you could spend time with your mom, too. I haven’t seen her in ages.”
I can only blink. Non-passive-aggressive compliments, and now this?
“I’ll see if she has plans. But we can do it wherever,” I add quickly. “I’m not really picky. It’d be enough to just see each other.”
The smile he gives me isn’t the one I’ve seen on the covers of magazines or at award shows. This one feels different, adoring, and just for me. He leans down and kisses my forehead.
“It’ll be fun,” he whispers, and then straightens. “Well, I’m headed to bed. Sam, again, it was nice to meet you. I hope we see more of each other.”
Sam tilts his head, smiling, and with a wave, Dad heads off.
The quiet seems to stretch around us as we watch Dad’s retreating form. Finally, I let out a long, quiet “Fuuuuuuck.”
“Do you think he heard that?” Sam asks.
“I definitely got that impression.” Pressing the heels of my hands to my eyes, I tell him, “I’m going to have to figure out what he heard, but I can’t do it here on set.”
I feel Sam turn to look down at me. “You’re spending Christmas together?”
“Looks that way.”
“I don’t know how to read what just happened.” He gives the words a few seconds to dissolve in the space between us before admitting, “I don’t think I understand your relationship.”
I nod, blinking up to his face. “I don’t think I do, either.”
twenty-five
MY LAST FULL DAY at the farm begins with a blast of an alarm before the sun is even up.
The room is dark and cold; the fire inside the wood-burning stove has burned down to flickering embers. I pull the quilt up to my nose, and Sam mumbles sleepily at my side, looping a heavy arm across my waist and pulling me closer. I turn toward him, pressing my nose to the curve of his neck and melting into the heat of his skin.
It would be so easy to stay here. To take him in my hand and my mouth and my body, to make love again until I can’t remember why I ever thought I shouldn’t stay. But I can’t. Everyone on the farm will be up soon, and nobody can see me leaving, not yet anyway.
When I finally manage to drag myself from his bed, I feel a little like Baby kissing Johnny Castle goodbye on the porch of his tiny cabin. The sky is still inky purple, and he uses a single finger to tip my face up to his. He kisses my cheek, my temple. I rest my head on his shoulder and tighten my arms around his torso.
“I have to talk to my dad today. I’m not sure he heard us talking, but I can’t shake this feeling that he did.”
He exhales against the crown of my head, pressing his hands to the small of my back. “Are you going to tell him? About the current us?”
“I don’t know. We’ve never had that sort of relationship, but him agreeing to Christmas? Complimenting me? It’s like we’re in the Upside Down. Plus, he saw us holding hands.”
“You know I’ll go with whatever you decide. Just keep me updated.”
“I will.” I want to climb back up his body, head back inside, and lock the door. “Will I see you later today?”
He straightens to look down at me. “I was going to go on a hike with a few guys on the crew. Maybe we can grab dinner together?”
I lean back to see his face, to gauge whether he’s serious. Things are still very much on the downlow between us; I might have to tell my dad, but I can’t imagine meeting for dinner just the two of us is the best way to let people know.
He reaches up, brushes the back of his knuckles against my jaw. “Somewhere quiet. I’ll grab something. We can sneak off to the lake and look at the stars. Nobody will be out then.”
“Because it’ll be freezing.”
“I’ll keep you warm. Come lie in the grass with me and look at the stars.”
How could I resist that offer?
* * *
Back in my own cabin, I pack most of my things so I’m ready for the early drive tomorrow. After I’m showered and dressed for the day, I follow the familiar trail to the Community House. I take each step up the gentle hill knowing this could be last time I do this. I’ve grown so used to this place—the smell of mud and grass, the sound of the cows and th
e roosters stirring me before Devon knocks on the screen door. It’s hard to imagine leaving. But I’m excited to see Mom and Nana, to tell them both about Sam, to bring him home and see how this thing between us can grow.
Craft services has been replaced by the farm kitchen staff, and I indulge this last morning before I’m home and back on my strict diet and exercise regimen. Meaning: I fill my plate with blueberry pancakes and bacon. The dining room buzzes with a dozen different conversations—so many goodbyes happening today. Nick is near the fireplace, and I make my way through the tables and slide onto the bench across from him.
“Good morning, dear husband.”
“Hey, wifey,” he says around a giant mouthful of food.
I take in his skintight Adidas shirt, compression leggings, and running shorts. I motion to the bowl of oatmeal, and the two empty, syrupy plates in front of him. “Fueling up?”
“It’s the last day with the studio trainer and I plan to take advantage of it. I’ve got to keep these farmer muscles, you know?” He winks at me over his coffee mug. I envy him his twentysomething metabolism. “You want in?”
I swallow a groan. My legs, back, arms, and neck are all tender from making up for lost time last night.
“As fun as that sounds, I’m going to pass. I heard about the Big Bad Wolf announcement, by the way,” I say, referring to an article Charlie mentioned, a big-budget period horror film Nick’s just been cast in. “Congratulations. You headed there next?”
He nods as he lifts his napkin to his mouth. “Vancouver. What about you?”
I reach for the bottle of syrup and drown my pancakes. “Nothing for a few months. I wasn’t sure how I’d feel at the end of the shoot, so I gave myself some breathing room until after the holidays.”
“That’ll be nice. I’m assuming you won’t just be sitting around. At least not alone… ” he says meaningfully. At my confused expression he adds, “I saw you and Sam the other night.”
My eyes widen. “You… what?”
When Nick bursts out laughing, I realize I’ve just given myself away.
“Relax, Tate,” he says, smile lingering. “Walking. I saw you two walking. Jesus, what did I miss?”
I shrug, grinning guiltily and trying to get my pulse under control. “Nothing. I mean—I can’t imagine you’d have seen anything scandalous.”
He laughs. “Sure you can’t.”
I feel the tips of my ears get hot, and he shakes his head, smiling. He scoops up a bite of oatmeal and looks at me over the top of it. “I assume this means you got everything straightened out?”
When I don’t answer right away, he leans in, voice quieter now. “For what it’s worth, he seems to genuinely like you.”
“I know.” I slide the bottle of syrup closer, finger where the edge of the label has started to peel away. “He’s not married after all. That was me eavesdropping and jumping to conclusions. We’ve decided to try, you know… ” A burst of confetti goes off in my stomach at the idea. “But it’s… complicated.”
“Your history.”
“For one, yes. My dad, if he ever found out about what Sam did, might be harder to deal with.”
“But if you’re willing to forgive him, that’s all that really matters, right? I’m assuming Ian would be pissed at first, but his relationship with you is worth more than that. Besides, if Sam was the one who talked to the press all those years ago, then he’s the reason you and Ian have a relationship now. He’ll get over it.” With an easy shrug, he finishes off the last of his oatmeal.
But would he? I think about seeing him outside the greenhouse, the way his eyes seemed so flat, his lip curled as we stepped out together. Was it something as simple as my estranged father being jealous that there’s clearly a man in my life, or did he hear? I have no idea how he’d react to that history. Would he understand Sam’s motivations and why I’ve agreed to give him another chance? And if not, how would that make me feel? Now that things seem to be changing for the better, am I willing to risk a good relationship with Dad for a chance with Sam?
Or am I just projecting my fears that I’m making a terrible decision? No matter how good things are with Sam, I can’t completely escape the nagging thought that going back to him makes me mildly spineless.
I blink back to the table when Nick stands, stacks his plates together, and sets the empty bowl on top.
“You heading out?” I ask.
He checks his phone out of habit, and laughs when he sees that—of course—there’s still no signal. But our brains are already detaching from this place. His unconscious gesture reminds me that tomorrow I’ll have reception and Spotify and texting again. I could weep.
Nick slips his phone back into a zippered pocket on the side of his shirt. “Listen, you have my numbers. Use them if you need someone to listen, or talk to, or hell, even if you just want to hang. I’m going to miss you, woman.”
Nick rounds the table, and I stand, wrapping him in a warm hug. A pang of sadness slices through me. After weeks here, the end really seems to have snuck up on me.
“I was right about one thing,” he says, looking down at me. “You were definitely fun. And if I don’t see those sidekicks of yours before I head out, tell Charlie and Trey it was good, all right?”
I lean into him again. “I will. Take care of yourself, okay? I can’t wait to work together again.” And I mean it.
He winks and bends to pick up his things. “See you, Tate.”
I watch him drop his dishes at the kitchen and say goodbye to the staff before I take my seat again. My food sits mostly untouched in front of me, but I don’t have much of an appetite anymore. I feel a bit drained all of a sudden. The most intense role of my life, the bubble of this set, the turnaround of the last few days with Sam…
I dump my garbage and set my dishes on the counter, thank the staff for everything, and head for the door.
“Hey, kiddo.”
“Hey, Dad.”
Impeccably dressed and handsome as ever. His jeans are perfectly worn, his thick sweater the same whiskey color as his eyes. “I was looking for you.”
Anxiety sends a flash of heat down my neck. Did he agree to Christmas plans without really thinking it through, and now he’s come up with some excuse?
“Hey. Yeah, I was just headed to find Charlie,” I say, pushing open the swinging door. “Wanna sit outside for a few?”
“Actually, I came to see if you wanted to have lunch.”
I wince. “I just ate.”
He smiles, and I try to compare it to my catalog of Ian Butler Smiles to figure out if this is one the world has never seen before. “We could drive into town first, walk around? Spend a little time together before we head home.”
I glance around the dining hall. Nobody is watching us; this doesn’t seem to be for show.
“Sure,” I say, facing him again. “Let me go grab my purse?”
The drive to the restaurant is quiet. He suggested having the driver take us, but I talk him into letting me drive his sleek black Tesla. Dad drums his fingers on his knees, staring out the passenger window. We spend the first five minutes of the hour-long drive with a tinny country station covering the heavy silence.
But finally Dad breaks the ice. Thank God, because I had no idea how to. He talks about his house in Malibu (he’s getting new windows this year), the struggle of owning two homes (“It’s the maintenance that’ll kill you”), and how he’d read a script for a new superhero film, but they’d decided to go with someone “edgier” (my read: younger).
Driving gives me something to do, and I think I ooh and ahh in all the appropriate places, happy to let him talk because it means that I don’t have to, but also because even after all these years, I’m still needy enough to want every little piece of information I can get.
We park in the center of town, but quickly realize that strolling around in daylight is not going to be possible. We get stopped for an autograph before we’ve even gotten out of the car. Instead, Dad enters th
e address to the lunch spot in his GPS, and we navigate to a sweet white farmhouse with a red door. A wooden sign displays the name Trillium Café.
“Althea told me to take you here,” he says in a way that makes me preemptively sympathetic for Althea in the event that this restaurant turns out to be only mediocre.
“It looks cute.” In the distance, the sky has grown gloomy, with clouds creeping over the tips of the evergreens and resting heavily on the shingled roof.
But inside it smells like fresh bread and wood polish. A woman with a long braid swallows her reaction admirably and leads us to a booth toward the back of the main dining room. A couple turns in their seats as we pass, and I give a small wave and smile.
Our booth extends out from a window overlooking a wide yard of unruly grass and, farther back, a thick line of pine trees. It’s breathtaking.
Dad frowns down at the menu. “I want gnocchi.” His frown turns into a smile when he looks up at me. “I’ll probably order a salad.”
My laugh is too loud. “Gnocchi is my favorite too.”
“Is it?” His smile flattens, and I sense that I’m trying too hard.
“Excited to get home?” I ask.
“Sure.” He scans the menu one more time and flips it closed again. “I had some work done in the backyard. I’m excited to see how it turned out.”
A waitress fills our water glasses, lists the specials of the day, and then makes sure to mention which of Dad’s films is her favorite.
He grins brightly at her and leans in as if to confide. “That’s my favorite, too.”
She’s beaming. Dad orders wine, we both order food, and once she’s gone, he rolls his eyes. “I judge everyone who tells me Cowboy Rising is their favorite. If you like disjointed trash, I can’t help you.”
Wow. I bite my tongue and squash my inclination to remind him that most of his early career is based on “disjointed trash.”
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