Mr. April: A Celebrity Romance (Calendar Boys Book 4)

by Nicole S. Goodin

  “You’re not just some woman though.”

  I shrug. “Maybe I am.”

  “Blaire, you –”

  “Please don’t,” I beg her. “I just can’t deal with this right now. I need to talk to Harvey – tell him that it’s over. That’s about all the man drama I can handle right now, okay?”

  She thinks about it for a second before nodding. “Okay.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Beckett

  “If I don’t get an hour of peace and quiet soon, I’m going to rip the head off of one of these reporters, and to be completely honest with you, I probably won’t even feel bad about it,” I warn John.

  “You’re touchy this morning,” he replies, his tone mocking.

  “Don’t push me.”

  “Warning heeded,” he replies with a chuckle. “I’ll cancel your next two interviews – Jamie can handle them on her own. I’ll send Brent in with her.”

  Brent is another one of our co-stars; he’s more than able to handle a few interviews.

  “Good.”

  “Anything else?” he asks as I begin to shut my door.

  I shake my head. “Nope.”

  He turns around and walks away.

  “John?” I call after him.

  He turns back and cocks a brow at me.

  “Thanks, man. I appreciate it, and I’m sorry I’m such a grumpy bastard.”

  He chuckles. “That’s an understatement, but it’s all good, kid, nothing I can’t handle.”

  He walks away and disappears around the corner of the hallway.

  I close my door behind me and breathe in the silence for a minute, before striding towards the couch and dropping my body onto it.

  I’m exhausted. I’ve gone from working out in the gym at least twice a day, plus vocal lessons five times a week, to filming, then straight into working out the final cut, to the premiere and press tour.

  This project has been a mammoth one, and all in a year.

  I need sleep – days and days of it.

  I need silence and I really, really need an ice cream.

  Preferably just like the one Blaire got for me. I still haven’t been able to find anything that comes close.

  I grab my phone off the table and type out a text to Warren asking him to go and get me an ice cream. I know it won’t be anywhere near as good, but I’m an actor – I’ll pretend.

  I’m about to put my phone down when something that Blaire said to me crosses my mind.

  I click on the app store and download the app for Instagram.

  I don’t really know what I’m planning on doing, but I have this uncontrollable urge to do something.

  While the app downloads, I send another text – this one to Bridget, asking her to track down all of my login information.

  She sends it back to me, promptly and without question of what I want to do with it, which I appreciate.

  It is my fucking account after all. I should be able to access it if I want to.

  I login and waste ten minutes of my precious hour looking around, trying to figure out how the fuck this thing works.

  I finally find how to post something and I pause, thinking for a moment about what I want to say to the millions of people that care enough about me and my movies to follow my every move.

  I find an image of me holding a guitar – it’s an unedited shot of the viewing monitor from on set, and I select that as the photo to go with what I want to say.

  I wish more than anything that I had a photo of Blaire to look at while I thought about what I want to say to her, but I only have my memory, and I know that’s not doing her justice, but it’s all I’ve got.

  I do my best to picture the curve of her hips and the colour of her eyes as I begin typing.

  Every word, every lyric, every beat… it’s for you.

  You gave me something to say and I owe you all of me for it.

  “This feeling pulls me under,

  Makes it hard to sleep,

  Give me half a chance, and I’ll give you everything.”

  I hit ‘share’ after the lyrics that I wrote just for her.

  ***

  There’s a knock at my door and it startles me awake. I must have drifted off.

  The knock sounds again and I get to my feet.

  I grumble to myself. I guess my hour is up.

  I open the door and John is standing there holding an ice cream in a cone.

  I chuckle. “What happened to Warren?”

  “Bastard went home early.”

  “Bad luck for you,” I say as I hold my hand out to take it from him.

  “Thanks.” I nod as I take a lick of it. “I’ll just eat this and we can go.”

  He waves me inside and shuts the door behind himself.

  “Don’t rush. I cancelled a few more interviews, just for good measure – you sounded like you could use it.”

  I sit back down on the couch I was just asleep on and bite the top off the ice cream.

  I was right, it’s nowhere as good as the one she gave me, but I can almost hear her voice telling me off for biting it, so it’s worth it anyway.

  “Won’t they be getting pissed?” I ask, referring to the missed interviews.

  He shrugs. “Let them be pissed. You look wrecked, kid.”

  I don’t comment, and take another bite of the ice cream.

  “I see you’ve figured out Instagram,” he prompts.

  I grunt in response.

  “Did you see it? It’s gone crazy.”

  “I haven’t looked.” I shrug.

  He looks me up and down, his expression a wince, almost as though it pains him to do so.

  “What are you doing, Beckett? You clearly aren’t even close to being over this woman.”

  “I’m trying to get on with my life – that’s what I’m doing.”

  “Are you though? It doesn’t fucking look like it from where I’m standing. It looks to me like you’re pining away for her – driving yourself insane. You’re eating ice cream at ten in the morning for fuck’s sake.”

  I frown at him.

  “Don’t you dare try and tell me it doesn’t have something to do with her.”

  “Wasn’t planning on it,” I admit as I take another mouthful.

  “That’s it,” he announces as he watches me eat. “I’m putting your miserable ass on a plane.”

  “I’m fine,” I grumble. “I just need a break.”

  He eyes me carefully before getting to his feet from the chair he’s chosen to sit in opposite me. “Get this media tour done and you can take a year off for all I care – hell with the money you’re making from this film, you could never work again if that’s what you want.”

  I give him a noncommittal shrug in response. Truthfully, I don’t know what I want either.

  “I mean, I’d miss your charming attitude and prize winning smile, but I think I’d survive… with a nice bonus, of course.” He chuckles.

  I have to laugh at that. “I’ll be sure to keep you informed.”

  He takes a few steps towards the door before turning around and facing me again.

  “I know none of this is easy, and that it’s not something you enjoy, but I just wanted to tell you that I’m proud of you. When you stepped off that plane and threw away all your prior plans, I’ll admit, I’d thought you’d lost your mind – but you were right, Beck, what you’ve done in this film… it’s beyond anyone’s expectations and you should give yourself some credit for everything you’ve achieved. Enjoy your success, you’ve earned it.”

  He stuns me into silence.

  John isn’t one for feelings, and he’s not the biggest fan of pep talks, but I guess being employed by a sullen man-child has forced his hand.

  “Thanks, Johno,” I mumble, suddenly embarrassed at the pathetic way I’ve been behaving.

  He nods at me once and disappears out the door, closing it behind him.

  I doubt he’s got more than a few steps down the hall when I fly off the couch
and run towards the door, calling his name as I go.

  He stops in his tracks and looks back at me in surprise.

  “What is it?”

  “You’re right,” I tell him quickly, my words flying out in a rush. “I’m not even a little bit over her. I want to find her. I have to.”

  He stares at me for a moment before his face morphs into a sly smile. “It’s about time. Give me her name and I’ll take care of it.”

  I shake my head rapidly. “This is something I need to take care of – if you can find me the name of the best private investigator around, preferably someone that can work with distance – I’ll do the rest.”

  He nods at me once and his expression looks even prouder than before. “I’ll have it to you by the end of the day.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Blaire

  “What do you mean, it’s over?” Harvey hisses at me.

  “I mean it’s over, Harvey,” I say, yet again.

  I’ve said the words at least twenty times now, but he doesn’t seem to be hearing them.

  “I want a divorce.”

  “You want a divorce?”

  “For the love of god, stop repeating everything I say back to me,” I snap. “Yes, for the one hundredth time… I. Want. A. Divorce.”

  He sneers at me, his face a mask of displeasure.

  I sigh and try to take a different tack. “I’m sorry, okay? But this isn’t working. You know it’s not. I’m miserable here. I can’t do this with you anymore. I want a divorce.”

  “You can’t divorce me.”

  “I can, Harvey, and I am.” I feel like I’m talking to a petulant child.

  “You’d be nothing without me.”

  I grit my teeth together in frustration. I make more money than he does, I do all the cleaning, the washing, and most of the cooking. I pay all the bills and do all the shopping.

  I’m pretty confident I’ll manage just fine.

  I built my career from the ground up without one scrap of help from him; I doubt I’m going to need him all of a sudden now.

  “I’ll take my chances,” I reply dryly.

  “Who is he?” he demands.

  “Who is ‘he’ who?” I snap, totally out of patience with this conversation, and more importantly, with him.

  “The guy you’re leaving me for. Who is he?”

  I wish I was leaving him for another man. Not just any man – one man in particular. But unfortunately for me, that’s not the case.

  I’m leaving him because he’s an asshole and I’ve grown tired of his shit. Plain and simple. I’ve run out of patience and I’m clean out of fucks.

  “There’s no other man, Harvey. No other woman for that matter either. There’s just me.”

  He mutters something under his breath as he changes the channel on the T.V, because apparently a conversation about your impending divorce doesn’t even warrant turning off the television.

  I feel like screaming at him that shit like this is exactly why I’m getting out of our marriage, but I don’t bother – it’ll just fall on deaf ears.

  He settles on a sports game and I sigh.

  “I’m going to pack what I can now and I’ll move the rest of my stuff out next week. We’ll need to decide who’s keeping what of the furniture and what to do with the house.”

  “I’m not giving up my house and all my shit,” he snaps, actually pulling his eyes from the screen for the first time for more than half a second.

  “Fine. We’ll have a valuer come in and tell us what it’s worth, and you can buy me out.”

  He mumbles something again and goes back to watching the game.

  “I’ll see you later, Harvey.”

  He doesn’t even respond as I walk out of the room.

  He doesn’t come after me as I spend the next two hours packing up my car with everything I can fit inside it.

  I’m still not sure that he believes I’m actually leaving.

  I don’t even know where I’m going to go – Jen’s expecting me, but I’m not quite ready to go there just yet. I need some time to myself.

  I drive off down the driveway of the place I once called home and feel the weight of my failed marriage being left behind once and for all.

  ***

  I let the swing gently roll forward and back and I lick the ice cream I’m holding.

  I’ve virtually retraced every one of the steps that Beckett and I took together.

  Being out here in the fresh morning air is calming me – distracting me from the mess that is my life.

  I don’t feel tense, or stressed, I just feel tranquil and at peace.

  I wish I’d left him a year ago. I should have done this then instead of dragging it out all this time.

  Everything seems clearer now than it did only a few short hours ago, I feel free – as though I can do anything I want with my life now that I’ve got it back.

  I assume I should feel bad for walking out on my husband, but it didn’t seem that he was too bothered by the prospect of losing me, so I don’t see why I should allow myself to feel anything other than relief.

  My phone sounds in my pocket and when I pull it out there’s a text from Jen.

  To: Blaire

  From: Jen

  How did it go?

  I tap out a one-handed reply.

  To: Jen

  From: Blaire

  It’s done. I don’t think he even cared that much. Probably hasn’t even noticed I’ve gone.

  To: Blaire

  From: Jen

  I’m sorry, honey. I’ll see you when you get here.

  I’m smile weakly at my phone.

  I’m not overly thrilled at the idea of having to move in with my best friend until I get the chance to find a place. I hate feeling like a burden, but there’s nowhere else I would consider going right now – there’s no one I trust more than Jen.

  She’ll let me stay until I find my feet.

  I’m not even sure what type of place I want to find.

  I don’t know if I want to live in this town anymore.

  My older sister lives a couple of hours’ drive away… I could go and move to be closer to her… or my younger sister lives a few hours by plane – I could give that a shot too.

  I’m about to put my phone away when I decide on impulse to click on my Instagram account.

  Just a quick scroll, I rationalise, but I know what I’m really doing. I’m going to see if he’s posted – not that it’s him anyway – but still… I need to see. Ever since he walked the red carpet with Jamie Houston, the rumour mill has been circling something wicked.

  They’ve been spotted getting a bite to eat a few times, but there has been nothing to confirm whether or not they’re officially together.

  I’m dying to know.

  I’ve taken the first step to moving on with my life, and making myself happy – but I need to let go of this obsession I have with Beckett – I need to let go of him.

  I can’t carry on this way – I know it’s not healthy, and that I’ll never be able to move on with my life entirely while I feel like this about him.

  If he really has moved on, then that would help me… or break me. I can’t decide which.

  I type his name into the search bar and wait while the grid of images loads up.

  There’s a tonne of promo for his latest film, which is being called the movie of the year already – but none of that is what I’m after.

  There are pictures of him and Jamie in an embrace, but it’s all from on the set. They’re scripted – fake.

  I want something real.

  I glance at frame after frame, not finding anything that I’m after.

  I’m just about to close it down when the latest picture posted catches my eye. It’s unedited, unlike all the others. It doesn’t even have a filter.

  I click it and hear the whoosh of my own breath as it leaves my body.

  Every word, every lyric, every beat… it’s for you.

  You gave me someth
ing to say and I owe you all of me for it.

  “This feeling pulls me under,

  Makes it hard to sleep,

  Give me half a chance, and I’ll give you everything.”

  It’s the lyrics from one of the songs from the movie – one of the ones he sang.

  The one I closed my eyes to in that darkened cinema and pretended he was singing directly to me.

  I read the words over and over again.

  There’s something about it that feels familiar.

  I read it again and close my eyes as I try to pull it from my memory bank.

  I try to imagine his voice saying the words to me.

  I think about the way his throat moves as he speaks.

  I picture his handwriting scrawled on a page.

  My eyes fly open.

  His letter.

  “You gave me something to say.”

  “Holy shit,” I whisper.

  I don’t want to fool myself into believing that this cryptic message could possibly be about me, but it’s too late. I’ve already thought it, and once those thoughts are out there in the universe, then they must be true.

  My ice cream falls from my hand and lands on the ground beneath the swing with a splat.

  I read his post again and again and again until I’ve driven myself insane.

  I need to do something. I need to talk to someone.

  I need Jen and I need her now.

  I take a screenshot of his post – just in case he decides to delete it in the next half an hour, so I can prove to Jen it exists, and open up my text messages again.

  To: Jen

  From: Blaire