A Brand New Ending (Stay Book 2)

by Jennifer Probst

  The silence was terrible—full of pain and memories that seemed to pulse and throb in the tight interior of the car. Biting her lip, Ophelia tried to come up with something to say, anything to break the tension, but soon she was back in Patrick’s driveway.

  Kyle turned to glare at his father, his words coming like a gunshot. “I guess you’re gonna open up a bottle and get drunk now, right? ’Cause that’s how you handle what life throws at you. Or maybe the dog being sick is somehow my fault, too?”

  She pressed a fist to her lips to strangle her gasp. She cringed, ready for the explosion.

  Patrick looked his son right back in the eye. “I would’ve. Lived my whole life by that philosophy, but I’ve been fighting for my humanity for the past year, and I’m not ready to give that up.”

  Ophelia cut in, her voice shaking with fierceness. “And you don’t have to. You’ve learned a different way to deal with pain now.”

  “Yes, I work on that every damn day.” He paused, letting the words penetrate. “But I’m a poison. I seem to ruin or kill all the good things in my life. I’m not even worth the love of a dog, but if all I got was a few weeks with Charlie because of Ophelia, I’ll be grateful. Good night, son. Thanks for coming with me.”

  He climbed out of the car and walked into the house.

  Kyle stared at the cardboard box for a long time. The edges were yellow and crumbled. A large water stain took up half of one side. Written in black marker were the words FOR KYLE.

  He didn’t recognize the man he’d seen the past two days. He’d only known the harsh version of his dad and rarely spotted any tenderness beneath the abrasion. But his father’s expression when he’d looked at the dog stirred something inside him. Patrick looked like he cared about the dog. And yesterday, his father had apologized for his crappy actions. He’d looked Kyle straight in the eye without giving him some bullshit excuse about what he’d done.

  I’m a poison . . .

  God, why did those words cause pain in his chest?

  He would’ve laughed them off and accused Patrick of being dramatic to get attention, but it hadn’t been uttered like that. It had been uttered like total truth and deep regret.

  Slowly, he lifted the cover off the box and lay it on the bed. A musty scent drifted up toward his nostrils. He stared at the three photo albums bound in maroon fake leather. With a trembling hand, he picked one up and cracked open the cover.

  Pictures of his mother filled the pages. Pictures of his father. Pictures of them together.

  He flipped through the precious treasures, studying their wedding day and their happy, smiling faces. Saw them kissing and eating cake and dancing with guests. Saw them on a beach, his mother in a bikini, splashing in the waves. Saw them at parties all dressed up in fine suits and dresses.

  As he turned the pages, he watched their life unfold together. His mother pregnant. Glowing, hand on her belly, grinning at the camera. The nursery. His father kissing her belly. The beautiful, intimate way they gazed at one another.

  Before he was born.

  He spent a long time poring over the pictures his father had told him were burned. His view blurred, and he fisted his eyes to clear them. The past was finally given to him to cherish and savor and ponder.

  He closed the book. When he went to replace all of the albums in the box, his gaze caught on a piece of folded paper at the bottom. He reached for it.

  A letter. In his father’s familiar scrawl. A few short paragraphs filled the lines.

  Dear Kyle,

  I wanted to say this in person, but you don’t want to talk to me, and I don’t blame you. I would want to move on with my life and forget my past, too, if I were you. I don’t deserve a second thought, but I needed you to know some things.

  First, your mom saved you because you were a precious gift—not a sacrifice or loss or anything but pure love. I was an alcoholic when you were born. I know that now, but I didn’t then. Your mother and I fought a lot about my drinking, but I didn’t think it was a big deal. After she died, I drank more. I became someone I couldn’t recognize anymore.

  The alcohol turned me into a monster. Sickened my brain. It drained my blood and kept me in a cycle of need. Sometimes, I’d wake up in the morning and swear I’d change. For your sake. And then all day I’d dream about the bottle and how bad I needed it, and it became even bigger than you. God forgive me—alcohol was more important than my own son.

  Your aunt did her best to help the first few years after you were born, but I drove her away. Soon, my family and friends couldn’t help me anymore. I’ll regret my actions till the day I die. Regret what I did to you.

  Being sober is its own form of torture because there’s nowhere left to hide. In spite of me, you succeeded in everything. But most of all, you succeeded in life because of your mother and her capacity to love. That’s the greatest gift she left you.

  I told you I burned the pictures because the sight of them killed me with guilt. They are yours now.

  I do love you, son. Always have.

  Dad

  Kyle crumpled the letter between his fingers and bent his head, wondering if some endings were too late to change.

  Ophelia clicked off her phone and slumped against the washer in relief. Charlie was going to be fine. He was already feeling better, and all tests had come back negative.

  Thank God.

  She put the cell phone down and finished folding laundry. The memory of Patrick and Kyle’s exchange in the car tore at her heart. She knew Patrick was trying, but she was also the one who’d witnessed what he’d done to his son on a daily basis.

  Forgiveness was such a twisted, thorny thing—easy to preach and hard to practice. But she knew if Kyle could find a way to forgive his dad, he’d heal a broken place inside and be stronger.

  She knew, because forgiving Patrick had helped her forgive Kyle and their broken past.

  Now there was nothing she wouldn’t do to fight for the only man she’d ever loved.

  These past two months, he’d been completely focused on their relationship. They’d learned to love each other all over again, and she was ready to face the future. Yes, he’d be going back to Hollywood soon, but they still had some precious time left together. She intended to use every moment to strengthen and deepen their bond.

  She jolted as strong arms closed around her, then relaxed as the familiar scent of cotton, coffee, and man hit her. “Hey, baby,” she murmured. “You need anything?”

  “Just you. Always you.” He lifted her up and placed her on top of the dryer, right on a pile of folded towels and sheets.

  A giggle escaped her lips, and she snagged her arms around his neck. “Love in the laundry room, huh? That the title of your script?”

  He laughed, nipping at the vulnerable curve of her neck. “Brat. I wanted to know if you’d heard anything from the vet yet.”

  She ran her fingers over the rough scruff hugging his jaw, loving the ferocious sexiness of his face. “Your dad just called. Charlie’s fine—it was just a virus.”

  “That’s great.”

  She took in the shadow flickering across his face and tapped on his chin to make him look up. “Then why do you look sad?”

  “I opened the box. It was full of photo albums of my mother and father.”

  She sucked in her breath. “I thought he’d burned them.”

  “He lied. Wrote me a letter, too, trying to explain how his alcoholism changed him. Said he was sorry.”

  “I think he is. I think he’s trying desperately to change and have some sort of relationship with you before it’s too late.”

  “Isn’t it already? How do you change the past?”

  She gazed into his forest-green eyes and told him the truth. “You don’t. But you can change the ending if you want. You can choose to forgive him, to open the door, and see if he respects your heart enough not to hurt you again.”

  He leaned his forehead against her chest. She held him for a long time, giving him comfort. “
What else is bothering you?”

  Before he spoke the words, she sensed what he needed to tell her.

  Their path was careening to a familiar fork in the road, but this time, she had to be strong and trust him. They’d come too far and given too much to each other to close down over what-ifs. These past two months had taught her something precious.

  The power of second chances.

  “I have to leave soon.” He lifted his head. Pain carved out the angles of his face. “My agent called two days ago. Alan Bell is interested in reading my screenplay.”

  Her eyes widened. “The director who won the Academy Award with Meryl Streep?”

  “Yes. He spoke with Robbie, and he wants me to meet with him. Bell’s going overseas soon, so I need to finish the screenplay and send it . . . by tomorrow.” Regret flickered in his eyes. “I should’ve told you sooner. I’m sorry, baby. I just didn’t want to think about having to cut our time short.”

  Even with her newfound resolution to trust him, the familiar dread rose up, choking her throat. She tried to keep her face and voice calm. “When do you have to leave?”

  His pause told her everything. “Monday.”

  Raw emotion attacked her from all sides. She dragged in an unsteady breath. “I see. That’s too bad. Chloe’s father is joining us for dinner next Sunday, and I really wanted you to meet him.”

  “I know.”

  “Oh, and I bought tickets to that spring dance they’re holding in town. I thought it would be fun for us to go to, but I’ll just sell my tickets. It’s not a big deal.”

  “Ophelia, I’m coming back.” He leaned forward and cupped her cheeks, his breath rushing against her lips. “I know I sprung this on you last minute, and it’s hard to believe me when this is the same scenario that tore us apart the first time, but I’m coming back. I won’t sacrifice anything for you again. I love you.”

  Her eyes stung. She hated herself for being so emotional. He’d never hidden the fact that he’d eventually have to leave. She just hadn’t prepared herself for it yet. She forced a smile to her lips. “I know. Sorry. You just surprised me.”

  “I’m going to take this meeting. If Bell likes what I wrote, we’ll put a team together. I have a clear vision of what I want this time, and I’m not going to compromise. No more crazy rewrites night and day. I’ll make sure I don’t have to be on set so I can work from the inn. It won’t be like before. I don’t have to prove myself any longer. I choose you. Okay?”

  She swallowed back the doubt and nodded. “Okay,” she whispered. “I just need you to promise me something.”

  “Anything.”

  “If you love this screenplay you wrote, don’t let them take away the heart and soul of your story, no matter what they promise. It’s too important for both of us. Okay?”

  “I won’t. This time it’s going to be different. They either like the story as is, or it’s not going to work out.”

  “Good. Can I read it?”

  He scratched behind his ear and looked away. “I still need to write the ending.”

  “Are you stuck?”

  “Big-time.”

  “Wanna talk it out?”

  He seemed to ponder her question. Stared into her face while he stroked her thighs through her jeans.

  Knowing it was their story made her feel vulnerable. Would he write them a happily ever after? Or would it end on more of a cliffhanger?

  “I feel like I’m forcing it,” he finally said.

  “Because you don’t really believe it can work?”

  He frowned and gripped her shoulders fiercely. “No, baby. There’s only one way this story ends—and it’s with them together. Forever. I’m just torn about which way to write it.”

  She smiled, her heart a bit eased. “Well, you need to figure it out today.” She jumped off the dryer and faced him with a stern expression.

  She needed to keep things light. There’d be plenty of time to digest his leaving later, on her own.

  “I’ll bring you up coffee and a sandwich, but you know the golden rule . . .”

  He grinned, and her heart stuttered. “Vomit out the words. Go with your gut. Fix them later.”

  “Exactly.” He moved to kiss her, but she backed away. “No fooling around until the ending is done.”

  “That’s just mean.”

  “I’ll give you a sneak peek of your reward.” She lifted up her shirt and flashed him her naked breasts.

  “You’re not wearing a bra,” he said, voice strained.

  She threw him a cheeky grin. “That’s right. And no panties. Happy writing, baby. Get it done.”

  She sashayed out of the laundry room, smiling at his groan.

  He stumbled into the empty apartment and waited, hoping to catch her scent, or hear her voice, or catch a glimpse of those strawberry curls. Instead, the silence ate at him slowly, devouring him with gleeful intent to drive him insane.

  He didn’t know if he could live without her.

  The past three weeks, he’d tried to drown himself in work. It wasn’t hard, especially since the movie was about to be wrapped up and he was already being tapped to write a new screenplay to spec. Everything in his career was perfect.

  But would it be enough? Success was empty without sharing it with Ophelia. Nothing seemed to be able to take away the throbbing ache in his heart and his gut.

  He cracked open a beer and drank, moodily staring at his cell phone. She hadn’t called. Not once. She was his wife, yet she’d left him.

  He’d call her right now. Tell her he could change, if she’d just give him one more chance. This time, he would choose her first every time.

  He reached for the phone. At the same time, there was a knock at the door.

  Growling in frustration, he strode over and flung it open.

  And stared at Ophelia.

  Dressed in jeans and a simple yellow T-shirt, faint shadows and exhaustion lining her face, she stared back at him. Endless moments dragged on. They were both caught up in the sight of each other, both having so much to say yet not knowing where to start.

  “I can’t leave you,” she finally whispered, reaching out her hands, palms turned up. “I tried. But I’m not . . . whole.”

  “Neither am I.” He pulled her into his arms and kissed her deeply, his tongue thrusting inside, claiming his wife as his own. “This time, I’ll be different. I’m never going to lose you again.”

  “And I’m going to give singing another chance. This time on my own terms.”

  “We can do it together.”

  She smiled so sweetly his heart ached. “I love you, Kyle.”

  “I love you, too.”

  He pulled her into the apartment and shut the door behind them.

  This time, they’d have a brand new ending.

  This time, love would be enough.

  The End.

  Kyle stared at the final words on the page, then read the last paragraph again.

  God, it was shit.

  He rubbed his head and groaned. It was so fucking saccharine sweet he felt like he’d just given himself a cavity. But every damn movie in Hollywood prided itself on happily-ever-after endings in a big-assed way. Unless you killed someone. And this wasn’t that type of story.

  He got up and paced, growling at his muse.

  Couldn’t you give me original material, you bitch? I’ve been on my ass for the last six hours and haven’t moved.

  Fuck you. I gave you what you needed. They made it. They didn’t break up, and they’re together forever. Plus, I gave you some of that Jerry Maguire stuff that works so well.

  He stopped talking to his muse. He never won an argument with her anyway.

  No, this was the ending he’d always dreamed they’d have. A way for them to be together and to work through their problems instead of spending nearly a decade apart. This was the type of ending Ophelia deserved. It worked.

  Pushing away his doubts, he spent the rest of the evening converting the final chapters into a sc
ript format, then emailed it to his agent. He knew Robbie would read it ASAP and get any major changes back to him before sending it on to the team. That would leave him a day or two for quick revisions before he got on the plane.

  He’d done it. Both the book and the script were finished. He was back with Ophelia.

  Things were finally perfect.

  Two days later, he fielded a call from his agent and got the news. “They fucking love it,” Robbie crowed. “Ate it up as the next big Hollywood chick flick. Bell wants in.”

  Joy shot through him as he gripped the phone. “Are you kidding me? They liked it? Do they want revisions?”

  “Not now. They wanted to talk about it face-to-face. Meeting’s at nine a.m. Tuesday morning. I’ll meet you there a little early to talk about a few things.”

  He grinned at the phone. “Sounds good.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me you were a closet romantic? Holy shit, it gave me memories of some of the chick-flick classics. Congratulations, Kyle, this one is going to cement you as one of the best writers in Hollywood.”

  He clicked off and allowed himself one short fist pump.

  Guess the ending had worked. Guess it was so good they were willing to take a chance. Somehow, he’d stretched into a new genre and nailed it.

  He couldn’t wait to tell Ophelia, even though it meant he was leaving in two days.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Ophelia poured two glasses of wine and rechecked the table she’d set.

  Kyle had finished the script. Usually, he experienced elatedness mixed with a touch of depression when he handed off a project. She always pegged it as mourning the goodbye to characters he’d given his heart and soul to. For a brief time they belonged only to him, but once the story was finished, they belonged to the public.

  The guests were settled in various activities—either retired to their rooms or out to dinner. The scents of freshly baked bread and homemade sauce wafted in the air. She spooned out two generous bowls of pasta with sauce and added meatballs, then sliced the crusty bread open and set out a tub of fresh-churned butter. The lights were dim, the candles were lit, and she was dressed in a royal-blue shift dress. With her hair pinned up and actual heels on her feet, she looked ready to celebrate.