by Lizzie Shane
Was it time to stop dreaming and start living? Start putting together a life she could be proud of and stop pinning her hopes on a someday that might never come?
Andi rose up on her knees, wrapping her arms around Bree and hugging her with Cecil squirming between them. “Everything’s going to be okay,” Andi murmured. “It’s going to get better. I know it is.”
Bree held on tight, trying to believe her, trying to hope.
But the words felt like a lie.
CHAPTER THIRTY
“Bree! Bree, wake up! It’s Maggie!”
Bree came blearily awake, batting away the hand shaking her shoulder and feeling like she’d had about two hours of sleep. “Here?” she mumbled.
“On The Morning Show,” Andi clarified, standing over her, fully dressed and so alert it was almost insulting as Cecil Two yipped excitedly, dancing around Andi’s ankles.
After the sob-fest in the sitting room last night, Andi had worried about Bree driving and since the party had broken up by then, Bree had let her friend persuade her to crash on the couch in the living room—though only after apologizing profusely for ruining the end of Andi’s birthday celebration.
Andi refused to hear a word of it, insisting that the scales were still tipped far in Bree’s favor in terms of who had supported whom more and that she was glad to finally be able to be there for Bree.
Bree had stayed—and tossed and turned restlessly on the couch, her thoughts refusing to let her sleep, continuously cycling through a highlight reel of everything that had happened in the previous twenty-four hours. Cross…Maggie…her ultimate failure as an artist…
The merry-go-round of regret had circled in her brain all night, keeping sleep at bay until she must have finally fallen into a fitful sleep around dawn.
“Where is everyone?” she asked as she sat up, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.
“Ty took Jade to the bookstore—as soon as we could pry her away from Cecil Two. I thought you might want some quiet this morning.”
Bree cringed, hating the idea of disrupting their lives. “I’m sorry—”
“Stop,” Andi insisted. “I know our mothers hammered that Minnesota nice shit into us, but if you apologize to me one more time I’m…I don’t know. I don’t have a good threat. But I promise I’ll be very irritated with you. I get to take care of you for a change, so suck it up and say, ‘Thank you, Andi. I love you, Andi.’”
“Thank you, Andi. I love you, Andi,” Bree parroted, though tears gathered in her eyes with the sincerity of the emotion behind the words.
“No crying,” Andi insisted, swiping at her own eyes. “We’re on a mission.”
“Maggie’s really on The Morning Show?”
“I had it on in the kitchen, but I paused it as soon as they announced who their next guest was. Do you want to see?”
“Absolutely.” Bree stood, smoothing the wrinkles from her slept-in clothes. “Better to know what they’re saying than wonder.”
Cecil Two scampered at her heels as she trailed Andi into the kitchen, where Maggie’s face was indeed frozen on the screen. Her stomach pitched and she wondered where her cell phone was, if Mel or Cross or any of them had sent her a message. But before she could chicken out and go looking for her phone, Andi lifted the remote. “Ready?”
Bree nodded, and the interview began.
She barely heard the intro and the first question over the ringing in her ears. Something about the article that had broken that morning and an offer for Maggie to give her side of the story…then came the words Bree had been dreading.
“I have a decoy,” Maggie said on screen. “Someone who, for security reasons, takes my place during certain public appearances. That is who was caught on camera kissing my bodyguard. I have never been involved in any way with Aaron Cross.”
“And the other photos?” the interviewer, known for her puff-pieces and delicate handling of celebrity egos, prompted gently.
Bree held her breath.
“Those were me.” Maggie admitted, gazing straight at the interviewer, and Bree’s breath whooshed out. “One was taken before Demarco Whitten and I became serious about one another and the other was as part of a chemistry test for a future project, so really the whole thing was quite innocent, but when you’re a celebrity, people are always ready to assume the worst.”
“And Demarco? Did he assume the worst?”
“I will always care about Demarco, but even someone who is used to being in the public eye isn’t always prepared for what my life is like and ultimately we came to the decision that our lives weren’t compatible, no matter how much we care about one another. I have to respect his choice.”
“She just made him look bad for dumping her after an article came out claiming she’d cheated on him,” Andi marveled. “She didn’t even give the cheating story time to gain traction before she defused it. Smart. She is good.”
“She told the truth,” Bree murmured, confused. “Sort of.”
Andi muted the television as the interview concluded and the host threw to the next segment. “What does that mean for you?”
“I have no idea.”
“Do you think Cross…?”
Bree shook her head, feeling like she’d missed a crucial piece of the puzzle. “I don’t know.” She became aware of her surroundings. The kitchen. Andi’s happily-ever-after in progress. “I should go home. Start packing.”
“Bree…”
“I can’t stay, Andi.” She bent, gathering Cecil’s warm mass in her arms. “It’s time to leave LA.”
*
Her apartment looked exactly as she left it—which was somewhat disorienting since she felt so completely different. It seemed wrong that the apartment, as a reflection of her, hadn’t undergone some fundamental transformation, but it just sat there, as sparsely furnished and littered with prints stacked in random places as ever.
She stepped through the door ready to pack, on a mission, determined to do this—but she was distracted by the sight of the pieces she’d pulled out for the Olivia Hwang showing, neatly stacked next to the futon.
Setting Cecil down so he could explore the apartment, she stared at the first print—a bridge scene—and tried to see it with impartial eyes. Tried to see what the Olivia Hwangs of the world saw when they looked at it.
She flipped to the next print, and the next, barely aware of the passage of time. She felt like there was some truth right on the edge of her brain that she couldn’t quite see yet, teasing her, out of reach.
It could have been five minutes later or three hours when a knock at the door pulled her out of her distraction. She looked up from her spot sitting on the floor, with her prints spread out around her, propped against every available surface in the apartment. Cecil raced from the tiny eat-in kitchen toward the door, barking hysterically at their visitor.
The knock came again—firm and direct—and her heart began to pound as fast as that fist on her door as she realized who must be on the other side.
He could have gotten her address from Maggie. He could have come to… what? Apologize? Beg forgiveness? Swear his undying love for her?
Bree scrambled to her feet, smoothing the loose tendrils of hair that had slipped from her ponytail behind her ears. She ran her hands down her skirt—and realized she hadn’t changed since the plane last night. Maggie’s clothes. Now dirty and slept in. She felt grimy and probably looked worse, but she didn’t have time for vanity as the pounding came again.
“Coming!” she called out, so he wouldn’t give up and leave.
Please don’t let him leave.
She navigated her way through the minefield of photos littering her floor and smoothed her hair one last time before reaching for the doorknob. She held her breath as the door swung open and revealed…
“Mel.”
“Hello, Bree.”
Her face flushed and she realized she was more embarrassed to be caught looking like roadkill by Maggie’s perfectly put together manager than
she would have been by Cross. “What are you doing here?”
“I come bearing your check,” Mel said with a wry smile. Cecil whined excitedly and circled Mel’s ankles until the manager bent and scratched him beneath the chin. “We could have direct deposited the money like we usually do, but Maggie thought this would be more appropriate. More of a cinematic moment.”
“That sounds like Maggie,” she murmured, still trying to catch up. “I thought she wasn’t going to…”
“To pay you? Don’t listen to her temper. She’s really much kinder than her tantrums indicate. And sixty thousand is nothing to her. You could have held out for more. We were paying more for the villa than we were for you.”
Bree watched as Mel removed a check from her bag. “It’s a lot to me,” she whispered, hating the admission.
“It is to most of us,” Mel agreed. “And Maggie caved as soon as I pointed that out to her. She just wasn’t willing to hear it last night. It had been a long day.”
Realizing she was being rude, Bree stepped back. “Would you like to come in?”
Mel smiled, crossing the threshold and looking at all the art debris that cluttered every surface. Cecil darted around the room, delighted to have more of his people together.
“I’ve never been to your place before,” Mel mused. “We always have you come to us.” There wasn’t much room to stand—and nowhere to sit that wasn’t covered by artwork, but Mel seemed perfectly at home standing in the center of the chaos as she turned to face Bree. “Maggie wanted me to tell you that she’s sorry.”
“Is she okay?” Bree found herself asking. “I saw the interview this morning…”
“Maggie’s always okay,” Mel said with a wry smile. “Even when she isn’t. Foisting the problem off on you wouldn’t have solved anything. She was mad when Cross told us that you’d refused to cooperate—”
“What?”
“She might have thrown her People’s Choice Award across the room, but Cross stood up for you. Said it wasn’t right of her to ask you to lie for her, and she saw that. Once she calmed down.” Mel smiled. “She’s always hated the word no. But give her a week and she’ll be begging for you to come back and decoy for her again.”
“I don’t know…” Bree shook her head. “I’ve been thinking about moving back to Minnesota.”
Mel’s eyebrows flew up. “Really? Wow. I did not call that one.”
She shrugged. “I just think it might be time, you know. Get a real job.”
“I thought you were an artist,” Mel said, and Bree swallowed thickly at the easy simplicity of the words. As if you could just decide to be an artist.
“I’ll never stop taking pictures, but maybe this isn’t the way, you know?”
“And that means you have to leave LA?”
Bree nodded. “Clean break. It’s for the best.”
Mel nodded slowly. “Does this have anything to do with a certain former football playing bodyguard?” When Bree blushed, she smiled indulgently. “I did live in a house with you guys for almost two weeks and while I may be very good at pretending not to notice things, I’m not blind.”
Bree swallowed. “It’s over now.”
“Is it.” The words were a statement more than a question, but Bree defended herself.
“It never would have worked anyway. We’re much too different.”
“Really?” Mel’s eyebrows couldn’t get any higher. “You surprise me, Bree. I didn’t take you for a quitter. I thought you were braver than that.”
“Yeah, well, sometimes bravery is just stupidity in another package. I’ve decided it’s time to smarten up. In all areas of my life.”
“Well.” Mel smiled sadly. “For what it’s worth, I thought you were good together.” She nodded to the photos decorating the couch. “And those are beautiful.”
Bree grimaced. “But what do they say?”
Mel shrugged. “What does any beautiful thing say? Look at me. Love me.” She laughed low. “Or maybe my perspective is skewed by six years of Maggie.” She handed Bree the check, reaching out to hug her with her free arm. “Keep in touch, all right?”
And then, with one last cuddle for Cecil Two, who sat at her ankles with his little tail sweeping briskly back and forth across the floor, Mel left her there. Alone with her beautiful things, her decoy dog, and a check in her hands.
Bree stared at the check. Sixty thousand dollars. Money she no longer felt like she’d earned. This money had been her goal for the last not-quite-two weeks, and now she couldn’t imagine depositing the check.
It felt strange, the future in her hands, her new lease on life.
If she kept it, she could do anything she wanted. Stay in LA. Pursue her art.
But was that still what she wanted? Or did she want to go home with a clean slate like she’d told Mel?
“What do you think I should do?” she asked Cecil, but he merely gazed at her with his dark, liquid eyes—reminding her that it was probably time for his dinner.
After filling the little bowls she’d bought for him that afternoon with food and water, she found her phone among the things she’d dropped when she came home, but there were still no messages from Cross. No news alerts with her name attached. Maggie had kept her personal details out of it. Was that Cross’s doing? And if he had been her champion, why hadn’t he come to see her? Except…he had no reason to. They were over. She’d sensed it on the plane, before they even got back to LA. This thing between them…it had been a Caribbean fling, destined to die in the Angelino air.
It was probably a good thing he hadn’t come to see her. She hadn’t showered since the last time she’d done it with him in that giant frosted glass master shower at the villa, and she was probably starting to smell.
She picked her way through the art explosion in her living room, setting the check on the counter as she passed on her way to the bathroom and the shower which would hopefully clear her head and make her feel more human—but her gaze caught on a stack of magazines tucked under the coffeepot she hadn’t used since Andi moved out.
Maggie had given them to her so she could study her expressions and practice in the mirror. Image was everything.
Look at me. Love me.
Cecil whined at her ankles as she picked up the coffee pot, setting it aside and flipping open the top magazine, studying the lines of Maggie’s face, the layers of her smile. Always so careful to be perfect.
Bree flipped through the pages—more faces, more smiles, everyone wanting to be seen, everyone hoping to be loved, and also so scared to let anyone see beneath the surface. So scared to fully invest in love and risk their hearts. Hope and fear in every smile. Desire and control in every pouty, sultry look. A kaleidoscope of contradictions.
So beautiful. But what were they saying?
Bree grabbed the stack of magazines, sinking to the floor, her surroundings forgotten as she fell into that place where only images spoke.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
“Focus!”
Something hard hit his ankles, sweeping his legs out from under him, and Cross hit the mat hard, trying to roll with the fall, but a weight slammed into his shoulders, driving him to his stomach on the mat and wrenching one of his arms behind him until he tapped out.
Candy bounded off him as soon as he patted the mat in surrender. “Dude. You really suck today. I was hoping you would be one of those guys who deal with heartbreak by channeling their emo crap into intense badassery—like Liam Neeson in Taken—but you’re just distracted. It’s very disappointing. And kind of pathetic.”
He rolled to his feet, only slightly favoring the left side she’d kicked the shit out of earlier. “I hate you, you know that?”
“Now, Crossy baby, you don’t mean that.”
“Crossy baby?” Another voice joined the conversation as Pretty Boy stepped into Elite Protection’s sparring ring. “Should I be jealous?”
“Your fiancé is a pain in the ass,” Cross informed him, and Pretty Boy grinned broadly.
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“I know. Isn’t she great?” He hooked his arm around Candy’s shoulders and she leaned into him, grinning evilly. “You about done here? Max wants to talk to you.”
“Please, take her,” Cross urged, reaching for his towel.
“Almost done,” Candy said. “We were just about to talk about the girl.”
“No, we weren’t,” Cross corrected—before he realized that by even acknowledging the existence of the girl he’d lost ground. It’d been six days since they’d gotten back and he’d managed to avoid thinking about Bree by putting his head down and focusing on work.
At least he’d been able to avoiding thinking about her constantly.
“I feel like we were,” Candy insisted.
“Yeah, man, what’s going on there?” Pretty Boy asked and Cross shot him a glare that made Candy snicker.
“Hadn’t you figured out he’s the touchy-feely one in our relationship? He talks about feelings and shit all the time. It’s kind of horrifying.” She reached for her bag. “So this girl…”
“There’s nothing to discuss.”
“I feel like there is,” Candy insisted and Cross rolled his eyes, moving away from the sparring mats. “You’re obviously upset about something,” Candy said, her footsteps following him even though Max’s office was in the other direction.
“I’m not upset.”
“I feel like you are.”
He spun to face her. “Candy. Let it go. It’s none of your business.”
Candy was unimpressed by his glower. “Cross. We’re family—”
“Are we?”
“—and as family it is our right, dare I say, even our duty to tell one another when we are being giant idiots. And I will admit I don’t know all the details of what happened between you and Decoy Girl, but I have a strong feeling that you’re being a giant idiot. So as your friend and coworker and honorary obnoxious older sister, allow me to offer you some free advice.”
“Will you stop chasing me if I listen to this?”