by Lizzie Shane
It was a minor miracle she was clean and fed when the knock came at her door that afternoon, setting Cecil into a barking frenzy. The knock was too tentative to be Cross, though her heart still surged as if it might be him.
But when she opened the door, her shock was more complete than if it had been Cross.
Maggie never came to her.
The actress stood on the landing, with her celebrity disguise of a baseball cap and giant sunglasses obscuring her face—though it was the oversized hoodie that really sold the look. She reached up, plucking off the sunglasses and revealing nervous turquoise eyes. “Can I come in?”
“Of course.” Bree opened the door wider and Cecil darted out, bouncing ecstatically at the sight of his goddess.
The actress bent to pat him and murmur, “Hello, baby,” before crossing the threshold—and stopping dead, staring around her. “Oh.”
Bree’s apartment was rarely clean under the best of circumstances, but after a week where every available space had been commandeered for her new project she had to admit the living room did look a little terrifying. Like a paper cyclone had hit it.
“Are you packing?” Maggie asked tentatively as Bree closed the door and Cecil began to wiggle frantically at her feet in a bid for attention. “Mel said you were leaving.”
“It seems like it’s time.” Bree gathered up Cecil so he would stop harassing Maggie, tucking him against her chest. “Look, I’m sorry—”
“No.” Maggie faced her, shoving her hands in the pockets of the hoodie. “I need to apologize. You were my friend. Pretty much my only friend if friends are the people who tell you what you need to hear rather than what you want to hear. I shouldn’t have asked you to take the fall for me. I’m sorry about that and I came here to thank you for saying no.”
“Really?” her voice cracked on the word.
“I was pissed,” Maggie admitted. “Like, really pissed—at you, at Mel, at Kaydee—at everyone but myself because I didn’t want to face the fact that I was the one who screwed things up with Demarco. Not any of you. Kaydee saw me kiss Alec.” She grimaced. “That’s how she got the job—and she’s saying she wasn’t violating the NDA because the things she’s talking about publicly all happened before she was an employee.”
“So she’s getting away with it?”
“Oh no, we’re suing her into the next century. She violated that NDA a dozen different ways—even if that wasn’t one of them. The pictures alone…”
“I’m sorry. I feel like I started all of this.”
“You didn’t. I did. And I need to be the one to stop it. It was the right thing to do, come clean about everything. I don’t know when people stopped asking me to do the right thing. I get so used to everyone doing what I want that sometimes I forget that just because I want it doesn’t mean it should happen.” She laughed softly. “Like marrying Demarco. I think I probably would have driven him crazy.”
“Did you love him?” Bree asked gently.
“Yes?” Maggie answered, but it sounded like a question. “At least I loved the way it felt to be with him. He won’t even talk to me now. Not that I blame him.” She swallowed, smiling weakly, and reaching out to ruffle Cecil’s ears where he lay in Bree’s arms. “I kinda suck at being alone. And I know no one wants to hear the movie star whining about her perfect life—”
“Hey,” Bree grabbed her hand, realizing for the first time that Maggie’s hands were surprisingly small. “I’ve been you, remember? I know how lonely it can be.”
Tears filled Maggie’s eyes as she smiled. “I just wanted someone to be mine, you know? My family isn’t…they aren’t there. And everyone you meet in this business wants something from you and you feel like you can’t let anyone in, but then you feel lonely all the time and everyone thinks they have the right to judge you, especially when you do stupid shit like make out with an ex who dumped you and suddenly wants you again and you know it’s stupid, but you can’t stop looking for love in all the wrong places until everyone in the entire world thinks you’re ridiculous except your dog.”
She was blubbering by the end and Bree wrapped an arm around her, squishing Cecil Two between them—who whined softly and licked Maggie’s chin. Bree went up on her bare toes so they were the same height. “Hey. Who cares if people think your life is ridiculous? What does it matter as long as you’re happy?”
“But I’m not happy,” Maggie whimpered, then sniffled. “God, I’m sorry. I’m the worst. Crying all over you after I was horrible to you.”
“You weren’t horrible. You were human.” Bree guided her over to an arm chair she’d picked up at a yard sale, brushing photos off the seat to make a space for both of them to perch on the edge, holding onto the movie star as she cried and Cecil crawled all over her, a silky, wriggling puppy comfort machine.
Maggie lived in the lap of luxury, isolated in her perfect world. She didn’t have a family. She didn’t have support that wasn’t on her payroll, but she was just looking for love in all the wrong places—like everywhere.
“Maggie Tate isn’t my real name, did you know that?” she asked when she collected herself, softly stroking Cecil Two. “Dolores Margaret Terchovsky. Sexy, right? I picked Tate because of that band. The Fifth Horseman? Lorenzo Tate? I thought Maggie Tate sounded like an actress. Like someone powerful and important. But I never feel powerful and important. I just feel trapped and alone.”
“Maybe you should get away for a while—not to get married, just to get away from the pressure.”
“It follows you,” Maggie murmured.
“I could decoy for you,” Bree offered. “On the house.”
“No,” Maggie squeezed her hand. “It’s time for me to live my own life.” A photo ripped from a magazine crinkled beneath her as she shifted and Maggie glanced at the debris around them. “What is all this?” she asked.
“I’m not sure yet,” Bree admitted. “Something I’m working on.” At Maggie’s frown, Bree stood, making a decision on impulse—like all of her best decisions. “Come on. I’ll show you.”
Cecil leapt off Maggie’s lap and danced around their feet as Bree led the way into Andi’s old bedroom, which she had taken over as a studio when her roommate moved in with Ty. Her new project was propped on her largest easel, lit by the natural light that filled the back half of the apartment.
“Oh my God,” Maggie whispered, staring, and Bree’s stomach churned as nervously as it had when Olivia Hwang was looking at her stuff. Cecil darted into the corner, burrowing into the little nest he’d made for himself there in a splash of sunlight.
“It isn’t done—”
“You’re an artist?” Maggie asked, yanking her eyes off the piece to stare at Bree.
“Sort of.”
Some of her other pieces lined the walls, including the ocean scene that Olivia Hwang had called pedestrian, which curled in the corner like the wave it was. “Why did you never show me any of these?” Maggie demanded.
She shrugged. “Everyone wants something from you. I’ve been you. I know that. And I didn’t want to be another one of those people.” Honesty forced her to add, “And I think I wanted to know that I could make it on my talent, not because I randomly happen to look like somebody famous.”
Maggie moved closer to the new piece on the easel, studying the details. It was the same kind of piece as the wave—photos in a collage to create a larger picture—but it was different. The end effect wasn’t of another photo; the larger piece looked like a painting, with brush strokes composed of photographs with ragged edges carefully frayed. It was vague, impressionistic, vaguely Van Gogh in feeling.
“It’s you…” Maggie murmured.
And Bree blinked, surprised she’d seen the difference. That she hadn’t seen herself. “Maybe…” she admitted. It was an eye, the side of a face, vague and unformed.
“I don’t know how you did this,” Maggie murmured, her gaze caught on the half-finished piece. “How you took all these pictures that all seem to only
see the surface and turned them into something where all I can see when I look at it is loneliness and hope.” She leaned forward, peering at the small photos. “They’re all you, aren’t they?”
“How can you tell?” She’d gone through hundreds of magazines and fan sites, pulling pictures of herself-as-Maggie, with another pile of the ones where she wasn’t one hundred percent sure which one of them it was, but Maggie had known at a glance.
Maggie reached out to touch one of the pictures—one with Cross. “Are you in love with him?”
“Who?” Maggie gave her a really? look and she grimaced. “Does it matter? We’re so different. And he doesn’t want me anyway. He doesn’t do love.”
“And if he did? Would you take him back?”
Bree shook her head, but it was more confusion than denial. “I don’t know. It’s a moot point anyway. I haven’t heard a word from him since we got back. That sends a pretty clear message. And honestly, it’s for the best. I’m getting ready to leave LA and he would only confuse things.”
“So you wouldn’t want to see him? If he came knocking at your door?”
He isn’t going to do that. He’d proven that by the last two weeks. And she refused to be the girl who hung onto a man who had made it clear he didn’t want her. She was stronger than that. “No. No, we had our chance.”
“Men are idiots,” Maggie agreed, then her eyes were back on the collage. “But this is incredible. Promise me you’ll show it?”
“I’d have to get a showing first,” Bree said dryly. “And no, I don’t want you to ask someone to show it for me. I actually…” She hesitated, but blurted out the rest. “There’s a gallery owner—an important one—who offered to look at my stuff again at some point and I’ve been debating showing her some of my new work. I’d probably be setting myself up for failure again—”
“Do it.”
Bree swallowed thickly, her own eyes on the piece. “I didn’t make it to show anyone,” she admitted. “I’m not even sure I legally could since all the photos are probably copyrighted. I just…I had something to say.”
Maggie didn’t look away from the easel. “Why are you leaving LA?”
“Because it’s time. Because I failed. Because I failed consistently for ten years and at some point you have to see the writing on the wall.”
“Bullshit.”
Bree blinked. “Excuse me?”
“Do you know what the difference is between those who succeed and those who fail?”
“Talent?”
Maggie gave her a hard look, unamused. “The successful people keep going after they fail. They learn from their failure, but they never stop trying. Stupid, dogged determination. That’s what success is. Don’t give up, Bree.”
Bree swallowed, looking into Maggie Tate’s incredible turquoise eyes. “That’s a good speech. Is that from a movie?”
“I do occasionally have moments of genius of my own,” Maggie said with a wry grin.
Bree met her eyes, her heart warming at the sight of this woman who could have been her sister. “Thank you.”
“Hey. What are friends for?”
“I’d like us to be friends,” Bree said.
“Really?” The movie star at her side looked at her, her eyes vulnerable.
“Yeah. You’ve gotta have someone in your life who will tell you when you’re being an ass.”
Maggie laughed. “Thank you. I appreciate that. And it goes both ways.” She nodded to the portrait. “You have to show this. Bree, it’s perfect.”
“It’s not finished yet,” she murmured.
Maggie’s mouth twisted in a wry smile. “Honey, none of us are.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
One month.
One month had passed since she’d first shown Olivia Hwang her work and she felt like a completely different person. Was that Maggie? Cross? Her? What had happened? How did a woman go through thirty years of life evolving at a snail’s pace and then suddenly change overnight?
She popped open the hatch on the Honda and her chest filled with feeling at the carefully packaged pieces inside. Something like pride.
Olivia had been skeptical when Bree called to schedule a second viewing, asking pointedly if she was sure she was ready—though the subtext in her voice had clearly been, “Am I going to regret giving you a second chance?”
Bree had insisted she was ready, but she knew this would be her last chance with this gallery. Olivia Hwang wasn’t going to keep taking the time to see her work if she wasn’t blown away by today’s pieces. But this time instead of paralytic nerves making her want to puke all over the sidewalk, all she felt was a low buzz of excitement.
She knew—knew who she was and what she had to say and if Olivia Hwang hated her work she would meet Andi and Maggie later for a consolation martini and then start approaching other galleries. Other dealers. Hell, she would take her work to farmer’s markets, but she wouldn’t ever give up because she had a voice, she had something to say, and this was who she was meant to be. And it was worth all the work she had to do in between so she could afford these moments.
Though Maggie had talked her into cashing the check, so she wouldn’t need to do any side gigs for a while even if her work didn’t start paying for itself.
She wasn’t betting her future on this moment, but she wanted it. She wanted Olivia Hwang to love her work. She wanted the affirmation that she was good, but she didn’t need anyone else to tell her she had what it took. She did. Because it wasn’t just talent. It was perseverance. And she wasn’t giving up. It was only a matter of time before she caught. And maybe it wouldn’t be big, maybe it would just be small steady work. And if it didn’t happen until she was eighty, she’d still have a pretty good life, filled with pretty good art.
She’d turned over a new leaf—even buying some paints and adding a few swipes of color to a few of the pieces. She wasn’t going to live her life by anyone else’s opinion anymore. She knew what beauty said now.
And maybe she was making a mistake. Most of the pieces she was showing today weren’t finished—but it was Maggie who had given her the idea that maybe they didn’t need to be. They were people, her pieces, and weren’t all people works-in-progress?
She certainly was. Though she felt a little more complete now. She’d called her mother last night—and the conversation hadn’t gone nearly as badly as it might have considering she’d opened with “I’m not coming home.”
“What do you mean? Not until next month?” her mother had asked.
“Not at all. I’m staying in LA. And I’m going to keep trying to make art my life. I know you hate the instability of it—and sometimes I hate that too, but I feel like I can never say that to you without giving you ammunition that you can use to try to make me give up my dreams. Because I don’t want a stable normal life with a picket fence and three kids, Mom. I dream of art showings and people being moved by my work, but mostly about that moment when I’m creating and it feels like I disappear and the work takes over and I know I’m doing what I was meant to do with my life. I love that, Mom. And I know you don’t get it, but can you try to love it too? For me? Because I’m not ready to stop being me.”
“I don’t want you to,” her mother had whispered—and then they’d cried, but they were good tears. It had been a good handful of days. So good she almost didn’t miss him.
“Do you need a hand?”
She turned, expecting to see Olivia’s assistant—what was his name again?—but instead her smile of greeting froze on her face when she saw Cross standing on the curb. As if conjured by the stray thought. As if it was the most natural thing in the world.
As if she hadn’t been starving for the sight of him for the last two and a half weeks.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded, the words coming out harsh.
“Maggie told me you’d be here.”
She looked up at the gallery and back into the trunk of her car. “This isn’t a good time.”
“
I wanted to come see you before, but Maggie refused to give me your address because she said you were working on something important and I deserved to suffer. It was Candy who talked her into telling me you’d be here today—”
“That still doesn’t explain why you’re here.” It had been weeks. Any hope she’d had that he’d realize she was more than a fling had hardened into a tough, defensive shell.
“I’m an idiot.”
“Okay.”
His mouth twitched in a not-quite smile as he stepped off the curb, and she fell back a step. “I came to tell you that I’m an idiot and to apologize.”
Perfect Cross. Always trying to be perfect for everyone. That must be what this was. She glanced into the trunk, seeing nothing. “Mel told me you wouldn’t let them use my name. I know you didn’t have to do that.”
“Yes, I did.”
She looked back at him then, shaking her head slightly. “I only meant you don’t have to apologize for that. I know you stood up to your client for me and I appreciate it. You don’t have to feel bad about asking me to lie.”
“That’s not what I’m apologizing for,” he said, then added hurriedly, “though I am sorry for that too.”
“Why are you here, Cross?”
He flushed and she realized he no longer looked like master of the universe, commander of all he surveyed. He looked nervous.
“I met my sister,” he blurted. “In Iowa.”
She blinked, startled by the sudden change of topic, but curious in spite of herself. “How was that?”
“It was good. Great, actually. Awkward at first and I kept thinking if you were there you’d know what to say—”
“I probably wouldn’t have.”
“It was at the dedication of my father’s field house. My field house. People kept asking me if I was dating Maggie…” He met her eyes and something flickered in his gaze. “I spoke to my mother. About my father’s myth. She told me some stories about him—stuff I’d never heard. Stuff that made him real. Turns out she wasn’t the head of the Cult of Big Aaron like I’d thought. She just didn’t want to tarnish my memories of him—or have me grow up with everyone knowing he’d cheated. So she deified him to protect me.”