Return to Us

by Christy Pastore

  “What about sharing your story with the world? It could help other couples who’ve lost a child.”

  “Absolutely fucking not,” I ground out. “That’s our personal business. Our private hell and I am not going to put my wife through that agony again.”

  There was a long silence. I knew that Naomi was only trying to help, and this was her job. The public was fascinated with our relationship. Once news broke that the two of us might be dating, the media gave us one of those couples’ names—Mattley.

  We managed to evade the headlines and tabloids for a decent amount of time. It gave us time as a couple to really get to know one another outside the confines of celebrity. During my birthday weekend, Tinley and I were spotted out for a walk in Big Sky. It was all over from there. We were out as couple. Hello fishbowl.

  “Why don’t you and Tinley post some Instagram pics today? The two of you opening presents or making cookies together. Make it cute and festive.”

  “Why can’t I just have a normal Christmas without worrying about the right Instagram filter that will satisfy troll nation?”

  Being a celebrity is one thing, but having your marriage dissected from every possible angle stings. Early in our relationship, Tinley walked the red carpet with me for a movie premiere in Toronto. I kept my hands in my pockets and Tinley had her arm looped with mine. Troll nation decided that we weren’t in love and that I was miserable in our relationship. Well yeah, I was miserable it was fucking cold that November. I didn’t give a second thought to holding her hand. Tinley was smart she’d worn gloves that evening. Then, we figured out people wanted a glimpse of our lives, and even though we were famous, we were just like them.

  “It’s not about the filter,” Naomi said. “It’s about sharing a personal and candid moment. Back in the day, celebrities hosted holiday specials to give you a sneak peek into their lives and traditions. Try and think about it in those terms. Besides you two are hopelessly in love, no filter can fake that emotion.”

  I ended the call, and tossed my phone onto the bed. Scrubbing my hand over my chin, I walked towards the window. I admired the stunning view as the sunlight reflected off the snow. Across the yard, another stunning view—Tinley in her black and pink running gear. She rounded the edge of the property and then sprinted back to the trail through the woods. My guess was that she was only halfway through her run. I walked downstairs, wondering how I was going to share this latest development with my wife.

  As I walked into the kitchen the smell of cinnamon and brown sugar invaded my senses. I glanced at the wall where the chalkboard hung with today’s menu written in perfect cursive. Her recipe cards were neatly arranged by course on top of the counter.

  I used to be able to tell Tinley anything. Never hesitating, never questioning or overthinking the words.

  I didn’t even hesitate when I proposed to her . . .

  Four years ago

  “Adjusting the carburetor is a lot like tuning a guitar or any other instrument with strings.”

  “Well, I don’t know how to do that either,” she sighed, tapping the flat-head screwdriver to her palm.

  I laughed. “I take it that you don’t tune your mother’s piano?”

  “No, I have someone who does that for me.”

  “Okay, you want to turn the screws equally, smoothly,” I continued. “Until you find that sweet spot.” I demonstrated by turning each screw a quarter-turn and counter clockwise.

  She leaned her hip against the fender folding her arms across her chest. Tinley had been hanging with me in my garage all afternoon while I adjusted the carburetor on my mustang. She was hoping to take it for a spin, but the engine was running a little lean which told me I needed to add more fuel to the mixture.

  “Adjusting the mixture is like fine art, you need to listen closely. Kinda like how you know how much red and white to add to get that perfect shade of pink.”

  “Everybody knows that, Matthew. We learned it in elementary school.” Her voice was light with humor.

  I turned the screws a little more. “Ah, listen to that baby purr.”

  “Oh yeah,” she said, taking a step forward. “It’s not making that whoosh-ey rattling sound anymore.”

  I smiled, and continued the task of replacing the air filter. Lowering the hood, I glanced over at Tinley who had proceeded to wipe off the bench and tidy up the space. Taking the keys out of the ignition, I watched in complete fascination as she cleaned the flat-head screw driver, the pliers, the vise grips, and then she wiped down my tool box. Taking the cloth towel from my pocket, I wiped off my hands and I knew it wasn’t what I’d planned and it wasn’t even romantic or maybe it was in its own way. Nevertheless, this was a moment, this was the moment.

  She took the broom off the wall and started to sweep out the garage. The place wasn’t even that dirty, but she took so much pride in the task. It showed me that she loved me. Fixing up cars wasn’t her thing, it was mine, yet here she was just hanging out drinking a beer. Tinley Atkinson, Ivy League educated, TV star, and New York Socialite. She was class and grace, and I was just a country boy at heart who loved fixing up old cars, listening to classic rock, drinking beer, and eating spicy food.

  Fuck me.

  “Be right back, Tinley,” I said, making a beeline for the backstairs.

  “Okay, I’m thinking about making tacos for dinner and I have a feeling tonight is the night that I’ll guess your middle name.”

  I kicked my boots off and my hand covered my heart. My heart rate jumped into overdrive. We’d been at this game for two years. I’d guessed hers a while back, but she was determined to guess mine. I darted up the backstairs to my bedroom, and took the painting off the wall to uncover my safe. The painting was an illustration from Tinley’s gallery.

  I pulled the box from the safe—an eight carat, oval-cut diamond in a rose gold pavé setting. I designed the engagement ring and wedding band with Holliday’s help. I shoved the ring box into my pocket and then closed and relocked the safe. The painting could wait. I darted back towards the garage, but I skidded to a halt when I saw Tinley in the kitchen.

  “Hey, babe,” she said, “I was just thinking about making a pitcher of margaritas.”

  “You’re beautiful,” I said. “You and me . . .” I dropped to my knee.

  “Oh my God,” she said, her hands flying to her cover her mouth.

  “I choose you. And I’ll choose you over and over in a thousand lifetimes. I’d choose you, without a doubt, without pause—in a heartbeat, I will always choose you, Tinley Rebecca Atkinson.”

  “Matthew, are you asking me . . .” Her blue eyes sparkled with amusement.

  I nodded, pulling the box from the pocket of my jeans. “I’m asking if you’ll choose me. Will you marry me?”

  “Yes, Matthew, I will marry you.”

  I pulled the ring from the box and slipped it on her shaking hand. “I’m sorry, I had this whole thing planned, fancy dinner and a bottle of champagne—”

  Her hands framed my face. “No, this is perfect. I don’t need any of that, I just need you.” She kissed me in an urgent kiss. I picked her up, and her legs wrapped around my waist.

  “I love you,” I whispered against her lips, as I carried her up the stairs. “And my middle name is Dempsey.”

  “I love you, Matthew Dempsey Barber,” she laughed. “You know we’re going to talk about that later, right?”

  “I figured as much, darlin’.”

  The door opened and a cool blast of air shot through the kitchen.

  “Did you have good run?”

  Tinley kicked off her shoes and nodded. “Yeah, the clouds started to roll in and it looks like it might snow again.”

  “An extra snowy Christmas, I’m all for that.”

  “What have you been up to?” she asked, stripping off her pink puffer vest.

  I took a drink of coffee as I formulated my words. “The morning tabloids are particularly interesting. It seems the two of us are headed for a divorce
. I’m a cheating ass face, you’re a career hungry, she wolf, and there isn’t a shred of truth to any of it.”

  She pulled the ponytail holder from her hair and let out a howling laugh. “I’d like it better when they labeled me as America’s Sweetheart and you were Hollywood’s Heartthrob.”

  “Same, but I will not let this ruin our Christmas,” I said, pulling a mug from the cabinet. “I talked to Naomi. She suggested we post something festive on Instagram.”

  Tinley took a seat at the island and I placed the mug in front of her. “That’s fine—we can post a selfie or something. We’ll be the greatest Christmas Day love story the world has ever seen.”

  I smiled, and for a brief moment I knew that things were going get better. Only, things would get much worse before that happened.

  New Year, New Us

  WEEKEND BRUNCHES BECAME A regular thing when Holliday and Ronan moved to East Harbour. Saturday mornings were spent at SoulCycle or East Harbour Pilates, followed by bottomless mimosas at Hutton House. During Holliday’s pregnancy with Michael, we frequented Nancy’s Diner for the French toast. Thank you, carbo cravings.

  This morning I’d skipped Pilates, but met up with them at a café Harlow had been talking about for weeks.

  “So, apparently, she gets extra horny after a wax,” Ella said, as I approached the table.

  “Wow, okay, sounds like I’ve arrived just in time,” I said, settling beside Holliday. “Which client of Ella’s are we talking about this week?”

  “Not a client, the gal from the pie shop,” Harlow answered, handing me a mimosa.

  I rolled my eyes. “Celestia, the oversharing baker.”

  “Two weeks ago she told me that she yelled out ‘I hate you’ during sex,” Holliday interjected. “She had no idea where it had come from. Celestia then proceeded to tell me that he called her his pie-making whore and slapped her pussy. I didn’t have the strength to tell her that I only needed the pumpkin pies, not a story about her pie.”

  “That wouldn’t have shut her up,” Harlow said, with a laugh. “She should blog about her sexcapades—it is entertaining.”

  “You think everyone should blog,” I pointed out.

  Harlow lifted a shoulder. “Fair point, maybe she should just submit to Sex Diaries.”

  “Oh, I have contemplated entering a submission,” Holliday snickered. “I always thought the week I met Ronan would make for a good post: ‘The twenty-six year-old who spent a week banging an A-list Actor.’”

  Ella shook her head. “I’m going to pretend that you’re talking about Chris Evans, not my brother.”

  “Okay, we’re veering off topic,” Harlow said, pointing her glass at Ella. “Back to the story.”

  “Right, so she shows up for the Tinder date with an apple pie in hand and”—Ella leaned closer to the middle of our table to whisper the rest—“this bloke, handcuffs her to the bed and makes her watch him fuck the pie instead of her.”

  “Holy fuck,” I murmured.

  “No way,” Holliday said, her hands waving in front of her.

  “I have so many questions,” Harlow said, pulling her grey sweatshirt up over her shoulder. “Was this some kind of fetish thing? Did he request the pie? Does it always have to be an apple pie?”

  “He did request the pie,” Ella answered, before taking a sip of her drink. “I didn’t get the rest of the story.”

  “I would think he’d request cherry,” I said, tapping my finger to the table.

  Our server came over to take our order, placing an assortment of pastries in the middle of the table. Since this was a new place, Ella had to ask a thousand questions because of her food allergy. Which was totally okay, I was in no hurry to rush this meal with my friends. We rarely saw one another these days. It was hard for us to all get our schedules synced.

  Ella’s son, William, was turning five this year . . . in a few days. And soon, her daughter, Everly would be four. Holliday had her hands full with a nine-month-old, and they balanced their time between here and Manhattan.

  “Okay, no more talk about pie,” Holliday said. “Harlow, are you finally going to let me plan the wedding of your dreams this year?”

  Three years later, Harlow and Grady were perfectly happy being engaged. Honestly, I thought they’d be married by now.

  “I don’t know.” Harlow fidgeted with the sparkling ring on her left hand. “Why would a corporate event planner want to plan a wedding? Don’t you have more important matters to attend to?”

  “My job isn’t more important than helping my friends. I am working on a really cool project right now—I’m developing a press strategy for a non-profit that brings live and recorded music to healthcare facilities and their patients. I’m so close to getting Rebel Desire to sign a contract,” Holliday replied. “But I can totally plan a wedding.”

  “Cash Knight is so handsome,” Ella cooed. “Don’t tell my husband.”

  “Your secret is safe with us,” Harlow said, before taking a sip of coffee. “And that is totally cool, Holliday.”

  “Elope,” I offered, tearing off a piece of my croissant.

  “Oh come on,” Ella groaned. “Don’t listen to her, Harlow.”

  “Well, we’ve made no plans, and since there is nothing more to talk about on the wedding subject,” Harlow paused, leveling her gaze towards Holliday. “I believe you have something to share.”

  Holliday’s head snapped up, her bright eyes wide. “Well,” she began. “Guess who was nominated for People’s Sexiest Man Alive this past year?”

  “No way,” I said, laughing.

  I watched as Ella’s gaze turned in Holliday’s direction. “Wait, what?”

  “Well, he obviously turned it down,” Holliday said.

  I raised my glass. “Good for him. I told Matthew if they ever approach him, his answer should be thank you, but no.”

  Ella shook her head. “What am I missing?”

  “It is widely known that that entire thing is a public relations maneuver,” Harlow said, swirling the contents of her champagne glass. “No one is sitting in a room voting on the Sexiest Man Alive.”

  I raised my hand. “Although, I would love that job.”

  “Cheers to that,” Harlow said, giving me a high-five.

  “Okay, wait. The whole thing is orchestrated?” Ella asked, sitting back in her chair.

  Holliday nodded, taking a bite of pastry. “Yeah, Donna was really pushing for it, but Ronan was adamant about not being chosen. He told them he’d love to be included in the feature for next year. Like a subcategory.”

  “Oh yeah, that’s perfectly fine,” I remarked. “Remember the year Blake Shelton was crowned and people lost their damn minds?”

  Holliday slapped her palm to the table. “That was a fun time on the internet.”

  “What year was that?” Harlow asked, laughing.

  “I’m on it,” Ella announced, her fingers flying over the screen of her phone. “It was—uh oh,” Ella’s fingers tapped over her lips.

  I dipped my head to meet Ella’s eyes. “Well, what is it?”

  Harlow shrugged and confusion passed between the three of us. Ella handed her phone to Holliday. Her lips twisted in and the look of disbelief on her face was apparent.

  “Tin, there is a story on Hollywood Razzle,” she began. “Now, keep in mind it’s Hollywood Razzle dot com.” Holliday’s voice was smooth and even. Harlow grasped my hand, giving me a tight-lipped smile.

  “Read it to me,” I said, straightening my shoulders. I was afraid that and the tightly woven veil I’d shrouded myself in suddenly turned into cellophane.

  “Why Tinley Atkinson isn’t having a baby. Her lack of desire to have kids is driving her husband, Matthew Barber, away and into the arms of another woman, a woman who has the one thing Matthew and Tinley do not—a child. We all remember when Georgina adopted her daughter from Mexico, a county that is near and dear to Matthew’s heart with his endless charity work. Mexico was also the home of his beloved late grand
mother, Morena. Sources close to the actor, say that it was her wish that he should have a family.”

  “Oh, that’s a low blow,” Ella scoffed, her voice cracking with anger.

  My heart fractured and crumbled with every word. Morena, I’d never had the honor of meeting her, but Matthew told me that she and I would have been as thick as thieves. Hot tears ran down my cheeks. I brushed them away, before my friends could see them.

  “Other reports say,” Holliday continued, “Atkinson’s years of partying and drugs are playing a role in her inability to conceive. Could this be the end for Mattley and the beginning for Mattina?”

  It’s true I had smoked pot and tried a few things here and there when I was out in the clubs with Karina. Nothing major, but the pictures of me with cigarettes in my hand when I was a teenager, those would never be erased from the internet.

  What sources? Who the fuck is talking? And are they even allowed to couple them, when I’m legally married to him? Mattina is a stupid fucking name. To make matters worse, my husband was over nine thousand miles away in Australia and with her.

  Ella looked up, her face twisted in pain. “It’s all over the internet, every headline containing an aspect of cheating and drug abuse.”

  “These magazines lack integrity,” Harlow scoffed.

  “God, they’re even revisiting the topic of Bette DeJong. How Matthew allegedly cheated on you with her,” Holliday added.

  “Bette DeJong, the Dutch model?” Ella asked, before taking a drink of water.

  I nodded in confirmation.

  “Jesus, you take one Instagram photo and attend a few events together and the media has conjured up some torrid affair,” Harlow said. “Trust me, I would know.”

  Our server arrived with our meals and I was grateful because I needed silence to fill the space. I couldn’t think about Matthew being alone with her. I had to think of this in the abstract, that it was a slow news week and these publications needed to sell copies. Gossip magazines were never going to go away. I chose to trust in my husband, but that didn’t mean this stung any less.