Below Unforgiven (The Movie Book 1)

by Kimberly Adams

  “Yeah, but do we want a newbie with talent, or some washed-up Disney star looking to finally show some skin?”

  “My money’s on the Disney princess.”

  “Keaton? What do you think?” Max urged.

  I stared out over the Los Angeles skyline, the view from my posh new office distracting me from whatever the hell Frank was chortling about. “About?”

  “The actress. Fresh face, or Disney-girl-gone-bad?”

  Vivian’s eyes. That was the color of the line between the skyscrapers. Blue, the kind of blue that darkened and lightened depending on how the world was turning.

  Depending on how she turned my world.

  “Fresh face. I want blue eyes, innocent. Wide. Dark hair, not blond, not this time. Thin, not too tall. Inner wisdom. Like… Snow White.”

  “Inner wisdom? Snow White? What the hell are you smoking, man?” Frank laughed, shaking his head and pushing to his feet. Max followed suit, accepting his handshake. “Okay, you heard the boss. Inner-fucking-wisdom. Think Velma from Scooby-Doo.”

  “Velma was hot,” Max agreed with a grin, reaching for my handshake. “It’s not like we’re looking for Oscar material here. It’s a horror film. Scream queens don’t walk the red carpet, kid.”

  I lifted my cool gaze to his, expressionless.

  “Ingrid Bergman. 1944. Best Actress, Gaslight. Ruth Gordon. 1968. Best Supporting Actress, Rosemary’s Baby. Kathy Bates. 1990. Best Actress, Misery.”

  Max’s face turned beet red.

  “That shit does fucking happen. And I’m your fucking boss. You call me kid again, and you’ll be casting dog food commercials.”

  Max halted in his tracks, backpedaling so fast that I could almost hear his apologies before they poured from his mouth. “Yes, sir. Hey, I’m sorry, you’re right. We’re setting the bar high on this one. Thank you for this opportunity.”

  I ignored him until he left, turning back to the window in my office.

  Vivian.

  It’d been nearly a month since I’d left her standing on her Gram’s porch, and after my first day back in LA, I woke up in a drunken daze, realizing that I’d never called Robin.

  And I’d never stopped Vivian from reading that letter.

  I’d left that movie case, such a dick move, I knew it. When Luke called me a week later, I knew exactly why.

  “Dude. You fucked up, Keaton.”

  “I know. How was your honeymoon?”

  “Fuck my honeymoon. You hurt her. Robin said she cried her heart out in our front yard, and her boyfriend read the letter and almost came after you.”

  “Almost, huh?”

  “Vivian begged him not to. She went back with him to Ohio.”

  Shit. I already suspected as much, but it felt like a knife was twisting in my back. I pressed my finger to my temple, closing my eyes.

  “I don’t want to talk about it, Luke.”

  And I didn’t. Three blissful weeks had passed without me having to speak to my family at all, and I’d almost convinced myself that the weekend with Vivian had been a figment of my very drunk imagination.

  Until today, when a text came through on my phone that morning.

  From Vivian.

  V: Please call me.

  That was it. Three words.

  Three words that meant everything and nothing. I waited until Frank had left, locking my office door and staring at her number.

  For too long.

  Growling, I finally dialed.

  And I waited.

  She picked up on the first ring.

  “Keaton?”

  I forced myself to sound nonchalant. “Hey, V.”

  Her slow exhale was my undoing.

  What had happened to me in the course of those three days? Did I really fall that hard for her? Was it that she was so far removed from the crazy world that I lived in that she represented… peace? The kind of life that I’d always wanted with Kelsey and realized that I’d never have?

  “Thank you for calling me,” she began, her voice shaking so badly that I could barely understand her. I pictured her chest breaking out in hives, and her fingers twisting her ponytail.

  And I was hard.

  Christ, I miss her. I’d missed her voice, and her smile, and the way she entertained the hell out of me with just a simple story. I missed the way she turned her whole body into mine, flattening her palm against my chest as we kissed.

  “What can I do for you?” I managed to sound busy, focusing on the documents on my desk.

  “I think I’m pregnant,” she exhaled, all in one broken breath.

  My hand froze over the desk, and I slowed.

  Filter. Filter.

  Filter.

  “Congratulations,” I managed, barely audible.

  “Keaton… it’s yours,” she replied, and I could hear her struggling with her tears.

  Leaning back in the executive chair, I ran my hand through my hair, my fingers resting at my neck.

  Mine?

  We were together- once.

  She told me that she was protected.

  “I mixed up- the months- that I got the shot, it was due, and I missed it…,”

  I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees and running my hand down the back of my neck.

  “Vivian, it’s okay. Calm down. Don’t cry.”

  My words were like a herald to release the floodgates. She proceeded to cry for at least five minutes, and while I listened to her tearful sobs, I struggled to piece together my own thoughts.

  She’s pregnant.

  With my child?

  “Please don’t be offended by my question, but are you sure that it’s mine?”

  She held her breath in an attempt to steady her words. “Yes. I haven’t been with anyone but you.”

  She wasn’t sleeping with him. She wasn’t sleeping with him? What did that mean? Did she really still love him, or did she feel obligated to go home to him?

  “And I’m not asking for anything from you. I just thought that you should know.”

  “Hey. Wait.” I lifted my eyes to the evening sky, staring out the window. “You don’t have to ask for anything from me. If you’re pregnant with my child, I’m going to take care of you. And my child. Vivian.” I softened my tone. “Why do you think you are pregnant? Have you taken a test?”

  “I took five,” she whispered.

  “And they were all positive?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, kiddo. Then you are.”

  “Keaton. I’m so sorry. For everything.”

  “Shh. Wait. Just wait.”

  A long minute of silence passed, and she sniffed.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m filtering.”

  She fell into silence, and I finally took a cautious breath.

  “I’m sorry for that letter. I was so drunk when I wrote it, and it was horrible. None of it was true, and I hate myself for writing it. I know that it hurt. I didn’t mean it.”

  “Don’t,” she begged softly, a fresh wave of tears threatening her voice.

  “And I meant everything that I said to you that weekend. Everything. I want you. I want a life with you. I want every part of you, even your demons, and your inability to make a fucking decision, and your empty promises. And I want our baby, Vivian. Our baby.”

  “Oh, Keaton.” She was crying softly. “I’m so afraid of what happened when I was pregnant last time. I’m so… afraid that-”

  “Stop. I need to see you.” I was already clicking the mouse on my laptop, pulling up airline sites. “I’m coming to you. I can be there in six hours.”

  “You can’t come here… Matthew… it’ll be a shit storm,” she cried.

  “Do you love me?”

  “What?”

  “Do. You. Love. Me,” I demanded. “Yes or no?”

  “We spent one weekend together.”

  “And?”

  “And…,” she sighed, long and slow. “Yes, I love you. I love you so much that it hurts.�
�

  Goddamn it.

  “And do you love him?”

  “Yes.”

  I cringed. “So much that… that it hurts?”

  “I don’t… know…”

  I smiled hard.

  Well, then.

  “Then will you come to me?”

  I heard her gasp, as though the thought had never occurred to her.

  “Come… to LA?”

  “For an audition. For Round-Up.”

  “Wait- really?”

  “Yes, really.”

  Frank was going to shit a brick over this one. I didn’t care.

  “But, if I’m pregnant…”

  “We start shooting in two weeks- in Utah. We’ll be done in three months.”

  “Act? In your movie?”

  I smirked at the excited peak in her voice. “Yes, act in my movie. Also, the pregnancy sub-plot? The ultimate cliché. Congratulations.”

  Her breathy, relieved laughter warmed my heart.

  “I know. I was so stupid.”

  “We were stupid. But… I’m so glad that we were stupid.”

  I could hear her smiling.

  “What should I tell Matthew?”

  “I don’t give a fuck, V.”

  “Keaton.” She sighed, sniffing. “What about… Kelsey?”

  I was silent for a second until I realized what she was asking. “She lied. There’s no baby, and our divorce was final two weeks ago.”

  I could hear her smile.

  “Come on, little girl. I’ve got candy,” I added.

  She exhaled a tearful laugh, sniffling. “Yeah? Blow Pops?

  “And Gummy Bears.”

  “Keep talking, Maverick.”

  I grinned.

  “Vivian?”

  “Keaton?”

  “Come to LA, goddamnit.”

  She laughed again.

  “Okay.”

  “Okay?”

  “Yes, Keaton.”

  “And will I need to be drawing up a ‘contract,’ firecracker?”

  Now, I could hear her smile in her words. “You air-quoted contract, didn’t you?”

  “Maybe.”

  She giggled. “That depends on how the… audition goes, right?”

  “It’s going very well so far. I know the director.” I finished clicking, sitting back in my chair. “Give me your email address. Your tickets are ready.”

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  “And V?”

  “Hmm?”

  “I already love you. Both.”

  His soft sigh was more than enough for me.

  The Promise

  V

  “I already love you. Both.”

  His words held me as close as he did, even over the hundreds of miles and through the phone. They were the words that I thought I’d never hear again, and now that it was happening, truly happening, I couldn’t believe that it was actually Keaton on the other end of my call.

  “I’d want my baby even if you didn’t,” I rushed, adding another wadded tissue to the growing pile on the bedspread.

  “I’d want you even if you didn’t want the baby.”

  “You mean, if I’d just called you and said ‘hey, I miss you,’ we’d be having the same conversation?”

  “No, our conversation would have been slightly different. But it would have ended with me buying plane tickets for myself, and with you in my arms tonight.”

  “Why are you so confident.”

  It wasn’t a question, and he chuckled, not giving me an answer.

  “You’re not sleeping with him.”

  “No.”

  “Don’t.”

  My rebellious nature prickled under his order, but I pressed my lips together, refusing to spout off the first defensive words that came to mind.

  “I can’t hurt him.”

  “Work it out. I’ll have a car waiting for you tomorrow morning at five.”

  “Not tonight?”

  I could hear his smile through the phone. “No, not tonight, kiddo. You need to sleep and take care of yourself. I don’t want you flying all night.”

  His protective words forced a flutter into my heart. “Okay.”

  “Which means you need to man up and talk to him. End it. No more of this back and forth. He may be willing to be patient with you while you figure your shit out, but I sure as hell won’t.”

  I froze. “That’s… really not fair…”

  “That’s more than fair.”

  Bravely, I took a deep breath. The gravel in our driveway crunched beneath tires, and I cleared my throat. “Keaton, he just got home. I have to go.”

  “V?”

  “What?”

  “Hurry.”

  It was my turn to smile.

  I was still sitting on our bed with a pile of tissues and my phone when Matthew came up the stairs. I’d moved into the bedroom with him the second night, but he was true to his word and kept his distance. His kisses were tender, careful, and he told me that he loved me each night before turning off the lights.

  The first day of counseling, I’d left with Matthew in a stoic haze. He had asked if I wanted to go to the cemetery, and I’d told him no. Instead, we came home, and I’d cried myself to sleep in our bed.

  He’d continued taking us to bi-weekly counseling, and we’d never missed a meeting over the past month. Watching Matthew’s reaction during the group sessions, it was obvious to me that he’d been there, alone, many times. He kept his arm around me the entire time, not once pushing me to speak. Listening to others talk about their loss, I realized that every feeling that I had was founded, and normal… even my resentment toward Matthew.

  And I learned that yes, I would heal. A mended heart would come slowly, but was attainable.

  Visiting the cemetery hadn’t been as difficult as I thought it was going to be. In the bright, late summer sunshine, the tiny memorial stone sparkled in white granite, encircled by fresh flowers from both of our parents. Rory Fowler had been a beautiful name, a name that I’d written over and over again while dreaming about my unborn son.

  Rory Matthew Fowler.

  It wasn’t until later that night that I’d woken up, turning to cry into Matthew’s arms.

  But we’d gotten through it, and it was a start.

  All the while, I tried not to think of Keaton, back in LA with his movie and his wife, and his other life. The Keaton Thorne who I’d spent the weekend with in our parents’ tiny hometown was really Keaton “The Kid” Thane, Oscar-winning Hollywood director, and as his sister had so blatantly put it- alcoholic asshole.

  But he wasn’t.

  I felt like I knew him, really knew him, from the inside out. I knew that he’d been through hell as a child, and that his wife had broken his heart.

  And I knew that he loved me.

  I had no doubt in my mind that he loved me.

  And I had no doubt in my mind that I loved him, even though I still loved Matthew. It would be easy, so very easy, to just pick up with Matthew where we’d left off, especially since he was willing to forgive me for running away.

  And for sleeping with Keaton.

  But love was never easy.

  I couldn’t make love to Matthew. I wasn’t ready to share something so intimate again with him, knowing that I was unsure of my future, and so sure of my love for Keaton.

  But I had hurt Keaton, and after reading his letter, I was sure that he’d never forgive me.

  But he did. And he wanted me, too.

  As always, when I did something, it wasn’t without the dramatic element of the stage. Three weeks after Matthew brought me home, the first moments of my day had me going from feeling slightly queasy to running for the toilet to empty my stomach.

  I suspected that I was pregnant.

  I called my doctor, confirming that I had in fact missed a birth control shot. I was due at the end of June, not July, and was informed that I should take a home pregnancy test before coming in for another dose. Since I had no insura
nce, it would be over fifty dollars for an office test.

  I ended up spending that much in home tests, anyway.

  Every single one was positive. I sat clutching the used tests like a pee-stick bouquet on the cool bathroom floor, thinking about that day at Idlewild with Keaton.

  We’d made love.

  One time.

  Once.

  Passionately, in an Old West jail exhibit, against the iron bars.

  My body stirred for the first time in weeks just thinking about Keaton’s hands.

  “Hey, beauty.” Matthew dropped a kiss to my forehead, pulling me from my memories and not commenting on the tissue garden surrounding me on the bed. There was nothing abnormal about him coming home to find me crying. “Classroom’s all done. Well, minus a few finishing touches. I have to pick up a couple of things tomorrow. Want to come take a look?”

  I used to love to see his freshly decorated third grade classroom, giving him ideas about where to position shelves and what to hang on the walls. This time, he’d done it all on his own, snapping a few pictures for me to see.

  “That’s okay.” I shrugged.

  He watched me carefully, edging his glasses up his nose. “Your mom and dad asked if they could come over tonight.”

  “No.”

  “Why don’t you call them and tell them, then.”

  His tone took me by surprise. I lifted my eyes to his, and he crossed his arms over his chest.

  “Will you call them, please?”

  “No.”

  Oh, so he was frustrated. Okay. “Never mind. I’ll text my dad.”

  “Vivian, we need to talk.”

  “We’re talking.” I shifted on the pillow, turning my eyes to the window.

  “I want to make love to you.”

  His words forced me into a sitting position, and I widened my eyes. “Matthew, it’s only been a month-”

  “It’s been a year. A year,” he repeated, lowering next to me on the bed. I tried to back away, but he wrapped his arms around me and tucked me against his chest. “I’m just a man. I can’t sleep next to you every night and not touch you. You were almost my wife. I’m in love with you. How many ways do I have to say this?”

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered.

  He pressed his mouth to my forehead, speaking against my skin. “Do you love me?”

  Oh, my God. Was it officially Declare Your Intentions day? I thought about Keaton’s words.