End Scene

by Elise Faber

  And what had stayed the same.

  “You were changing your glasses,” I said, taking another step toward her, until our bodies were only a hairsbreadth apart.

  Her breath caught. But then the chin I’d cupped more than once, using it to tilt her head back, to get her mouth at the absolute perfect angle in order to kiss her, to taste her, to hold her, lifted.

  “Move back,” she snapped, shoving at my chest.

  Then froze.

  I froze.

  Because the contact was a lightning rod.

  And she seemed to feel the same way, yanking her hands back like they’d been burned, slipping to the side, and clutching her purse to her chest like it was a shield.

  “You didn’t answer me,” he gritted out.

  Her glare intensified. “You didn’t ask a freaking question, Aaron Weaver,” she snapped. “And I’m not obligated to answer it anyway, even if you did.”

  My lips twitched, but my smile was more snark than amusement, and I had to stifle a derisive chuckle because, “You never did think you were required to answer for anything, did you?”

  Beautiful. Called my body like a siren’s song. Lived her life for herself without giving a shit about anyone else.

  In other words, still. The. Same.

  Quiet.

  Annoyed, mainly at myself for being entranced by this woman, if only for a few seconds, I forced myself to focus on the conversation. I should know better than to let myself remember, to dream, to wish things had been different between us. Mags had proven that she might be intoxicating, gorgeous, and equal parts fun and sweet, but she’d proven just as intensely that she was ephemeral.

  That she couldn’t be trusted with another person’s heart.

  A slice of something I once would have chalked up to pain slid through her eyes, yet just as I knew she wasn’t back in town permanently, knew she’d leave as soon as she’d assured herself her father was fine, I also knew that though the pain might be there, it wasn’t a pain that motivated.

  She might have remorse for hurting someone, but she still did it anyway.

  And that was the cool reminder I needed to shove the power of her down, to lock the memories away, to step back and cross my arms.

  “How is he?” she asked.

  “Why don’t you head to the hospital and find out?”

  “I was.” Her lips pressed flat then relaxed. “At least until a big truck began tailgating my car and scared the daylights out of me.”

  The words and tone were tough, but fear was back in her eyes.

  Not for herself, but for the one family member she had left.

  Enough that I found the need to take it away.

  “Warren’s fine,” I said, watching relief wash over her face. “His surgery went well, and he’d already taken a lap on that hip by the time I left. He’ll be discharged tomorrow.”

  “So soon?”

  I shrugged. “They want them up and moving as quickly as possible after these kinds of surgeries.”

  She nodded. “Right.”

  And silence. Uncomfortable, sticky, and hot despite the cold air and dirty piles of snow plowed to the sides of the parking lot. It pissed me off that she could affect me this way, that she still had a hold on some part of me, even when I’d thought anything tying us together was gone. I’d locked up the memories, burned them to ash with fury and disappointment, but this woman still had the power to get to me.

  It was fucking infuriating.

  “Why are you here?”

  She jumped at my change in tone, but fuck if I would feel guilty about startling her, not after everything that had happened.

  “I’m here for my dad.”

  “And when are you leaving?”

  So I could count down the days until she left.

  Not because, even after everything had gone down, part of me didn’t want to see her go again.

  She was quiet for a heartbeat then said, “I’ve cleared a week.”

  “Hop in, hop out,” I muttered, furious but knowing it had little to do with her taking a week off work to come and care for her dad, knowing it had everything and nothing to do with me.

  I had no clue if it was the everything or the nothing part that was bothering me.

  Everything—a pathetic part of me wanted her to be here for a week to see me.

  Nothing—the thought of her returning without wanting to see me hurt more than it should.

  Which was not at all, of course.

  Not that any of this mattered. Both scenarios were ice picks to the heart . . . and also enough to remind me of myself. Years had passed. I was a fully formed adult with a career that took me to many places outside of Campbell, outside of Utah, outside of the USA. My life was busy and hectic, and I was content.

  Because I didn’t let myself be wrapped up in women, and most especially not in women who were flighty and would be gone again before the week was out.

  “That’s not fair,” she said.

  “Life’s not fair,” I countered.

  Her eyes narrowed. “I’ll make arrangements to stay longer if I need to.”

  “Congratulations.” I mimed reaching into my pocket and pulling out a trophy. “Here’s your Best Daughter in the Universe Award.”

  “I—”

  “Stay your week,” I said and spun in the direction of my truck. “I’m good at picking up the pieces when you leave.”

  Four

  Maggie

  He left in a cloud of exhaust, just as the front door of the police station opened.

  “Everything okay?” a female deputy asked, blond hair slicked back into a ponytail, gaze fixing me in place.

  “Fine,” I said. “We just had a close call on the road, and he wanted to make sure I was o—” I gasped. “Tammy, oh my God! Is that you?”

  “Yes—Maggie? Holy shit! I haven’t seen you in years.”

  I rounded the hood of my car, a huge smile breaking out on my face as I closed the distance to one of the few people I’d been close to in high school. We hugged, and I pulled back. “You’re here in Campbell,” I exclaimed. “How? Why? I—”

  “Me?” she said. “How about you? I’ve been back for two years now. You’re the one who hit the road and didn’t look back.”

  “I’ve visited my dad a few times,” I told her. “But yeah, I’ve been a little busy.”

  A smirk. “Working for Pierce Daniels?” She nudged my shoulder. “Please, tell me he’s as nice in real life as he pretends to be in interviews.”

  “He is,” I said then stage whispered, “and don’t tell him, but Artie is actually my favorite.”

  Tammy grinned. “Is she as great as she seems, too?”

  “She’s awesome.” I thought of the first client who’d given me a really great opportunity. Not to just be a person to organize her hair and nail appointments, to pick up her food or dry cleaning—though I’d cut my teeth in the industry doing plenty of that—but to be involved in building something, a brand that I loved and was so damned proud to have been part of crafting.

  And she’d led me to Pierce, to Eden, to Talbot.

  I’d become a brand builder.

  The brand builder.

  Which sounded ridiculous outside of L.A., when the cold bite of air was in my nose, fogging my breath, when the first few snowfalls were piled on the sides of the parking lot.

  Probably, there’d be a warm snap and the snow would be gone in a week, but it was here now, and a clear reminder of the difference between my current home and my former.

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I want to catch up more, but my dad—”

  “Oh, shit.” Tammy’s eyes went wide. “Your dad. I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking. How is he?”

  I shook my head. “Fine, I think. I just need to head to the hospital.”

  “Of course.” She stepped back. “Still know how to drive in the snow?” she asked lightly, her gaze drifting from me to the parking lot.

  “I made it
this far, didn’t I?”

  Tammy chuckled. “Not sure if that’s vouching for your driving skills.”

  “I’ve gotten better.”

  “Six mailboxes from our teenage years, and the driver of the truck that was just in here would speak differently.”

  “That was Aaron.”

  “Ah.” Knowing invaded her expression.

  “It’s not like that.”

  “Not sure it ever has been or will ever be not like that.”

  I sighed but didn’t agree with her. Mostly because I was mature enough to know she was right. Aaron and I had always been drawn to each other, and though hurting him by leaving, by breaking things off when he’d wanted to get serious, was one of my biggest regrets, I still wouldn’t change anything.

  I’d needed to go.

  We were too young. Too unformed. Too—

  Wrapped up in each other to become separate people.

  We wouldn’t have lasted.

  I just cut the cord before we would have imploded.

  Tammy squeezed my arm, handed me a card. “My cell is on there. Let’s grab a meal later in the week, when things are calmer on your end.”

  “I’d like that.”

  We said our goodbyes, I got back into my rental, and I navigated my way to the hospital, this time without any near misses, this time not almost side-swiping any big trucks, this time alone.

  Just me and the open road.

  Exactly as I preferred.

  The open road was short this time around.

  Just a ten-minute drive to a hospital I’d visited enough that I knew where to park, knew how to find the information desk, knew where the pediatricians were when my dad had taken me for my yearly checkup, where the gynecologists were, when I’d made my own secret appointment in order to get birth control—because this was a small town and Aaron and I had been together for a long time. I’d loved him, but if I wasn’t ready to be engaged, and for the subsequent big wedding, then I definitely wasn’t ready for an accidental pregnancy.

  Birth control pills and condoms.

  Because safety first.

  God, I’d been a stubborn thing back then. Not that demanding we use protection was a bad thing, not by a long shot, but I’d . . . just seen the world in such simple terms. Black and white, no gray zones.

  I had enough years on me now to know that the world was nearly all gray.

  Things were rarely clear cut, rarely simple or easy or obvious.

  Of course, I was also still on the pill, still made my partners wear condoms, so even though I’d learned and grown as a person, some things never changed. Especially the important ones.

  Like Aaron.

  Gorgeous, steadfast Aaron.

  Blinking that thought away, I ignored the hallways off to the sides that would lead to the pediatric and OB-GYN departments and approached the information desk smack dab in the middle of the rotunda.

  “I’m here to see my father,” I told the older woman in pale purple scrubs. “Warren Allen. He had hip surgery earlier today.”

  “Can I see some identification?”

  I pulled out my license, handed it over to be scrutinized for a few moments before she typed a few things into the computer in front of her. “Fourth floor,” she said, looking up and passing my ID back. “A Wing. Room 492. Just take the elevators there,” she added, pointing behind her.

  “Thank you.”

  A few moments later, I was on the metal death trap—okay, so I wasn’t a big fan of small, enclosed spaces, but I liked the idea of heading up four flights of stairs on tired ass legs even less. Anyway, it was faster to just take the elevator, and I wasn’t so terrified of them that I couldn’t ride.

  Before I could really freak out about the fact that I was hanging over a pit by just one cable—yes, I knew all about emergency brakes and backup cables, but logic didn’t always reign with fear, did it?—anyway, before I got really panicked the steel doors opened and I stepped off, following the signs to the A Wing. I checked in at the nurse’s station then followed several more signs until I got to room 492.

  A quick knock before I poked my head inside.

  One bed, some monitors, a dimmed set of overhead lights and . . . my dad.

  My heart seized.

  It had been just under six months since I’d visited for his birthday weekend, bringing with me a screener for Artie’s latest film.

  I’d been listed as a producer.

  Assistant. Publicist. Now producer.

  A side gig, because I definitely preferred the PR side, but it was still fun to experiment and have my voice heard, especially on a cool project shot by women, made for women, and written by women.

  And one that had been the biggest box office success of the year.

  Fucking big time.

  Big enough that my dad’s smile had been huge, larger than I’d ever seen.

  Proud. His flighty daughter who never made a decision he approved of had her name in the credits of a huge Hollywood film. So, while he might not understand what I did with branding and creating a public image, how I finessed a social media presence, he did understand end credits and a white name blazed across a black background.

  For once, I’d made him proud.

  Now he was in the hospital, eyes closed, mouth slightly parted in sleep, body looking way too small and frail in the bed, and for the first time in my adult life, I was critically aware that my father was getting older.

  I made my way across the room on quiet feet and slid into the chair next to the bed, reaching over the rail and wrapping my hand around his.

  He stirred, lids starting to slide open.

  “Shh,” I told him. “Sleep. It’s okay.”

  My words had the opposite effect. His eyes flew open. “Mags?”

  I smiled, squeezed his hand lightly. “Yeah, Dad. It’s me.”

  Sleep disappeared as a frown pulled down his brows. “Why?”

  “What?”

  “Why are you here?” Disappointment laced his question and pain sliced through me, hot and sharp, so fucking reminiscent of my childhood that I actually felt my lungs freeze. Damn. I loved my dad so much. He was my family. My only tie to my mother, to my past, to my history.

  But he could cut me to the quick more efficiently than any other person on the planet.

  I inhaled, kept the hurt out of my response. “Because you’re in the hospital.”

  It was instinctive, to hide that pain. I’d done it so often over the years that it was easy. Unremarkable.

  He wasn’t an easy man to love. He’d influenced my black-and-white version of the world very heavily. His opinions were weighted with the experience of his past—a woman who’d gone and died on him (his words) and a daughter who was headstrong to the extreme (also his words).

  For a long time I’d thought that part of me—the piece that infuriated and perplexed him in equal measures—came from my mother.

  Now, I knew that though that might be true in some ways, it wasn’t true in any way that mattered. My stubbornness and persistence came from him. My work ethic came from him. My tunnel vision and ability to only truly acknowledge what I gleaned as the right course of action came from him.

  Thankfully, I’d grown out of the final two for the most part.

  But as was typical of people of my age, I considered myself a work in progress. Past the blush of arrogance and know-it-all-ness of my early twenties, though not yet slipping into the rigor and opinions in stasis that sometimes came later in life.

  I was very aware of my faults.

  Some I wore like badges of honor.

  Others I attempted to change . . . with varying degrees of success.

  And sometimes they weren’t able to be changed at all. Like staring at my father’s face, seeing him displeased—again—and feeling like a naughty child again.

  “I’m fine,” he muttered, turning his head to the side, eyes slamming shut, tugging his fingers from mine.

  “What happened?” I asked caref
ully, tucking my hands into my lap. “The management company got their payment this month, everything on the outside of the house should be taken care of, even snow.”

  Silence.

  “Dad,” I tried again. “I know I’m not close, but I’ve been trying to make sure you’re cared for. You shouldn’t be shoveling with your heart—”

  “My goddamned heart is fine,” he snapped, still not looking at me. “Just go.”

  “What?”

  “Go. G. O. Leave me in peace.”

  “I took time off work to come to see you,” I said, still careful, but this time it was careful to not let the hurt bleed into my tone. “I was worried when I found out you’d fallen.”

  “And I’ll be having words with Aaron for that,” my dad snapped. “It’s none of your business—”

  “You’re my dad. How is it not my business?”

  Mulish.

  His expression had gone mulish. His jaw tight. His lips pressed flat. I knew there was no point in pressing this, knew I’d get nowhere except for an aching head and a throbbing heart.

  But I’d gotten my stubborn from him.

  So, I pushed.

  “How is it not my business?” I asked again.

  A tense pause. Then, “You made it that way.”

  Breath slicing out, stinging my throat on its exit. Or maybe that was the burn of tears I fought to hold back. “I’ve been home for your birthday. For Christmas. I was here to see you through the recovery of four heart attacks.” To the detriment of my career at that point, as I’d had to quit my assistant duties at the time. Although I’d gotten back on track, I’d always made my dad a priority, even when he hadn’t done the same for me. “It’s why I pay thousands of dollars a month for the company to take care of the ranch, to shovel snow, and stock your fridge and freezer so you can concentrate on the stuff you love.”

  It was why I hadn’t been able to afford a house yet, why I still rented out a guest house on Artie and Pierce’s L.A. property, even though my salaries from them and Talbot and Eden were very generous.

  The rent paid was at my insistence and against Artie and Pierce’s wishes, since they’d offered the space for free.

  But I’d always made my own way, and that wasn’t going to stop now.