by Ember Casey
Edie shows me into a room and flicks on the light.
“Does this work for you?” she asks. The room is bright and airy, and the large window has a nice view of the lawn. Right now, it’s letting in the final, dark red rays of the sunset.
“Your home is very beautiful,” I tell her, placing my bag carefully on the bed.
“I don’t really think of this place as home,” she says, running her hand down the doorframe. “Rafe and I spend most of our time in the little town where I’m from in Montana. But Rafe still does some work here in L.A., and it’s nice to have a place here for when we come to see family.”
“Well, either way, thanks for letting me stay here. I’m sorry if I’ve inconvenienced you.”
She smiles at me. She really has a friendly face, and with her long, golden hair, she’d look right at home wearing a floral wreath on her head and dressing like some sort of earth goddess.
“I know how unfriendly this city can be,” she says. “And I know how difficult the men in this family can be. They’re good men, though. Every one of them. But sometimes they have a gift for getting in their own way.”
I look down at my hands. She’s a lot more optimistic about this thing with Orlando than I am.
“Whatever is going on between the two of you, you’ll work it out,” she says.
“You met me less than an hour ago,” I point out. “How can you know that?”
“Someone once told me that if you spend enough time around people in this town that you learn to spot the honest ones. And you look like an honest one to me.”
Somewhere else in the house, Melody begins to cry. Edie glances over her shoulder but stays where she is.
“You can go take care of her if you need to,” I say.
But she turns back to me with a smile. “She’s just fussy because she doesn’t want to go to bed. Rafe can handle it.” After a brief pause, she steps further into the room and takes a seat on the edge of the bed, motioning for me to sit beside her.
I’m not about to refuse the woman who’s shown me so much kindness.
“You know, when I first told Rafe I was pregnant, he didn’t exactly take it well,” she says. “In fact, he took it very, very badly. He thought I was lying to him. And I don’t blame him—we’d only met once before.”
I listen to her story with interest—while I remember the tabloids mentioning Rafe and Edie’s pregnancy and subsequent marriage, there were a lot of details left out. Apparently this family knows how to protect some of their secrets.
“My point is, he saw what was important in the end,” she goes on. “And he’s a better father than I ever could have imagined. He truly is a very good man. I don’t know if you’ve had a chance to meet Charles and Giovanna, but they’ve raised all of their sons to be men of character. It just takes some of them a little time to find their way.”
“I’m not sure if this is simply a case of Orlando needing to find his way.” I don’t dare give myself that hope.
“Fontaine men are some of the stubbornest men you’ll ever meet,” Edie says, placing her hand on mine. “But those strong wills make them some of the most loyal, too. Stay here for as long as you need. Maybe after you’ve slept on things for a couple of nights you’ll see the situation differently.” With another friendly smile, she rises and leaves me to unpack my things.
I mull over what she said. Is it possible Orlando will come around, the way Rafe did? God, it hurts to even consider the possibility—every bit of hope I feel just makes reality that much more painful.
I slip into my pajamas—which I’ve hardly worn since arriving here in L.A., given the fact that I’ve spent most nights naked in Orlando’s arms—and settle down on the bed with my journal. It’s still relatively early—just past nine o’clock, according to my phone—but I’m so emotionally drained that I might just go to bed.
Slowly, I let my pen move across the page. For once, I don’t really pay attention to what I’m doodling. I just let the line of ink lead me where it wants to go. As it squiggles across the page, I replay everything that happened in the restaurant. Everything Orlando said to me.
He said I have a brightness about me. That I’m the happiest part of his day. Maybe he can’t utter the word “love,” but a man who says things like that can’t be completely devoid of emotion. My insides still go all soft when I remember the look in his eyes when he told me how much he needs me.
Am I just being the biggest idiot in the history of idiots?
My phone rings. Orlando’s name pops up on the screen, and a flurry of feelings bubbles up inside me. I reach for my cell, wanting to answer, but something stops me.
Maybe, just maybe, you prove to yourself that you can survive without him. Even if it’s just for one night.
This might be my stupidest rationalization for anything, but I’m so desperate for an excuse to stay with Orlando that I’m willing to give it a try. To believe it.
My thinking goes like this: if I am strong enough to walk away from Orlando—to refuse his calls, make plans to return home, and all that—then I’ve demonstrated to myself that I don’t need him to make it through the day. I never set out to be that girl who became so obsessed with a celebrity—though it’s weird too think of Orlando as simply a “celebrity” anymore—that she couldn’t function on her own. I want to establish that my life won’t immediately implode when it doesn’t revolve around him, that I won’t actually curl up and die because he doesn’t love me in return. If I can choose to shut that door and still survive, then I’ll know I’m strong enough to go back to him.
Because I really, really want to go back to him.
I flip my phone over so I don’t have to look at his name on the screen. A moment later, the ringing ends. I let out a breath of relief.
See? I tell myself. That wasn’t so hard.
I grip my pen and begin doodling again, trying not to listen for the tone indicating that Orlando has left a message.
A moment later, my phone pings.
No, I tell myself, gripping the pen even harder. Don’t listen to it. Just keep distracting yourself.
My doodles have taken on a decidedly dark turn. What started as swirly floral shapes have devolved into jagged lines that look like lightning bolts. After I’ve filled almost every corner of the page, I flip to the next one and start a new drawing.
This time I draw the room where I’m sitting. Then quick sketches of Rafe, Edie, and little Melody, but those aren’t very good. Maybe I’ll do better once I’ve spent more time with them.
How much time am I expecting to spend with them? How long do I plan to stay here? But the real question is much more painful: How long will it take me to give up on the idea of Orlando? Or to give in and return to him?
I bear down with my pen, trying to force myself to think about sketching. This might very well turn into the longest night of my life.
My thoughts continue on in a similar cycle. A while later—almost eleven, according to my cell—Melody begins crying. She starts with faint little mewls that quickly crescendo into full-blown wails. She seemed so good-natured and cheerful before, but the youngest Fontaine is apparently quite the screamer.
A few minutes later, I hear footsteps in the hall. Melody’s wails grow louder momentarily, then slowly retreat as she’s carried downstairs.
I don’t know anything about babies, but something inspires me to follow. Putting aside my notebook and pen, I quietly slip out of my room and down the stairs.
I follow the wails to the kitchen, where I find Rafe pacing back and forth rocking Melody gently in his arms. He glances up when I enter.
“Sorry,” he says. “Did she wake you up?”
I shake my head. “I hadn’t gone to sleep yet. I just came down for some water.”
Rafe nods toward the cabinet to the left of the sink, and I grab a glass to fill so I won’t be a complete liar. As I hold the glass under the faucet, I peek back at Rafe and the baby.
He continues to pace, half bo
uncing and half rocking Melody in a clearly practiced motion. She quiets little by little, until her screams have devolved into soft whimpers. Eventually, he notices me watching him.
“She’ll usually go back to sleep if you walk around with her for a while,” he tells me. “We’ve learned through trial and error that if you bring her all the way down here, you can’t hear her from our bedroom. It was my turn to take her.”
He says it with all the exhaustion and love of a new father. And when he looks down at his little girl—who’s so tiny in his muscled arms—his eyes glow with adoration. For a brief second, something in his smile reminds me of Orlando.
I can’t help it—I immediately find myself imagining Orlando in a similar situation, looking down at his child with complete devotion. He’d make such a good father. He’s principled, yes, and at times a little strict, but he also has a playful side. And Edie was right—he’s a man of character, just like his brothers.
Stop it, Maggie, I think. Why are you torturing yourself like this? He doesn’t love you! The last thing you should be doing is thinking about his babies!
“Are you okay?” Rafe asks, his voice barely above a whisper. Melody’s still whimpering, but her eyelids have started to droop.
“I’m fine,” I tell him, keeping my voice just as quiet as his. “I’m about to go back upstairs.”
“You know,” he says, just as I’ve started to turn around, “I was wondering how my brother was getting along so well.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
He gives a little shrug, his eyes still on his daughter. “Orlando’s always been hard on himself. When he’s working on one of his movies, he gets so focused and up in his head that he can turn into a real dick. Don’t get me wrong—he’s a great guy most of the time. But I’ve always tried to avoid him when he’s got one of his films going. It’s just a hell of a lot easier. This time around, though, things have been a little different.” He finally glances my way. “At first I thought he was just on his best behavior because of our father, but he usually gets worse under more stress. Not better. I knew something was going on. And when Luca told me he had some woman living with him, I thought that might be the answer.”
I don’t know what to tell him. “I couldn’t say if I’m the reason for that.”
“Look, I don’t know what happened between the two of you,” he goes on in that deep whisper, “but I’m pretty sure being with you has changed Orlando for the better. Whatever dickish thing that idiot did, just know that he’s a hell of a lot less dickish than he was before.”
“Thanks,” I say, smiling weakly. “I’ll remember that.”
“You should. Sometimes a guy has to do a few idiotic things before he realizes what he has to lose. I guarantee he shows up here in the next twenty-four hours. Or at least drunk dials you tonight.”
Guiltily, I remember that call that I chose to ignore. Suddenly I want nothing more than to speak to him again, to melt into his arms and beg him to forgive me for being so melodramatic.
I never should have left his house. I never should have walked away, even for a night.
“You okay?” Rafe asks me again.
“Yeah, I… I just think I need to go talk to Orlando,” I tell him. “Do you have the number for a cab company?”
“Don’t bother with a cab,” Rafe says. He walks over to a hook on the wall and grabs a set of keys. “You can take our sedan.”
“Really?”
“Do you have a driver’s license?” he asks.
I nod.
“Then I trust you.” He tosses the keys to me. “Go get ‘im, tiger.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Thankfully, the GPS system in Rafe and Edie’s sedan already has Orlando’s address programmed in. Before long, I’m cruising through the streets of L.A. toward his house.
I have no idea what I’m going to say to him when I see him. But I’ll figure it out when I get there. I just want to see him again.
My palms are sweaty on the steering wheel, but I tighten my grip and pretend not to notice. Not even my overactive sweat glands can distract me tonight.
When I pull into Orlando’s house, I hit a bit of a snag—I don’t know the code to his gate. Any grand plans I had to waltz into his house and surprise him with a big romantic gesture are effectively thwarted, but I’m not about to turn back now.
I lean out the window and press the button on the call box.
It takes a moment for him to respond.
“Hello?” he sounds confused. I guess it is closing in on midnight.
“Hey,” I say into the speaker. “It’s me.”
“Maggie.” His voice is much more alert now.
“I want to talk,” I tell him. “Can I come in?”
“Of course. Hold on a minute.” Oddly, he sounds almost frazzled.
Before I can give that more than a passing thought, though, there’s a buzzing sound and the gate slowly begins to rotate open.
I pull down the driveway. Strangely, Orlando’s car isn’t the only one sitting in the driveway. There’s also a cute little blue convertible.
I stare at the convertible as I step out of the car. That doesn’t look like something one of his brothers would drive, and anyway, it seems a little late for a family visit. But who else would be here? Especially at this hour?
Before I can draw any conclusions, Orlando comes down the front steps.
“Maggie,” he says, watching me as if he expects me to disappear the second he blinks his eyes.
“Whose car is this?” I ask him, pointing at the convertible.
“I didn’t think you’d come back,” he says. “Did you get my message?”
He tries to pull me into his arms, but I stop him. Why isn’t he answering me?
“Whose car is this?” I ask again.
His golden-brown eyes catch and hold mine. “Before you jump to any conclusions, let me explain—”
As if on cue, a sickly sweet voice calls from the front door. “Orlandooo, are you ready for that wine?”
I glance past his shoulders and right at the bouncy little figure of Nadia Sweet.
“Oh,” she says, flipping her hair over her shoulder. “Are you joining us?”
I turn back to Orlando. “I don’t believe you.”
“It’s not what you think,” he says, cupping my cheeks. “If you’d just—”
“Don’t touch me,” I say, jerking away from him. “There’s only one reason you invite your fuck buddy over this late. And it’s not for poker night.” I back up, fumbling for my keys. “I guess you don’t need me all that bad after all. Not when you have a replacement all lined up. One distraction or another, we’re all the same to you.”
“You know that’s not true, Maggie.” He follows me back toward his brother’s sedan. “Just let me explain.”
“No,” I say firmly. “I should have trusted my gut the first time. I will never mean as much to you as you mean to me.” I yank open the car door. “Goodbye, Orlando.”
“Maggie, wait.”
I don’t let him say any more. I slam the door in his face and slip the key into the ignition.
“Maggie.” Orlando pounds his fist firmly against the window, but I ignore him. I shift the car into reverse and pull back down the driveway. Nadia is still standing in the doorway.
Orlando follows me all the way to the end of the driveway, but I have the advantage. When I reach the road, I slam my foot down on the accelerator, speeding away from him. I don’t even glance in the rearview mirror.
Nadia Sweet. I’m gone for a matter of hours and he calls up Nadia Sweet again.
My hands threaten to slip on the steering wheel, but I squeeze harder and just pray that I don’t crash. Tears are filling my eyes again, blurring my vision, but I try to blink them away.
I should have known. He made it clear where I stood with him, but I deluded myself into thinking I could handle it. I’m a moron. A stupid, naïve, irresponsible moron.
I convinced myself
once, what feels like ages ago, that saying “Yes!” to new things in my life would make me happier, even if they represented a risk. It’s led me to do so many things in the past month that I never would have considered before, and even though I don’t regret any of the chances I’ve taken, I refuse to say “Yes!” to this pain.
I had my little adventure, I think. I had my hot, crazy fling with Orlando. But now it’s time to go back home. Back to the safe, boring life I was always destined to lead.
As long as it’s far away from here.
* * *
As much as I want to, I don’t attempt to make the cross-country drive back to Atlanta immediately. After the kindness Rafe and Edie have shown me, I probably shouldn’t steal their car. Instead I return to their house, sneak quietly upstairs, and cry myself to sleep in the guest bedroom, making sure to stifle my sobs in the pillow.
I wake sometime later to the sound of Melody crying again.
Birds are chirping outside, suggesting it’s probably already morning. Head throbbing, I roll over and glance at the time. It’s nearly seven-thirty. Quiet footsteps move in the hallway outside, and a few minutes later, Melody’s screams begin to subside.
I drag myself out of bed and quickly dress. I don’t want to stay here any longer than necessary. Packing up my few things doesn’t take very long, either.
When I finally head downstairs, I find Rafe, Edie, and little Melody already dressed and in the kitchen.
“Good morning,” Edie says cheerfully. “We were about to head over to the hospital to see Charles, but we thought we’d let you sleep in. Now that you’re up, though, would you like some coffee?”
Considering how much my head hurts, I can’t refuse a cup. As Edie pours some for me, Rafe glances over.