Instead, I smile and let her pass me by. But I’m tired of smiling and pretending everything is okay. Why do people do that, anyway? It’s not like it’s a secret that life is hard, that it isn’t fair. They say you should be kind to strangers because you don’t know what they’re going through. So why don’t we tell each other what we’re going through?
The next time someone asks how I’m doing, I’m going to be honest. I’m going to tell them that I’m sad and I’m scared and I’m trying to be brave, but it’s hard when you don’t recognize your own life anymore.
I know what Tommy would say. He would tell me that all I have to do is be there. To stay. You’d think I would have learned the lesson by now, but things got tough and off I went again.
The first time Tommy called me out on my habit of running away when things got too hard, he said I should stay and face the music. He told me that some things are worth fighting for.
Of course he was right. He still is.
If there’s one thing I know, it’s that Tommy is worth fighting for. So is CeCe. I kick the sand, mad at myself for doing the same damn thing again. I need to find a way to let him know that I’m not going anywhere; even when it gets harder than it is now, I’m going to stay.
There’s got to be something I can do. I twirl the Art Deco ring on my finger, wishing an idea would come to me the way it did when I was at work, trying to solve a stupid marketing problem that in the end didn’t really matter.
What really matters is waiting for me at home; Tommy and CeCe matter more than anything. I glance down at the ring, and suddenly, I know what I have to do. But I can’t do it alone.
JILL’S CAR IS in her driveway, so I let myself in the gate and walk up to the front door. Normally I’d just walk inside, but normally she knows I’m coming.
I knock and Jill opens the door with a dishrag thrown over her shoulder and splatters of something sugary and sweet on her apron.
“Hey,” I say, trying to contain my excitement. But instead of moving aside to let me in, Jill steps outside and closes the door behind her. She puts her hands on her hips and leans against the doorframe. There’s an expression on her face I’ve never seen before. “What’s wrong?”
“Beau told me what happened,” she says in the stern-mom voice I’ve been unsuccessfully trying to replicate for the last fourteen years.
“Oh, that.”
Jill laughs in a way that makes it clear that she finds it to be anything but funny.
“What would you have done if you’d caught them making out?” I ask in my defense. This is not going the way I thought it would.
“I’d be okay with it—they’re teenagers, and they’re our kids.”
“Boys are different than girls.” I hate that I can’t explain how terrifying it felt, seeing my little girl in the arms of her son. Maybe it wouldn’t have been quite as bad if he didn’t look so much like his father.
“I’ve got one of each,” Jill reminds me. Poor Abigail is awfully forgettable.
“Abigail is different, you don’t have to worry about her. CeCe—she’s . . . I don’t even know what she is. And Beau is his father’s son.”
I’m waiting for Jill to tell me she understands. She was married to the man, surely she can see all the ways her son is just like him—but she’s still standing there, glaring at me with an icy expression I’ve never been on the receiving end of before. “He’s also his mother’s son.”
“You’re really mad about this?”
“I’m madder than mad!” She spits the words out and crosses her arms over her chest to make the point. Her eyes turn cold and her lips stretch into a disappointed line. It’s like her whole face shuts down.
I’m speechless, which I’ve never been with Jill. Not ever.
“You insulted my son—twice now,” she says. “He’s upstairs hurting, by the way.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You know, I don’t think you are.” We stand there for a second, and I’m not sure what else to say. “I think I heard the timer go off,” Jill says.
I didn’t hear anything, but I let her go.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Alexis
The next afternoon, I get my coffee from Starbucks at the Commons instead of The Broken Crown. The vanilla syrup in my iced latte isn’t as sweet as the pure vanilla Jill uses, and it didn’t come with a hug.
I find a seat at a table outside and try to get comfortable, but the air is thick with humidity and beads of sweat are already dripping down the sides of my glass. What I wouldn’t give to be sitting on the Crown’s porch enjoying the slow whirl of the fan overhead and the breeze drifting up from the ocean.
This is ridiculous.
She has to forgive me—she must know it wasn’t personal. At least, I didn’t mean it to be. The irony of it all is that she’s the one person I wish I could call and talk to about how upset and hurt I am.
I sigh and look at the people seated around me, reminders that I’m alone. A sweet elderly couple are bickering in the corner about who’s going to take the last bite of their pound cake. At the table next to them, two women around my age have their heads bent together, gossiping.
The last table is occupied with a woman older than me and her daughter, who looks at least six years younger than CeCe. I notice the mother doesn’t have a wedding ring on her finger, and I wish I were brave enough to ask her for advice. In return, I would tell her not to blink because before she knows it, her daughter will be grown up. It will be too late.
I glance down at my phone, disappointed to see it’s only been about five minutes since I sat down. Dolly is at the house giving Tommy a sponge bath. She practically shooed me away, told me to stay gone for at least an hour. It would be good for me, she said.
As much as I was dreading having hospice nurses in the house, it really has been nice. I know Tommy is their patient, but they’ve made me feel better, too.
I look back down at my phone.
This has got to stop—if I’ve learned anything from this whole experience, it’s that life is too damn short to stay mad at the people we love. And Jill may not realize it right now, but she loves me.
I’m a little surprised to see her number still at the top of my “recently called” list. It’s only been a day, but it feels like weeks. I push her number and the phone rings.
Once. Twice. Three times.
I squint at the screen to see if I accidentally hit the wrong number. But it’s hers.
Four rings.
Five.
Six.
I hang up before her voicemail picks up, feeling more rejected than I have since Lionel Chavez took me to the eighth grade dance and spent the whole time dancing with another girl.
Even if Jill does calls back, I’m not sure I’d answer. It’s not like I’m desperate. I have other friends. I have Becky.
Becky.
I have to find her name in the contacts app, proof that it’s been too long since we’ve talked. She answers on the first ring. “Buttercup, how are you?”
“Not great,” I admit. She inhales a quick breath that echoes in my ear. “It’s not Tommy, he’s fine. Well, as fine as he can be.”
“Thank goodness,” she says. “Hold on a sec.” In the background, I hear the murmur of conversation. I didn’t think about the fact she’d be at work, holding down the fort since I left her to deal with everything alone. Just another in the long line of people I’m letting down these days.
“Sorry, I’m back. Tell me what’s going on?”
“My life is falling apart.”
“Oh, sweet pea,” she says. “I wish I could do something. What can I do?”
“Nothing.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“Not really.”
Becky sighs, and I can imagine what she’s thinking: Then why the hell did you call me?
“You’ll feel better if you do,” she suggests. Normally, she’d be right. But this isn’t like the things we usually talk abo
ut. I’m not stressed because of a client or feeling guilty for missing another important event in CeCe’s life. “Try me.”
“Tommy’s ex is everywhere I go—she looks even more beautiful in person, and CeCe found out about her, she knows everything. And Monica said she could get her a part in The Seasiders, but then backed out.”
“Whoa,” Becky says when I stop to take a breath.
“But that’s not the worst part. I came home the other day and found CeCe making out with Jill’s son, Beau.”
“Hot damn!” Becky laughs. “Way to go, Ceese.”
“Way to go?” I should have known better than to think Becky would understand. “She’s fourteen.”
“I was eleven when I had my first kiss—and didn’t she already smooch that Romeo?”
“You don’t get it.”
“Believe it or not, I do, lovey. Everything is changing with Tommy, and I’m sure you’re wishing at least one thing could stay the same, or at least be easy.”
My shoulders drop as some of the tension I’ve been carrying around dissipates. “When’d you get to be so smart?”
“I may not have raised a teenage girl, but some people—present company included—have said that I still act like one at times.”
“Touché.” I smile, realizing Becky should have been my first call from the start.
“Did Jill freak out, too?”
My smile fades. “Not exactly.”
“What did you do?” I can hear the hint of a laugh in Becky’s voice through the phone.
“What makes you think I did something?” One of the gossiping ladies shoots daggers in my direction before whispering something to her friend. I didn’t mean for my voice to get that loud, but we’re outside—not in a damn library. Still, I hush my voice. “I mean, I did, but why’d you think that?”
Becky laughs. “I miss you.”
“I miss you, too, but that’s beside the point.”
“I remember reading something once—if you have a boy, you only have to worry about one penis. If you have a girl, you have to worry about all the penises.”
“See? I’m right.”
“Yes and no,” Becky says. From her tone, I can tell she’s treading carefully. “It’s not just any boy, it’s Beau.”
“You’ve never met him,” I remind her. I’ve been trying to get Becky to come down with us for years, but she always has an excuse—usually some guy she just started dating. “You should see all the girls on his Instagram.”
“What if they’re his friends? In my dating experience—and you know, I’ve had a lot of it—some of the best guys have more girl friends than guy friends.”
“These aren’t the friend kind of girls. The bathing suits they wear barely cover anything.”
Becky laughs. “They’re teenage girls who live on the beach. And it probably says more about them than him.”
“If it were anyone else, I might see your point,” I tell her. “But he’s a player, just like his dad.”
“He’s a fifteen-year-old boy,” Becky says. “And he can’t be that bad if he’s got some Jill in him, too.”
“That’s pretty much what she said,” I tell Becky, remembering the cold, hard look on Jill’s face. “But—”
Becky cuts me off. “No buts, buttercup. CeCe’s her own person, and she’s going to make a lot of choices in her life. Some that you’re really not going to like. In the long run, this isn’t that big of a deal. Plus . . . never mind.”
“What? You can say it.” I take a sip of my watered-down latte and try to brace myself.
“It’s just that, I know you’re losing the love of your life, but she’s losing her dad.” My eyes well up and I nod, even though she can’t see me. “Life is hard enough when you’re an awkward teenager without all this going on. So let her have a little fun. I’m sure she can use the distraction.”
I nod again.
“You still there?”
“Yeah.” I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand and shift the phone to my other ear.
“Aren’t you going to ask me how I got so smart again?”
I laugh. “I really do miss you.”
“Duh,” Becky says. “Now go make things right with Jill.”
“Yes, boss.”
“I love you,” she says, which starts the waterworks again.
“I love you, too.”
I hang up feeling better than I have since I had my big idea yesterday. I didn’t even think to tell Becky about it. I’ll call her back and fill her in soon, provided I can pull it off alone since Jill clearly won’t be helping me.
She still hasn’t called me back, not that I can blame her. I’m the one who owes her the apology; I should be doing the calling. I tap her name to call again. My breath catches when I hear her voice.
“Hi,” she says.
“I am so—”
“It’s Jill, and I can’t get to the phone right now, so leave a message. Or better yet, send me a text.”
My face falls and I hang up without leaving a message. I won’t send her a text in case that feels too pushy or needy. Even though I really do need her.
I rest my head in my hands and focus on my breathing. It helps, but not as much as a conversation with Jill would.
I look up as the older couple walk by, holding hands on their way out. The woman stops by my table and reaches into her purse, handing me a Kleenex. She doesn’t say anything, just smiles and keeps walking.
After using the tissue to wipe my eyes, I make a quick stop in Sephora to fix my makeup so Tommy won’t be able to tell I’ve been crying.
He’s got enough on his plate without having to worry about me.
Chapter Forty
CeCe
A security guard stops me at the front gate where I’m supposed to be meeting Monica. The pale blue house is at least twice as big as ours, but it’s got the same beachy vibe all the houses in this neighborhood have. I wonder if anyone actually lives here when they aren’t filming.
“Badge,” the man says, unsmiling.
“I, I don’t have one,” I stutter. “I’m here to see—”
“She’s with me.”
Monica appears in the doorway of the house, leaning against the frame like she’s straight off the pages of a magazine spread. She was beautiful the last time I saw her, but now, with her hair and makeup done, she looks like a movie star. I blush as the security guy steps aside to let me in. He still doesn’t smile, but I’m smiling enough for both of us.
“I’m so glad you could make it,” Monica says. She gives me a hug and I notice she smells as pretty as she looks, like a field of fresh flowers sprinkled with lemon and sunshine.
“I’m so glad you invited me,” I tell her.
It couldn’t have been more perfect; the day she’s on set every week is the same day I’m off work from the café, like it was meant to be.
“So this is where the magic happens,” Monica says, holding her hand out like she’s setting the whole world at my feet. Which, if you think about it, she kind of is. “Cool, huh?”
“The coolest,” I say, even though it doesn’t look that different from the few commercial sets I’ve been on with my mom.
“Want to see the kitchen?” she asks. “It’s kind of like the hub of the house; we have a lot of scenes in there.”
I nod, more excited about how excited she is to show me everything than I am about seeing the set.
Heads turn as we walk down the hallway and I wonder if people are thinking, There go the Whistler girls. No one would ever say that about me and Mom. It never really bothered me that her last name was different from mine—but it is pretty cool to share a name with someone. It’s like you’re bonded together with them in a way that’s just yours.
“Here it is,” Monica says. We turn a corner into the open kitchen just as two men are carrying some camera gear out. I step back to get out of their way, but Monica pulls me back toward her. “The crew can go around us.”
I stay put like Monica
instructed, but smile an apology as the two men pass by. Every time Mom lets me tag along to a commercial set or photoshoot with her, she always makes sure to be extra nice to the crew since they’re the ones who are really working hard. But I guess it’s different when you’re a movie star.
“Here, give me your phone and I’ll take a picture. Stand over there, by the counter.” Monica points toward the kitchen island. “That’s the exact spot where I stand and talk to my TV kids about their days and give them all kinds of great life advice.”
“Right here?” I ask as I step into place.
She nods and holds my phone up. I can feel my cheeks turning red as she snaps a few pictures. Just past her, the real cameras are set up and for a minute, it feels like all my dreams are coming true.
“Would you mind?” Monica says, handing my phone to another guy on the crew. He shrugs and takes it, as if he could tell the star of the show no.
Monica walks behind me and puts her arm around my shoulder, her face just inches from my own. I turn and look at her, then she turns and looks at me, and I have this crazy thought that this could have been my life.
If Monica were my mom, I might already be a famous actress. She would have never held her child back from achieving her dream, especially since it was the same dream she’d had as a little girl. Monica would have let me audition for real parts, helping me succeed instead of trying to protect me from rejection that might not even happen anyway.
“We’re shooting in five, people,” a man with a British accent yells. I hear him before I see him, but the way people scatter at the sound of his voice tells me he’s someone important. Monica, however, doesn’t move.
“Richard, darling,” Monica says. “This is the young actress I was telling you about.”
I hold my hand out to shake, but he just stands there, looking me up and down. I put my hand back by my side and smile, grateful Monica is still there next to me.
“Casey, right?” Richard asks.
I’m willing to nod and claim my new name, but Monica corrects him. “Close, it’s CeCe.”
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