Famously Mine: A Contemporary Romance Box Set

by Roxy Reid

  But tonight it doesn’t work. Tonight I’m restless.

  Something’s wrong.

  I toss my hamburger wrapper in the trash, and drive home.

  It’s not until I’m walking into my apartment that I realize what the problem is: the place I go to feel okay isn’t a place anymore. It’s a person.

  For a moment I just stand there, my key in the lock, about to let myself into an empty apartment that doesn’t feel like home. The blankness of the space used to feel like possibility. Now it feels like a hole.

  I hesitate. I could go to Wade right now. Just seeing him would make me feel better.

  No. I shove my door open. I don’t want to be that girl, needing something that’s not good for her, just to feel ok. I don’t want to be that girl ever again.

  W.S.G. is OBSESSED with this Home Sweet Home deal. I swear he’d do anything to make it work. Work for Wade, they said. He’s a relatively-sane-billionaire-tech-genius they said.

  O.M.G. this FUCKING HOSPITAL GALA. Why is WSG making us go to it? He never used to make us go to stuff like this in California. Why does he care so much what people think of him in this town? THE WINGS OF THEIR HOSPITAL ARE NAMED AFTER CIGARETTE COMPANIES, WADE. WHAT KIND OF SOUTHERN HELL HAVE YOU MOVED US TO?

  HALLELUJAH PRAISE JESUS. W.S.G. went on his ONE SINGLE VACATION A YEAR with Duke what’s his face. Thank God for Duke, or I’d never get a break. I swear it’s like Duke’s his only real friend this side of the Rockies.

  I close the Rants About Wade document and turn back to the rest of the work on my desk. I was hoping for something funny, that might break me out of this funk I’ve been in since last night, but every rant I come across is just a reminder of all the reasons Wade and I are doomed. How much he’s staked on the Home Sweet Home deal, with its fucking morality clause. How much he cares about his reputation in the community. How the only thing he values more than those two things might be his friendship with Duke.

  I stare glumly at the computer screen without seeing it. What am I doing falling harder and harder for a man who’s put strict boundaries around what we can be from the very beginning? I let myself get my hopes up with Beverly’s Marigold thing, and Duke’s He’s-in-Love thing.

  But Wade’s had plenty of opportunities to talk about the future. So have I. And neither of us has said anything. I think that says everything I need to know right there.

  A frantic assistant from Home Sweet Home calls, asking for a copy of a contract they can’t find, and when I send her a copy from our files, she nearly weeps for joy.

  At least I’m making someone happy today.

  An hour later Wade calls me into his office. He’s furious.

  He slams the door and wheels to face me. “What the hell, Stella?”

  I blink.

  “I know you’re mad at me for something, but why would you take it out on my work? This company is everything I am, and you threw it under the bus because you’re in a mood?”

  “What are you talking about?” I ask.

  “You sent Home Sweet Home an early contract draft. One they never saw. Because our bid was too high, and it would require tech that doesn’t exist yet. And to top it all off, someone wrote snotty comments about Home Sweet Home when they were editing it. So now I’ve got a very angry CEO who feels insulted and cheated demanding I make it up to him by adding technology that doesn’t exist to our existing deal.”

  I blanch. “I’m so sorry Wade. It was the most recently updated version in that file, I thought—”

  “This whole time I’ve been worried about all the ways I could ruin your professional life if something went wrong with us. If you felt uncomfortable in the office, or if you ever needed a reference, or if rumors got out and hurt your reputation when you’re starting over in a new city. I never, ever thought I had to worry about what you could do to me.”

  “I didn’t do anything to you!” I bury my hands in my hair to keep from screaming. “It was an accident! Their administrative assistant called me in tears, and I was trying to fix it—”

  “And you didn’t check the document before sending it over? Why would you do something so stupid!”

  I feel like I’ve been slapped.

  Immediately he realizes he’s gone too far.

  “I’m sorry, Stella I … Maybe this my fault. You’ve never had a job like this before, and I gave you too much responsibility.”

  I can’t believe what I’m hearing. This man who always assumed I was competent is now acting like it’s his fault for believing in me.

  “Wade … it was one mistake. I was distracted.”

  “You can’t be distracted, Stella. Not in a company like this.” He closes his eyes and laughs at himself, but there’s something vicious about it. “I’d send you to H.R. for more training on company procedure, if I wasn’t worried you’d let it slip we’re screwing.”

  Something snaps inside me. And suddenly the decision that was so hard yesterday is as easy as breaking a window in a house set to be demolished anyway.

  “I’m leaving. We’re done here.” I grab the doorknob.

  “You’re done when I say you’re done.”

  I whirl back to face him. “No, let me clarify. I quit. And I’m dumping you.”

  He looks like he’s been punched in the gut. “Because of one fight?”

  “No, because you flinched yesterday. Every time you thought Duke might find out. I respect your friendship, but I’m done being your secret. Especially when you are so fucked up about it you assume I’d sabotage you.” I straighten. “And I’m done using you as my crutch. Because frankly, you’re not that good at it.”

  I yank the door open. “I can believe in myself way better than you can, Wade St. George.”

  I grab my stuff and storm out without looking back, leaving nothing on my desk but a wilting marigold.

  12

  Wade

  Because you flinched. The week is drab and airless without Stella, and I think of calling her every morning when I see her empty desk. When I finish the last romcom on our list. When I show up late for a meeting for the first time since Stella started.

  I think of calling her every second I’m at home, because the place is filled with her. Her choice in furniture, her favorite coffee mug, the takeout menus organized by some metric that only made sense to her. It used to be an empty house I lived in. Now it’s a home. Because of Stella.

  I think of calling her, because I want her back so bad I ache with it, but every time I think of calling her I think of why she left.

  Because you flinched.

  And the thing is, nothing has changed. It’s still an affair I started with a woman when she was my assistant. It’s still a secret I’m keeping from Duke.

  She had a deal breaker, and it broke us. I tell myself it’s not a big deal, she didn’t want me, it happens.

  Late one night I crack and text her. Stella, can we please talk?

  I wake up in the morning with a pale echo of hope, and for a second I can’t remember why, and then I remember: I texted Stella.

  But she doesn’t text me back

  Because I flinched.

  For a moment I just stare at the ceiling, hating myself, hating the world.

  I don’t want to get out of bed. But I do. Because that’s what you do when there’s a company full of people counting on you.

  13

  Stella

  One of the lightbulbs burns out in my bathroom, and when I can’t reach to change it, I think of Wade rescuing me in the hardware aisle at the grocery store and start sobbing like a baby. The thing with losing your job and your—well, whatever Wade and I were—at the same time is that there’s no normal to cut the obsessive spirals your brain goes in. What I miss about him, what I should have done differently, what would happen if I went back to him and said it’s fine, I’ll be your secret, I’ll be anything you want, just hold me.

  Stella, can we please talk? That text is burning a hole in my heart, and I feel like everything inside
me is going to pour out at any minute.

  Maybe that’s why I’ve been crying so much.

  Or maybe it’s just that I’m about to start my period.

  I snort through my tears, laughing at myself. Of course it’s hormones. My period should start … Well, should have started …

  I stare at my reflection in horror. My period should have started two weeks ago.

  Oh God. Oh God.

  I grab the counter for balance.

  I make myself breathe. No sense panicking yet. I’ve skipped periods before, when it was a tight month and I wasn’t eating or sleeping enough.

  But I’ve definitely been eating enough. Wade’s got me hooked on deliciously seasoned vegetables and protein that isn’t peanut butter or hot dogs.

  Still, there could be an explanation. No sense panicking until …

  Well, until.

  I grab my purse and head to the store.

  First of all, pregnancy tests are ten bucks. I don’t know why I thought decades-old technology that involves awkwardly peeing on a stick during the worst moment of your life should be cheaper than that, but I did.

  I set the test on my bathroom counter, and wash my hands. Then I pace as I wait for the results.

  It’s the longest three minutes of my life.

  And then the little line appears.

  I’m pregnant.

  I sit down on the floor, fighting a roaring in my ears.

  I’m pregnant.

  With Wade St. George’s kid.

  No. This kid is mine. The thought is intense, visceral, and takes me by surprise. I’ve always wanted kids, but this isn’t a kid yet. It’s barely a fetus.

  There’s a midwife in my alcoholics anonymous group. She says in some ancient cultures, the woman wasn’t “with child” until she felt the baby kick. I remembered because I liked the idea. That from the start, what makes us human is the urge to kick. To fight back. To move.

  I don’t feel like kicking right now. I feel like curling up in a ball.

  I wrap my arms around my knees and rock, thinking this is when the crying starts again, but I’m all cried out.

  It’s probably shock, but I feel surprisingly clear headed. There are four options in front of me:

  1. Tell Wade, and see if we can make it work together now that there’s a kid on the line.

  We both want kids. We were both hovering on the edge of loving each other. Maybe this would … I shake my head, and reject the idea. If it doesn’t work, I can’t bear to have him breaking up with me in the delivery room. And if it does work, I don’t want to spend my whole life loving someone who only loves me because of my kid.

  2. Tell Wade, and do the co-parenting thing as exes.

  That’s the thing people do, right? Wade would probably be a great dad, once he remembered to come home from the office and the kid got old enough to eat takeout. But my arms tighten around my stomach. Because what happens if things go sour? What happens if we get in a fight, but instead of accusing me of sabotaging the company, he decides he wants sole custody? Normally courts pick the mom, because sexism, but in my case… Wade’s a billionaire, a respected pillar of the community, and just a good man. I’m a recovering alcoholic who hasn’t managed to keep a job with health insurance for more than a month. If this drum teacher thing doesn’t work out … I don’t want them to take my child.

  3. Don’t keep it.

  Abortion’s an option, and I have friends who have had abortions, and they know it was absolutely the right thing for them. Same for adoption. But I think the fact that I’m already thinking of it as my child nixes that option.

  Which leaves my last option:

  4. Keep the kid. Don’t tell Wade.

  At least not at first. Wait until I’ve held the drum teacher job for a year, or two. Wait until I’ve lived in one city for a whole calendar year, for the first time in years. Wait until I’ve got external things I can point to in court that say I am a fit mother.

  Instead of just this burning fire in my gut that says I can do this. I want this.

  Yeah, I wanted kids and a husband. But I’m in my thirties, and I know my mom had trouble conceiving. And I know my parents don’t have what you’d call a happy marriage. So maybe the married part is overrated.

  At the very least, there’s no guarantee it will happen for me. I can’t imagine wanting any man who isn’t Wade. And I know that will pass, but still.

  I place a hand on my stomach. Some people don’t get to have a partner. And that loss seems overwhelming when I swim in it too long, because I want a partner. I want Wade.

  The tears threaten to rise again, but I put my forehead on my knees, and breathe.

  I might not get a partner, but I still get a family. I get Duke. I get this kid. And maybe, eventually, when I’m successful enough, and not in love with him, Wade.

  My kid’s dad is Wade St. George.

  My kid’s dad is a billionaire, and my kid doesn’t have health insurance until September, because I committed the sin of having a heart that breaks. I start laughing hysterically. God, this country is fucked up.

  I laugh, and laugh, until something clears in my chest, and I can breathe again.

  I grip the counter, and pull myself up. I look at myself in the mirror. “You can do this.”

  I look down at my stomach. Well, I said I wanted to start a new life. “We can do this,” I say to the dream of a person growing inside me.

  “There are free clinics to hold us over until September,” I tell that little dream. “Not many, because this is North Carolina, and funding and politics are a bitch. But I’ll get you prenatal care. Scans, vitamins, those little black and white pictures. The works. And then after that …” Their life stretches out before me, birthdays and school supplies and Christmases and college graduation. It’s terrifying and terrifyingly thrilling and my heart aches with everything before me. Before us.

  I take a deep breath. Roll back my shoulders. “After that, I’ll get you everything else.”

  I look up at the burned out lightbulb, pick up my phone, and dial my super’s phone number. Because I’m done being rescued. I’m done being ignored.

  And I’m not afraid to play the angry pregnant woman card.

  “I’m going to get you everything in the world,” I say. “Starting with a damn lightbulb.”

  14

  Wade

  After weeks of scrambling to undo the mess Stella made when she emailed Home Sweet Home the wrong contract, I’ve finally got it under control. Which means I get to move on to fixing the mess I made: offending Clara Covington.

  Clara’s office is filled with movie posters of smug, smiling couples who have achieved eternal fictional bliss. I hold back the urge to give them the finger.

  “Please sit,” Clara urges, indicating a round table at the center of her cozy office. Clara is a quick moving Asian woman with stylishly cut curly hair and cat-eye glasses. There’s a host of family photos spread around the office, interspersed with scripts and binders and a giant shelf of VHS tapes. She’s been deciding what movies get made at Home Sweet Home Entertainment for longer than I’ve been alive.

  We settle at the table, which is definitely too small for me.

  Clara looks faintly amused as she slides some papers covered with graphs and statistics toward me. “Here. I put this in your language. Since you have trouble telling ‘those movies’ apart.”

  I clear my throat. “About that.”

  She raises an eyebrow, and waits, expectantly.

  I know this whole meeting is for me to apologize. Theoretically she’s explaining her process for choosing what movies they’ll stream, but that could be an email. Stella put this together so I could repair the relationship.

  I feel this dull press in my chest every time I think of Stella. I try not to think about it. She cut ties with the ruthless efficiency of someone who’s spent last ten years traveling light. Every time I think of the long stretch of life ahead of me, empty of Stella, I feel like someone�
�s kicked me with steel toed boots.

  Focus. You’re at a business meeting.

  I look at Clara, who’s waiting patiently. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that the other day. What I meant to say was, I’m out of my depth, and I appreciate any guidance you have to offer. I have nothing but respect for your years and years of experience.”

  “That’s what I like,” Clara says dryly. “A man who makes me feel youthful.”

  Shit. I did it again.

  I bury my head in my hands and fight back a groan. Am I going to have to watch twenty movies about older people now?

  “Hey. That was a joke,” Clara says. “Are you okay?”

  Of course it was a joke. Jesus, I’m falling apart.

  I straighten. “My apologies. It’s been a long week. Well, a long couple of weeks.”

  Her eyes sharpen, like she spots a story, so I clear my throat quickly. “You were saying something about speaking my language?”

  “Of course. I’ve broken down our ratings, based on actors, tropes, location, holiday tie-in, etc. You can see what some of our biggest draws have been, historically speaking. I’ve built a proposal based on this, but we should be prepared for the fact that your streaming audience may be different than our television audience, in which case we may want to lead with our titles with more crossover appeal.”

  Clara takes me through chart by chart, going over movie plot trends over the years. (I even get a smile of approval when I slip in some of my newly acquired romcom knowledge.) When she gets to the chart about billionaires in secret relationships, I feel my ears turn red. Stella will get a kick out of it when I tell her, and then I remember: I don’t get to tell Stella anything anymore.