“But I’m not just any actress. This isn’t any project. Wyatt, even before things—” I break off.
His eyebrows lift.
“Before things got all messed up,” I hurry on. “We were friends.”
He stares at me impassively.
Emotional declarations come about as easy to me as climbing K2 in stilettos. There’s a reason I’m an actress instead of a novelist or an artist — it’s always been far simpler pretending to be someone else, borrowing their emotions rather than putting my own on display. If you’ve met my mother, it doesn’t take a shrink to figure out why. Cynthia’s words are never far from my mind.
Reckless, Katharine. Very reckless. You never listen to me.
How many times have I told you, always pick someone who loves you more than you love them? How many ways did I explain that caring more means you have less power?
Historically, whenever things get tough, I bolt. I let relationships die like grapes withering on a vine, rather than fight to make them work. I’ve done it with friends and boys and everyone who’s ever gotten close enough to matter. So I know it’s not a stretch to say that two months ago, I would’ve walked away without another word to Wyatt. I would’ve given up, moved on, and pretended not to feel the sting of loneliness radiating through me with each breath, like a punctured lung in my heartless chest.
Even now, in this moment, I am scared to fight. To make myself vulnerable. To let him see how much he matters.
But I’m even more terrified of the thought of walking away and never seeing Wyatt again except in passing at AXC events three, four, five years from now — our interactions reduced to a cool kiss on a cheek, casual conversation always within the safety of a group, the unfailing ache of regret eating me up inside as my eyes sweep the elegant woman by his side who wasn’t stupid enough to let him slip away.
I stare into his eyes, steel my shoulders like I’m preparing for battle, and force myself to say the words that are eating me up inside.
“Wyatt. I… Imissyou. I miss you so much.”
His hands flex slightly and I swear he rocks back on his heels, like my words pack a physical punch. I think, just maybe, I’m starting to get through to him. To thaw the ice between us.
“I miss things the way they used to be,” I say, taking a tiny step closer to him. “I know I messed it up. But you never even gave me a chance to explain—”
My words are cut off by the sharp honking of a car horn. We both jump, startled, and step back — we’d been leaning toward each other like two planets trapped in the same gravitational pull. A sleek, canary yellow convertible slides to a stop at the curb. A sunny blonde in her early thirties sits behind the wheel, beaming with far too many bleached white teeth for my taste. It’s clear she knows Wyatt from the way he turns and smiles at her.
Something like dread settles inside my stomach.
“Hey there, good looking!” The blonde winks playfully. “Did you call for an Uber?”
Laughing, Wyatt steps off the curb and approaches the passenger door. “Yes, but I specifically asked for a fat bald man. I’d like to speak to your superiors. Very displeased by this.”
“Shut up and get in.” She rolls her eyes skyward. When they return back to earth, they settle on me. “Oh! Hi! I didn’t even see you there.”
Maybe because your eyes were glued to Wyatt’s ass.
I force a smile. “Hello.”
Wyatt remembers his manners. Somewhat stiffly, he gestures from the woman in the car to me, where I’m hovering on the sidewalk like a discombobulated girl in gym class, waiting to be picked last for the volleyball teams.
“Caroline, this is Katharine Firestone — she’s the lead in theUnchartedmovie I told you about. Katharine, this is Caroline Foster.”
I notice he doesn’t offer an explanation as to how he knows her or clarify what they are to each other.
Caroline nods knowingly, sliding her Prada sunglasses down the bridge of her nose to examine me better. “Oh! That’s the plane crash movie, right?”
I nod.
“That explains the costume, then!” Her laugh sounds like wind chimes — light and musical. Nothing like the wheezing snorts of mirth that so often escape my own mouth. She’s wearing a chic tunic dress and there’s a Birkin bag sitting on the seat beside her; I’m impossibly underdressed and outclassed, standing here in my tattered blue sundress and bare feet.
“I suppose that makes sense.” She waggles her fingers at the torn fabric covering my midsection. “At first, I thought you were homeless or something!”
My smile feels stiffer than a piece of cardboard taped to my face. “And what areyousupposed to be?”
Wyatt coughs sharply.