She hands me a steaming cup from my favorite coffee shop and pushes past me. “Then it wouldn’t be unexpected.”
“Yes. That would be the point.” I follow her into the living room, collapsing onto the opposite end of the sofa from where she already has made herself comfortable. “So, to what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Do I need a reason to come check on my only child?”
“It’s been three weeks, Mom. I don’t need the daily check-ins anymore.” Fortunately, most of her daily check-ins have been by phone. Although she has been “in the neighborhood” a lot more these days.
“I know, and you’ve handled things remarkably well, all things considered. But in case you haven’t checked your calendar...”
I take a long drink of coffee. “Yes, yes I know. And I really regret the day I introduced you to Liz. You two are a frightening pair when you’re conspiring against me.”
“She is a dear, isn’t she?” She reaches over and pats my leg. “So are you ready?”
“Am I ready to sit in a hotel room with the man who broke my heart and answer questions about the romantic movie we filmed together and also probably be badgered to answer questions about our own relationship?”
“Should I take that as a no?” Her eyebrows raise, and she gives me a cheeky smile.
“You’re incorrigible.”
“Where do you think you got it from?”
I set my coffee down on the table so I can use both hands to massage my now-throbbing temples. “I don’t really want to think about it, Mom.”
“So you’d rather go in blind? Not mentally prepared for what it’s going to be like to see him again?”
I don’t need to mentally prepare, because I’ve thought about it every damn day since that stupid party. Some days the thought fills me with rage; some days, bitter sadness. And some days, the days I like to pretend are flukes, I miss him so badly that the thought of being trapped in apress room with him is the only thing I have to look forward to. But those days don’t happen very often. Only three or four times a week or so.
Because as mad as I am, I do miss him. There’s a hole in my chest and in my life, and it’s most definitely Grayson West shaped. I miss his jokes and his teasing and the way he ran his fingers through my hair. I miss talking to him about my day and hearing his stories. I hate the fact that I wasn’t there when he found out he’s in the final round for that blasted awards-bait movie. I hate that he wasn’t there when my new screenplay got the green light.
And a large part of me still hates him for making me love him.
My mom reaches over and squeezes my hand. “You miss him, don’t you?”
For a second I think she’s talking about my dad, because for so long he was the only man I ever had a chance to miss. “How do you get over the loss of someone, Mom? I mean, it’s different with Dad, of course, but how did you get over missing him?”
She shrugs, her fingers tightening around mine. “I didn’t. I miss him every hour of every day. I don’t think that ache will ever really go away. It will be there with me until the end.” She brushes a stray lock of hair out of my eyes. “But I loved your father for thirty years of my life, and he loved me, and it wouldn’t honor that love if I let missing him keep me from living.”
“I thought I might have found that kind of love with Grayson.” The words come out hoarse. It’s been a few days since I cried, and I don’t want to let the tears fall, but they do. “I thought it was real and genuine and the kind of loveI write about, you know? The kind most people don’t think exists. But I know it does, because I’ve seen it.”
“Oh, honey.” Her eyes well up with tears, too. “If you care for him that deeply, why won’t you give him a chance to explain?”
I reach for a tissue, handing one to her before taking one for myself and blowing my nose. “How could he explain what he said? If he really loved me, there wouldn’t be anything to explain away. That’s not how true love works. You don’t hurt the people you love.”
She scoffs. “Emilia Harper, you have said a lot of ridiculous things in your lifetime, but that might top the list. Of course we hurt the people we love. We don’t want to, and it should never be intentional, but it happens all the time.”
“Did Dad ever hurt you?”
“We didn’t talk for six months after our first film together came out.”
“Wait, what?” That’s news to me. My parents always painted the early days of their relationship as an idyllic showmance. “Why didn’t you ever tell me that?”
“Because in the long run it didn’t matter.” She shrugs and calmly sips from her coffee like she hasn’t just dropped a total bomb on me.
“What happened?” I ask quietly.
She studies me over the rim of her cup for a minute before sighing dramatically. “Our first movie together wasRunning Springs.”
I roll my eyes. “Yes, I know that part. You were both nominated for Oscars. You won, and Dad didn’t.”
