“When you opened the door. You looked excited to see someone.” The words are casual enough, but his tone says otherwise.He’s not the only one who knows the other’s tells.
For a half second, I think about fibbing—Oh, just my boyfriend, Elliott—but news of our breakup hit the press weeks ago, and I’d rather not get caught in a lie. “No one, really. Thought you might be Jase.”
“He’s not getting in ’til later.” He cracks open his Pellegrino and takes a long draft, though his eyes don’t leave mine.
“Yeah, I know.”
“You guys stay in touch.” It’s a statement, not a question—and that’s because I know he already knows the answer.
I shrug. “Three movies together will bond you.”
In an ironic plot twist neither of us saw coming,The Lost Letterwas just the first in a string of rom-coms Jase and I ended up costarring in.Entertainment Weeklyeven crowned us “the new Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan,” which is truly blasphemous.
I take a long swig of my own water before asking my next question. This conversation is a tightrope walk—one wrong move and I’ll free-fall. “How about you? You guys still talk?”
He slants me a look. “You know we do.”
I set the bottle down on the counter with more force than intended, and theclangreverberates through the kitchen. “I don’tknowanything,” I say testily. “I don’t keep tabs on you.”Not on purpose, anyway.
Ryder arches a skeptical brow, and I throw up my hands and whirl around, taking off for the back deck. I need fresh air if we’re going to be taking an impromptu road trip down memory lane.Actually, what I need is my rosé.
His footfalls echo behind me as he follows me outside. “If you want some, you’ll need to grab your own glass,” I warn him as I refresh my goblet with a heavy pour.
He eyes me as I knock back nearly the entire glass in one hearty swallow. “I’m okay.”
“Glad one of us is,” I mutter under my breath as I seriously contemplate a second—fine, third—refill. “You probably took a shot of liquid courage before coming over here. Something I also would’ve done, had I known this surprise reunion wascoming.” Frankly, I could use something a lot stronger than rosé. Another unwelcome memory, this time of Ryder’s concerned eyes when I had too much to drink on my twenty-first birthday, pops up like a gopher from a hole, and I mentally smash it like a game ofWhac-A-Mole.
Those same eyes are watching me now with a guarded expression. “Well, actually…I don’t drink anymore.”
I’m so thrown, I nearly fumble my wineglass. “You’resober?” I exclaim, incredulous.
He nods in the affirmative, and I’m gobsmacked.How could I not know this?I rack my brain for any errant comments Jase may have made, any random rumors whispered about in gossip columns, but I’m coming up empty. I must have gotten so good at blocking out stories of Ryder’s partying that I never realized I don’t see them anymore.
It’s the outcome I always prayed for—that Ryder would get his act together, that I’d no longer have to lie awake at night worrying and wondering if he was okay.Then why are you so unsettled by this?It’s a shameful reaction I can’t really make sense of until the realization hits me like a bag of hammers: Ryder’s sobriety is undeniable proof that he’s no longer the same man he was ten years ago—and that knowledge only unsettles me more.
I take a deep breath and paste on a smile, trying my best to hide how much this news has affected me. “So how long have you been a ‘friend of Bill’s’?” I ask lightly, using the Alcoholics Anonymous code phrase I picked up from a producer friend of mine who’s gone through the program.
His face lights up at the reference, gratitude sparking in his eyes. “About six years now.”
“Sixyears! Wow. That’s incredible, Ry. Good for you.” I reach out and squeeze his forearm before I can think better of it, and just that brief touch is a shock to my system. For a moment I’m stuck in a state of suspended animation, and while I withdraw my hand quickly, my fingertips sting like they’ve been burned.
I feel awkward now, the glass of wine heavy in my hand. I set it down on the patio table next to the sweating bottle of rosé, which is currently dripping condensation in the balmy night air. His news has knocked me off-kilter, all my self-righteous indignation scattering like sand in the wind.
He moves to stop me, catching my elbow. “Please don’t feel weird about drinking in front of me. That isn’t why I told you. I just…thought you should know.” His mouth twitches. “Besides, you look like you might need it.”
I let out a hoarse laugh. “Is it that obvious?” I say ruefully as I drop into a nearby chair, then nudge one of the others out with my foot, an open invitation for him to join me.
I surreptitiously study his profile as he lowers himself into the seat, and my God, the nerve of him to look this good. The years have only made him more handsome, like he’s finally grown into the level of attractiveness he was always destined to inherit. The sunset is putting on a show for us, the waning pink-purple rays bathing him in a flattering glow, the twilight shadows dancing across the ridges and hollows of his face. After so many years spent rationing my consumption of all things Ryder, it feels illicit to have him in front of me now, free to take my fill. He stares out at the water as the sun slips beneath the horizon while I try not to get caught staring at him.
I never could figure out how to stop looking at him.
“Never gets old, does it?” he says, tugging me from my reverie. “I’ve filmed in a lot of beautiful places, but nothing can top this.”
My thoughts exactly.I murmur in agreement, my heart heavy in my chest. “So.” I clear my throat, blinking away the memories playing behind my eyelids. “What was your big plan here? Show up and then…?”
He grins sheepishly, leaning back in his chair. “Honestly? I didn’t really have one. I just thought we should…I don’t know, shake the dust off before tomorrow. Before we face the firing squad.”
I almost laugh. We’d need a snowblower to cut through dust that thick.Where do you possibly start “catching up” after a decade of burying your feelings? I cast about for a safe topic, but nearly every one feels like it’s wrapped in razor wire. It’s even more unnerving that I’m struggling through a stilted conversation with Ryder, of all people. For all the problems we had—and there were plenty—finding things to talk about was never one of them. Now? I’m liable to break an ankle tiptoeing around all these landmines.
