“Okay, let’s hear ’em.”
She lets out a sigh. “I’m worried about you. You worked really hard to move past this and I don’t want you to backslide.”
I swallow heavily, not knowing what to say. I don’t want to backslide either, but her warning feels like too little, too late. I’m already tumbling down a steep mountainside, and I’m only picking up speed.
“But the other part of me thinks that maybe you need closure. You’ve been carrying this for so long, Scarlett.” Her voice is sympathetic. “Things ended so abruptly. Maybe this is your opportunity—”
“No,” I cut her off, unwilling to entertain the idea. And she should know better than to suggest it.First Jase, now Kendall? I feel tag-teamed.“Just…no.”
She’s quiet for a long moment, the air heavy with the weight of unspoken words. “You know, in those press conference clips, it wasn’t him I was watching. It was you. And you seemed…”
“Shell-shocked? Flustered? Mortified?” I say sarcastically. In the distance, I watch a pod of dolphins rhythmically break the surface and disappear, rising and falling in hypnotic, graceful choreography.
She pauses. “Sad.”
A baseball-sized lump forms in my throat.Why is she telling me this? It’s not helping.My face stings with heat, harsh words burning in my throat like bile. I want to yell:Of course I seemed sad. If you were forced to relive the hardest time of your life, you’d be sad too!
“You know what, I’m gonna be late,” I say instead, notwanting to lash out at her when I know she’s only trying to help.Deep breaths. Don’t crumble. Keep these feelings locked in the vault.“I have to go get ready.”
“Scarlett, wait. Let me—”
“I’ll check in with you later,” I tell her, and hang up.
The airstrip isjust as I remember, and I have a double sense of déjà vu with last night’s dreams so fresh in my mind. It even smells the same, the fresh-cut grass lining the runway and the heat steaming off the concrete stirring something deep within the archives of my memory.
I head inside the familiar glass-walled lounge and immediately spot Ryder holding court at the check-in desk, a cadre of female admirers surrounding him.Some things never change.An elderly woman with a shellacked gray bob is clutching his arm, while a perky, college-age blonde behind the desk is smiling up at him with flushed cheeks and love hearts in her eyes. He’s always left a trail of starstruck women in his wake.
The older woman gasps when she sees me. “There she is!” She holds a hand over her heart, her diamond wedding ring sparkling in the sunlight. “Oh, she’s even more beautiful than she is on-screen.”
“What did I tell you?” Ryder says in atold-ya-sosingsong. He flashes me a devastating grin, and I watch Suzy Sorority’s hopeful smile dim by degrees.
I hardly know what to react to first, but muscle memory kicks in and I plaster on the picture-perfect PR smile I’m used to wearing like a second skin. “Good morning everyone,” I say with a little wave as I approach the group.
Ryder beckons me forward with a hand to the small of my back, and it sears my skin like a brand. “Scarlett, meet Millie, our auction winner.”
The surprise must show on my face. “Expecting someone younger?” she says with a throaty laugh.
“I had no idea what to expect, actually,” I answer honestly, offering her a warm smile. I’m terrible at guessing ages, but I’d place Millie’s somewhere in the ballpark of my grandmother, who’s in her mid-eighties. Her face is webbed with wrinkles and untouched by a surgeon’s hand, her makeup artfully applied, the hallmarks of age most evident in her silver hair and rounded shoulders. There’s a lightness about her, the well-worn laugh lines around her mouth a testament to years of happy memories and a life well-lived. Her eyes, though, twinkle with youthful energy, shaving the decades away. She’s an advertisement for aging gracefully. Still, I suppose she’s right: A geriatric superfan was not on my bingo card.
“It’s nice to meet you, Millie,” I say, extending a hand in greeting. “What a delightful name.”
“Thank you! It’s short for Mildred,” she says, wrinkling her nose like she’s just swallowed sour milk. “Can you imagine naming your babyMildred? It’s an old family name, but I have no idea what my mother was thinking.” She shudders in distaste.
“Well, we appreciate your generosity,” I tell her, and she waves a perfectly manicured hand, sending traces of her perfume wafting through the air.
“It was nothing,” she says airily. “A small price to pay for a romantic plane ride with my favorite actor!”
I raise an eyebrow. A million dollars wasnothing? I studyher more closely, only just now noticing the telltale details that should have tipped me off: the finely tailored suit and classic Chanel flats, the Hermès scarf tied to the handle of her designer handbag, the tasteful but sizable diamonds winking at her earlobes. She’s the type of woman who looks like she’d retain a personal valet, whose WASPish friends all call her “Bunny.”
She reads my mind. “My husband Mickey, God rest his soul, made a mint in oil and gas. We always had a simple philosophy for how we’d spend our money: Do good and have fun.” Her eyes sparkle with merriment. “So this one’s a twofer!”
She’s a hoot. “This guy’s your favorite actor, huh?” My dubious tone implies she could do better.
“Well, Harrison Ford wasn’t offering,” she says flippantly, and I sputter a laugh. Ryder clutches his chest like he’s deeply wounded.
“I hope you’ll forgive me for roping you into this, dear, but I couldn’t pass up the chance to get the stars of my favorite movie back together,” she says conspiratorially, exchanging Ryder’s arm for mine. “Besides, who could resist an opportunity to be stuck in a plane with this dreamboat?” she coos, all but batting her eyelashes at him.
“Who indeed,” I deadpan.
