I raised an eyebrow.
“Graham Stroud.”
That made me put my fork down. “Are you serious?”
Stroud was a big deal—he’d carved out a rare niche directing prestige indies that critics adored and audiences actually bought tickets for. Any actor would crawl over broken glass for a chance to work with him. You accepted a role in one of his movies without even reading the script.
“When does it start shooting?” I asked, trying to disguise the edge in my voice, especially since I could feel Nora watching us, quietly assessing.
“Pretty much right away,” Ryder said, and my stomach dropped like I missed a step on a staircase. “I’d basically haveto go straight from here to Atlanta to prep, since they’re already in preproduction.”
I blinked. Straight from Seafolly? That meant our plans to head back to LA together, find me a new apartment, steal some downtime before new jobs spun us in different directions—gone, vanished in a puff of smoke. I rubbed at the ache brewing in my chest, the ending I’d been trying so hard not to think about arriving before I was ready. It felt like we were already losing each other, and we hadn’t even left yet.
And then I gave myself a mental slap.Stop being selfish, Scarlett.This was the opportunity of a lifetime, the professional breakthrough he’d been chasing for years. Ryder was finally getting the recognition he deserved, and my job now was to be a supportive girlfriend, not an anchor dragging him down.
“Congratulations, Ry. This is huge,” I said, willing my voice to sound steadier than it felt. “I’m so happy for you.”
“It’s really happening, Scar.” I forced my lips into a smile that mirrored his own, but there was no fooling him. He could read the truth in my eyes. “You gonna miss me?”
“You know I am,” I said softly, emotion tightening my throat.
“It’s all going to be fine,” he said, grabbing my hand across the table and giving it a reassuring squeeze. “Three-week rule, remember?”
I nodded and smiled, though it felt false and wooden on my face. It’s something we’d discussed, not going more than three weeks without seeing each other. It was a good idea in theory, but now that it was no longer a hypothetical, three weeks apart felt like an eternity.
“What do you think, Mom?” Ryder asked, snapping meback to the present. I’d nearly forgotten Nora was at the table. “One step closer to retiring you,” he added in a singsong.
Nora had an odd look on her face too, like she was processing something of her own. “One degree closer to Tom Cruise, you mean,” she said after a beat, and the two of them high-fived.
“You two and Tom Cruise, I swear,” I said, laughing. The mood lightened, and conversation flowed easily for the rest of our lunch, right up until we were called back to set.
“Mom, start thinking about dinner tonight,” Ryder said as we walked back. “I want to take my girls somewhere nice.”
Nora’s expression didn’t falter—she was too classy for that—but I caught the flicker of hesitation, the slight pinch at the corner of her eyes, and I suddenly knew: She wanted time alone with Ryder. And I would make sure she got it.
“Oh shoot, you know what? Lainey actually mentioned the costume team needed me after we wrap today, something about last-minute tweaks to a couple of the dresses. Why don’t you two just go on without me? Besides, I’m sure you could use some one-on-one time,” I said, sending Nora a subtle wink.
A look of understanding passed between us, and she offered me a small smile, her expression softened with quiet gratitude.
“Are you sure?” Ryder asked. “We could wait for you.”
“I’m sure,” I assured him. “You two go enjoy your mother-son date. Just make sure he takes you somewhere nicer than the Tiki Hut,” I warned Nora with a smirk.
He was playfully outraged. “How dare you disparage the Tiki Hut? It’s a Seafolly institution!”
Ryder asked me to stay at his place that night so we could see each other when he got home, and I didn’t wait up, figuring they’d be out late. When I stirred, the bedroom was dark, a thin ribbon of light spilling beneath the door. I heard noises coming from the kitchen—the creak of a cabinet, ice cubes hitting glass, the scrape of a chair. I laid there listening for a few minutes before swinging my legs over the side of the bed and padding out to find him. He sat alone at the kitchen table, eerily still, his hands locked tight around a glass half full of amber liquid. It was a heavy pour for a nightcap.
“Hey, how was dinner? You coming to bed?” I asked, still groggy, until I caught sight of his red-rimmed eyes and stopped short. “What happened? Is everything okay?”
“Not really.” His voice sounded flat and unfamiliar, like it belonged to someone else. “My mom has cancer.”
I was still half asleep, my brain struggling to catch up. “What?”
“My mom told me she has cancer,” he repeated, numb and emotionless. “Lungcancer, to be exact, which makes no sense since she’s never smoked a cigarette in her life.” He finally looked up at me, and the devastation in his eyes hollowed out my chest. “She’s only fifty-two.”
“Oh, Ry,” I said, taking a seat next to him at the table and putting my hand on his leg. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what to say.”
“It’s why she took so long to come visit,” he said, his expression vacant. “She knew I’d be upset, and she didn’t want to distract me during filming.”
