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9
Valentina
“You can’t just tell him you’re taking him to Europe and not talk to me first,” I lower my voice. The last thing I need is for someone to take our damn picture again and splash it on a magazine so I can read about how Max Sommerland and his ex-wife were fighting in a restaurant. Then again, maybe that’s better than when we actually got along for a brief moment and they said we were getting back together and poor eleven-year-old Ryder thought his wish had come true.
“He’s my son. I pay support. I hold his insurance. He’s turning sixteen and I want to experience a trip to Europe with him.” He cuts up his steak with a smile. This is the fake Max Sommerland who, even when he’s seething, can plaster on a brilliant white smile.
“All court-ordered. As is the fact that I’m the primary caregiver. I know we’ve been lax with Ryder’s schedule as he’s gotten older, but a six-week trip right before school starts? I won’t see him for the rest of his summer break.”
“You had him for the first half. It’s not my problem if you’d rather go all over God’s creation teaching girls in tutus to twirl.” He brings the fork to his mouth upside down and slides the piece of steak off it.
God, how I loathe him.
“Undermining my profession again? Get a new script. I guess making old women laugh with your stupidity every morning is saving the world?”
He winks. “Let’s remember who funded your first studio.”
“Let’s remember who raised your son.”
“Let’s remember whose money allowed you to do it.”
I grip my napkin under the table, surprised it’s not in shreds by now. Leaning back in the chair, I catch an older woman pointing at Max, her eyes sparkling like diamonds. “One of your admirers is about to approach.”
I sip my wine and watch the woman cautiously smile as if she needs my permission to approach him. She rises from her seat and walks over.
“Max Sommerland?” she asks with a pen and a receipt in her hand.
“In the flesh.” He puts down his fork and knife, wipes his mouth with his napkin, and holds out his hand for the pen. Meanwhile, I’m gagging from the endorphins he gets whenever this happens.
“Can my husband take a picture?” She waves him over, this time without permission.
The poor man sighs, looks at his meal, and stands.
“Of course, but my friend can take it.” He signals to me.
He’s got to be kidding.
“Friend?” I clarify, but his permanent smile is on display, though his eyes are cold as they stare me down.
I smile and accept the phone before snapping the picture. I pass it back to the woman. The poor husband came over for nothing, but he does put his hand out for Max.
“Thank you,” the woman says. “I hope the rumors aren’t true, because you guys make a beautiful couple.”
“Thank you,” Max says.
“Rumors?” I ask.
She stops a foot away.
“Oh, stop with your gossip. Let’s go finish our meal,” her husband says, grabbing her hand.
“That you got married this weekend,” the woman says. “Congratulations.”
Max chokes on his piece of steak because he couldn’t wait until she actually walked away to continue eating.
“I’m sorry?” I ask with wide eyes.
“Vegas. This site I follow said you got married and sadly not to Max. My gals and I were hoping for a reconciliation.” Her lips dip as if we’re the favorite boy band who just announced their breakup.
