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Jessie puts her paintbrush down and covers my hands with hers. “I’m sorry.”
“I don’t really hate it. Sometimes I like it. If there’s a good vibe on set, it feels a bit like family. But it only lasts for a few months before filming wraps. And I’m lucky to be where I’m at. The Warwick fandom’s been great. But I don’t know if it’s enough.”
When Jessiehmmsin response, I carry on. “The new script is challenging. I don’t know the new director and they’re talking acting coaches. My agent thinks they might break the contract to recast the role, so this might be a good time to change career focus. Different kinds of roles, or maybe something else.”
“What do you want to do?”
“I don’t know.” I want this to be my life. What we have today. Maybe it’s just because I’ve been lonely and I’ve missed this family and I’m not happy with my life or the shitshow that’s been the last twelve months.
The idea of leaving it all behind and discovering a different flavor of loneliness somewhere on the East Coast makes my throat tighten. This is just a fling.
“What do you think?” I ask her. “What should I do with my life?”
Jessie hmms again, and for half a second, I imagine what life could be like with her in LA. We’d sell my monstrous house and buy something cozier. Her art would be on the walls and she’d paint while I cooked or baked something in the kitchen. Long, lazy mornings in bed. Trips to galleries around the world.
But that could only be between filming. Mostly, we wouldn’t see each other. My filming schedules are grueling, especially with the roles I tend to get, which usually involve all-day workouts ahead of filming and ‘vitamins’ someone inevitably puts me on that are probably steroids. Red carpets and premieres and paparazzi hounding her.
Jessie would hate all that. It’s pointless anyway since she’ll never leave New York. She loves her job, and she loves the city. She doesn’t do relationships and I have nothing to offer her that she might want.
“I think you have to decide for yourself what you want,” she finally says.
I hide my disappointment by kissing her neck again. What did I expect? Jessie to say she wants me to come home so we can be together? She’d never ask me to leave my career and move across the country to be with her, even if she did love me. She won’t nudge me in one direction or another, the way Timothy used to. The way my parents tried to and Addison did. Jessie’s not like that.
“What do you want?” I ask her.
Jessie turns, wrapping her arms around my neck. Her amber eyes search mine and I have no idea if she sees what she’s looking for. Her normally open face is closed to me. “I want you to be happy,” she says softly. “I want us to spend the rest of the holiday making each other happy.”
I kiss her and her eyes flutter closed. I’m glad for the respite. I have no idea what she can read in my face, but I don’t want her to see any trace of unhappiness.
We only have a week. She’s not interested in more. At least we’re on the same page. That simplifies my decision about acting, I guess.
“I’ll make you very happy later tonight,” I whisper against her lips. She kisses me back, rocking her hips against mine, just enough to make it clear she’s interested in sex.
The sound of an oven door opening is the first indication we’re no longer alone. Jessie and I break apart, reluctantly. She smiles at me before turning back to her painting.
“Want a hot chocolate?” I ask her.
“Extra whipped cream,” she says, winking at me over her shoulder.
Great. Now I’m thinking about our first time in the shower and trying not to get a hard-on in front of her mom.
“Your pie looks good,” Celia says, opening a drawer and thankfully not commenting on catching Jessie and me making out. “I’m going to put tinfoil over it—the crust is browning a little too fast.”
I make Jessie a boozy hot chocolate and set it on the table. I manage to steal a kiss and duck the paintbrush she tries to touch to the tip of my nose.
Celia’s not leaving. It’s showtime for her. The roast and potatoes are in the oven, but she has vegetables to cook and salads to put the finishing touches on. She lets me help like she always does, and we fall into an easy rhythm.
“I talked to Monica last night,” Celia says, dropping a potholder onto the counter and resting her hand against her hip.
I have no clue who Monica is, but I nod like I do.
“I called to wish her a Merry Christmas and to suss out what she thought of that video I sent. The two of us in the kitchen.”
Okay, Monica must be one of the higher-ups at the Home Cooking Channel.
“She liked the video but wants a different angle. Sorry, honey.”
“It’s fine.” It wasn’t something I was considering. I love baking and cooking too, but I’m pretty sure I’d be awful at it on camera. Still, I’m disappointed.
