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It’s Cookie Day. She’s up early to make hundreds of Christmas cookies to give to friends and family. Bags of flour and sugar line one countertop. Butter. Eggs. Everything she’ll need for this marathon effort.
“I’ll help,” I say, heading toward the stack of mixing bowls. I’ve always spent the better part of Cookie Day helping out. Or I did when I used to come home every year.
Celia steers me toward a stool instead. “Sit. Drink your coffee. Let’s talk.”
I got in only a few hours before Jessie, so Celia hasn’t had the chance to grill me about my feelings. She tried a few times when she was in LA following Timothy’s injury, but I managed to escape thanks to early casting calls and her willingness to accept my flimsy excuses.
That willingness is gone. Celia’s light brown eyes hold mine until I look away. “I’m sorry it didn’t work out with Addison,” she says quietly.
I shrug, because I know she didn’t like Addison, and if I’m being honest with myself, in retrospect, I’m glad Addison’s out of my life.
“It wasn’t your fault,” Celia says, her hand coming over the top of mine for a moment.
That’s…not entirely true. I tried to be the man Addison wanted me to be. I took her to the hottest parties and the best restaurants, and introduced her to the right people. I played the part of a doting husband in public, and when I begged her for quiet nights at home, she pouted.
I was a disappointment to her after a few months of marriage. Eventually, she became a disappointment to me. I hit my limit; she hit hers. Told me I was worth less than the Warwick action figure.
A lump of fucking plastic.
The reason we made it four years when one should’ve been enough was down to busy schedules and decent sex. And ignoring the obvious—neither of us wanted each other. We also didn’t want to be alone.
Celia drifts back to her bowl and picks up a wooden spoon. “The tabloids are the worst, anything to sell a story. We know you never cheated.”
She has firsthand experience with that. There was an incident not long after I moved next door. I don’t remember what it was about, but whatever she did to manage it insulated the entire family and her home. Paparazzi never come into her ungated neighborhood. Even for me.
“Jessie knows it too,” Celia says. “Last night—”
‘Last night’ and ‘Jessie’ conjures a very different memory and I don’t want to talk about this. At all. Ever.
Luck is on my side. My phone buzzes in my pocket. “My agent,” I say in an apologetic tone, getting to my feet. Thank god for business trips. If my agent were in LA, she’d still be in bed, unable to save me from this conversation. Not that I’m looking forward to the one Denise and I are about to have, but at least it won’t involve Jessie.
Celia sighs, dismissing me with a nod. I grab my jacket and head back outside.
Denise is a good person and a great agent, especially considering what little talent I give her to work with. She should be getting ready for the holidays, not trying to save my career. “Did you read the script?” she asks, moving straight from greetings into business.
I take a deep breath. “Yeah.”
The studio is shaking things up, bringing in a new director for the next Warwick film, and the new script is a beast. There’s talk about hiring an acting coach for me and Denise is concerned they’ll break my contract to recast the role.
“And?” she prompts.
And I’m not good enough. I’ve already signed on to do this movie and it’s going to be a disaster. Worse thanSummer Camp.
The tune Jessie hummed at me last night comes back, along with her smirk. Everything else gets dragged in behind it until I can’t think straight.
“I don’t want to do it,” I say before I can stop myself.
Shit.Shit. Those little words have bounced around my head for months and now they’re out there. I can’t take them back. What is wrong with me? Most actors would kill for this opportunity.
The silence on the other end of the call makes the simple act of breathing into the cold air absurdly loud. I run a hand over my jaw, momentarily blocking the fog of my exhale. What if I quit?
I’d regret it like I regret every decision I’ve ever made.
Finally, there’s a sigh on the line. “Are you sure? The acting coach might help.”
Doubtful. All I’ll ever be good at is taking off my shirt and staring moodily into the distance. The problem is, I don’t care. I don’t want to do it anymore.
I don’t love the long hours repeating lines or the early mornings in makeup and wardrobe. The thought of eating nothing but baked chicken breast and working out eight hours a day makes me want to break out in hives. Being around Timothy made it all okay, but he’s moving back here.
