Chapter 3
Now
From the back seat of the town car, I roll down the window and take a deep lungful of briny Charleston air.
Despite the decade that’s passed, that signature Lowcountry smell—marsh mixed with salt water—is one memory time hasn’t managed to dull.
My hair hasn’t forgotten the humidity, either; I can already feel it frizzing out, wayward strands winging in all directions.
We exit the city and continue out toward the coast, sidewalks turning to sand and buildings giving way to a canopy of live oaks pleached overhead.
As their twisting branches tunnel us toward Seafolly, I can’t help but feel like I’m time-traveling into my past.
I haven’t been back to South Carolina since we wrapped The Lost Letter.
It was a conscious choice I made all those years ago, to lock up my memories of that time and throw away the key.
It was an act of self-preservation, necessary to pull myself back from the brink, and a decision I never planned on revisiting.
Part of me hasn’t even accepted that I’m here now.
It’s strange, to view this place through a lens of dread rather than the rose-colored glasses of the carefree, hopelessly na?ve twenty-year-old girl I was when I first arrived ten years ago.
Back then, Seafolly had seemed so magical, it may as well have been sprinkled with pixie dust. I can still remember how it felt driving through the cobblestone streets for the first time, a fresh-faced young woman who could scarcely believe the big break she’d dreamed about for so long was right there in front of her, hers for the taking.
My heart aches for that girl and her wide-eyed optimism, whose hopes and dreams were pinned on this one thing, who was so sure it was going to jump-start her life. Who had no idea what was coming.
Every sight triggers a memory. The weekends spent riding bikes on these same sandy streets, whizzing past the palmetto trees and clapboard bungalows with colorful shutters.
The roadside stands selling ripe peaches and sweet corn that transport me right back to Melody’s farm, the brutal midsummer sun scorching our shoulders as we filmed in the fields.
The ancient steepled church covered in climbing vines that Nate fell so in love with that he reworked the shooting schedule just to include it in the background of a shot.
And the handful of crumbling, abandoned barns peppering the highway that remind me of…
well. The simple, unassuming beauty of this place is so enshrined in my soul, I could paint the landmarks by heart.
I shake myself, pumping the breaks on this trip down memory lane. I’ve only just arrived in Seafolly and already I’ve let the tidal wave of memories sweep me away. They’re always right there, lurking on the periphery, waiting to catch me like the tide nipping at my toes.
The studio is footing the bill for each cast member’s preferred accommodations, and I chose a rental house on Kiawah Island, a quiet stretch of coast just adjacent to Seafolly that managed to stay relatively unscathed in the storm.
As we pull up and I get a good look at my home for the next week, the tension in my neck unspools, my anxiety beginning to melt away.
The house is even more stunning in person than in the listing the studio sent over.
If an inanimate structure could be a breath of fresh air, this is it.
The gleaming white exterior frames a grand staircase that leads up to the second-story entrance, the front door stained a dark walnut and flanked by flickering gas lanterns.
Greeting me inside are lofty vaulted ceilings and a pristine, sprawling chef’s kitchen I’m not at all equipped to utilize.
Floor-to-ceiling windows and sliding glass doors along the back wall flood the great room with natural light.
Sparingly furnished in a modern, minimalist style, the neutral shades and natural wood tones give off a serene, Zen-like retreat vibe that, frankly, I desperately need.
This trip is supposed to be doubling as a vacation for me, after all.
Maybe I’ll even get bronzed from the actual sun rather than the inside of a bottle for once.
My first order of business is to strip off my sweaty travel clothes, and once I’ve exchanged my cashmere sweatsuit for a pair of cutoff shorts and a lightweight tank—this South Carolina humidity is real—and thrown my hair into a messy bun, I set off to explore the rest of the house.
A lavish gift basket full of gourmet snacks I definitely won’t be eating greets me from the kitchen island, along with a handwritten welcome note from the studio and a packet that includes a detailed itinerary of the week’s events, starting with tomorrow’s roundtable interview.
I start to flip through it before thinking better of it and setting it aside to deal with later.
I’m not in the mood to spiral right now, even if I am delaying the inevitable.
Ignorance is bliss…for the next few hours, anyway.
I open the fridge and see it’s been fully stocked as per my standard travel rider, and I send up a silent prayer of thanks to my assistant Samira for anticipating every one of my earthly needs.
She’s a type A perfectionist on steroids, a list-obsessed queen, and her ruthless attention to detail keeps my life humming along seamlessly at all times.
Normally she’d be stuck to my side like a shadow, but this unforeseen trip coincided with her sister’s wedding, and as the maid of honor, her presence was mandatory.
She’d tried to set me up with a temporary assistant, but the only thing worse than an involuntary week in Seafolly would have been a random stranger following me around, dogging my heels.
Besides, how hard could it be to go it alone for a week?
Despite this type of pampering being my norm for the better part of a decade, it never ceases to amaze me, the perks I’m afforded and the everyday minutiae I no longer have to concern myself with.
There’s always someone there to handle life’s pesky daily tasks for me, from picking up dry cleaning to communicating with repairmen to keeping my refrigerator full.
I’ve built my life to run like a well-oiled machine, with predictable, carefully managed routines that shield me from unnecessary disruptions and keep me safely in control.
Provide a list, have everything taken care of for you, right down to your preferred brand of dairy-free creamer. No need to lift a finger.
Of course, what I didn’t anticipate was how quickly I’d find myself at loose ends without that simple housekeeping task to complete.
I wish I had an excuse to go back out, that I could anonymously wander up and down the aisles of the local Harris Teeter, grazing my fingertips along packages of pasta or bags of bread, weighing the merits of one brand against another.
What I wouldn’t give to wave casually at other shoppers, to coo at their babies without the shock of recognition lighting their eyes. To feel normal again for five minutes.
It’s weird, the things I romanticize these days. Crowd control and carbohydrates.
Of course, going incognito in this town I’m forever associated with would be damn near impossible. Laughable, even. I’d be more likely to beat Usain Bolt in a footrace than make it through a grocery run in Seafolly without drawing a mob.
I give myself a mental slap. I don’t usually wallow in self-pity like this; it must be the Seafolly effect. The Ryder effect, more like.
I’m starting to seriously regret coming here alone.
I begged Kendall to accompany-slash-babysit me, but she was already booked on another shoot and refused to back out even though I offered to triple her fee and deployed my most pitiful puppy dog eyes.
Damn professional ethics. I need a bulletproof suit of armor, a sister-sized security blanket to shield me from the storm I know is about to hit me. I need an emotional support human.
I wonder if any of my fellow cast members have gotten into town yet.
I wish I could text some of them—like Teri Callan or Dalton Jones, the actors who played my parents—but I don’t have their phone numbers, and it feels a little belated to start chasing them down late on a Sunday night.
The only one I’m still regularly in touch with is Jase, and he already let me know he’s not getting in until late tonight.
I shoot him a text with my address anyway, just in case.
In the end, I wind up eating alone. I grab one of the week’s worth of calorie-controlled Factor meals stacked in the fridge, along with a bottle of chilled rosé and a wineglass, and pad barefoot out onto the house’s back deck.
The view that greets me is a breathtaking one: The sun is on its way down, the sky a wash of vibrant reds, pinks, and corals, casting the world in a rosy, ethereal glow.
I pour myself a glass of the rosé and stand at the railing, breathing in the balmy sea air and surrendering to the beauty of this place, letting the nostalgia wash over me—only this time, I don’t bother fighting it.
I eventually snap a photo for Kendall (at the very least, I can give her some FOMO), then sit down at the teakwood patio table, the waxing and waning of the ocean waves providing a moody, meditative background soundtrack.
All that’s missing is a flickering candle to complete my cliché single woman’s tableau.
Nothing like some Whispering Angel, a portion-controlled meal, and a romantic sunset to remind you how aggressively alone you are.
I attempt to lose myself in the latest overhyped book club pick I started on my flight, but I’m too distracted to concentrate on it, my thoughts swirling about like a tornado that’s made landfall in my subconscious.
I eventually give up, resigning myself to the inevitable: Tonight, I’m destined for brooding.
I try valiantly to steer my brain away from danger zones, but it isn’t long before my thoughts settle on the one man I never let myself think about.
It will be so strange to see Ryder again after all this time.
Or maybe strange is the wrong word. Perhaps it’s more like surreal, to be faced with a part of my past I thought I’d left behind forever.
We’ve managed to avoid each other for ten full years despite Hollywood being a small town, several near misses at award shows, and running in the same industry circles.
And yet in spite of our best efforts to outrun our history, we’ve still found ourselves right back where we started. And ended.
I twirl the stem of my wineglass as I let the thoughts I’ve spent years suppressing run wild.
I wonder how it’ll feel to be in the same room with him again, if that charged energy that’s always hummed between us will still buzz in the air like electricity.
I wonder how he’ll look, if he’s aged well or if the years have taken a toll, and which outcome I’d prefer.
(This is silly, of course; I know perfectly well he looks fantastic.
I don’t live under a rock.) I wonder how he’ll behave toward me, if he’ll act aloof or passive-aggressive—or worse, indifferent—or if I’ll experience the new and improved, consummate professional he’s built his industry reputation to be.
I wonder if he’s still angry at me, if he’s been nursing a decade-long grudge of his own.
I wonder if our interactions will be awkward or contentious, or if we’ll slip into old habits like no time has passed.
I wonder if I’ll still be able to read him the way only I seemed to be able to.
I wonder if he’ll still get under my skin the way he always did, and how hard it will be to pretend I’m unaffected by his presence when he’s standing right next to me.
I wonder how I’ll be able to keep all those old feelings from bubbling up to the surface, and whether the secret I’ve always managed to keep will stay hidden.
I wonder if his feelings are as unresolved as mine, or if he’s moved on, the way I’ve always tried to convince myself I have.
I let out a sigh. There are way too many ghosts here.
I stare out at the horizon, the view so magnificent it’s almost offensive.
The cotton candy sky, the wafting summer breeze, the smooth, rolling surf crashing softly on the sand…
it’s a golden hour so picturesque, it should be on a postcard.
It’s ridiculous—it should be stormy and tumultuous to match my mood.
I let my thoughts drift, imagining the moment I see him again.
I’m going to strut into that roundtable interview looking like a million bucks in the stunner of a dress my stylist picked out for me, the one that utilizes all sorts of gravity-defying boosting, slimming, and tucking technology, and I’m the one who’s going to act aloof.
He thinks he’s going to be indifferent? I’ll show him indifferent.
It’ll be the finest performance of my career.
A distant knocking sound snaps me out of my revenge fantasy, and I’m momentarily irritated by the interruption until I realize it’s coming from my own house. Who knows I’m here? The doorbell rings and my heart leaps as a light bulb blinks on: Jase must’ve caught an earlier flight after all.
I set my wineglass down and dash inside, streaking across the bleached wood floors just as another round of knocks starts up. “I’m coming!” I call out, throwing open the door with a big smile that promptly turns into a gasp.
Because when I open the door, it’s not Jase at all.
It’s Ryder.