Chapter 28
Marina
I rush back to my trailer, swinging the door wide open, and scramble to find the remote.
“Dumonte. Pace Set. Rogue Automotive.” I gasp when I see Westcott on the track. “Who’s in the driver’s seat? Come on. Come on.”
“Had their reserve at the paddock this week . . .” The announcer rambles blah blah . . . “Quite the accident . . . lucky to be alive. Back in the saddle. He was cleared, but we’re about to see if he’s recovered.”
I don’t know why my heart sinks other than knowing Cash shouldn’t be out there. What are my brothers thinking?
I sit on the couch with my legs tucked under me, clasping my hands together nervously. He was so worried about sitting out a race, but one mistake could cost him his career.
“This is the end,” Corbin says, taking a seat on the top step.
“We’ve been long over.” I turn my eyes back to the TV. I don’t have the will to fight with him. I think I’d need to care to garner the strength, and I just don’t. Not now that I’ve had a taste of what real love is.
“I meant the movie. One more day of shoots and then it’s finally come to an end.”
“Thank God.”
“I think it’s kind of sad.” He watches with me as Cash does his qualifying lap. I appreciate the silence. My stomach is already twisted. I’ve been so worried about Cash and dealing with my own emotions during the breakup.
“I’m going to miss you, Marina.”
I’ve been up since four o’clock and on the set since six. I’m too tired to fight any reactions he’s trying to create in me. “Please don’t do this. I’m really not in the mood for you today. Or ever after.”
Excitement on the TV pulls my attention back. The announcer says, “He’s the comeback kid for a reason. Qualifying into fourth puts him in reach of a podium position.”
“Yes,” I say, jumping up. And then I remember that we’re broken up, and the heartbreak sets in again.
Corbin stands and asks, “You’re really into this racing thing, huh?”
“No, not racing,” I say with such authority that I begin questioning why I haven’t been able to respond to any of Cash’s text messages.
There were only a handful, and they didn’t encompass his understanding of what he did or how he chose to handle the situation. He treated me as the enemy keeping him from his real true love—racing.
Corbin hangs around, though he embodies everything I don’t want in my partner. I won’t settle again.
I didn’t with Cash when I lowered my walls and let him in, but I lost the man I love in that wreck. Until he returns, I can’t go back. I’ll work on finding my own happiness instead.
“I broke it off with Sherry.”
“Who?”
“Sherry from wardrobe.”
I almost laugh. Not that they broke up even though that’s laughable. But that I had blocked her out of my head and had been working exclusively with Mindy, Sherry’s assistant.
When he stands there staring at me, I’m not sure what he expects me to say. “We’re not friends, Corbin.”
Acceptance drowns any hope building in his eyes. “Right . . .” He looks out through the door and then takes a few steps down, stopping on the bottom. “I screwed up. I’m sorry.”
His apology won’t heal deep gashes, but since they never caused the ones my heart’s dealing with, I say, “Thanks.” Closure isn’t something most get, so I appreciate the effort, even if it is months later.
When he turns back to me, he asks, “Do you want to grab lunch sometime?”
I chuckle this time at the irony of the situation. “No. Thank you, though.”
When he exits, I reach down to close the door. “Hey, Corbin?” He turns back but keeps walking backward as if he knows this is the last time I’ll see him off a red carpet. “Good luck.”
“You, too. And congrats on the play.”
“Thank you.” The article came out in Variety two days ago. I’ve heard from everyone I care about but one. We always agreed to only learn more from each other. Guess he’s holding strong unlike our relationship.
I didn’t realize how fragile we were when I was in it, but our relationship was a house of cards teetering on destruction all along. It only took the wind blowing our way to knock us down.
Closing the door, I stop to look around the trailer. Corbin’s right about endings. Doesn’t matter what good things are ahead. There’s a sadness when leaving a part of life to become a memory.
Sometimes we don’t get the endings we want.
I was fortunate to whisper goodbye to Laura on my way to the door.
I didn’t get the luxury with Cash. I didn’t even get to say goodbye to Cullen or explain why I wouldn’t be around any longer since he was at his mother’s place.
Maybe that’s easier for kids, or maybe Cash made something up to tell him. I find it sad either way.
I start packing my stuff, wishing Poppy was here to help with my melancholy.
She’d make the task fun at least. But there was no point in her flying to Vancouver, not even to run lines with me.
It’s an easy week of scenes, and she’s busy with a short-term job cooking for a family summering in the Hamptons.
I’ll get to see her next week back in Beacon.
When my phone rings, I immediately check the caller ID. Lauren always has me debating about whether I want to answer. I do because I always do. “Hello?”
“How are you doing? I just heard the news.”
“Which news?” I ask, panic rising that I’ve missed something significant.
“The breakup news. Why didn’t you tell me? I had some plans in play.”
“Because I don’t want plans on how we’re going to serve my breakup to the public. I just want to suffer in silence and eat pints of mint chocolate chip ice cream like any other woman.”
“That’s the thing, Marina. You’re not any other woman. You’re famous, and that’s not going away anytime soon.”
“Maybe it should. I never wanted to be famous. I wanted to act—”
“And you’re acting,” she barks. “You’re actively getting offered scripts and being talked about in high-level casting meetings. What more do you want?”
“So much more than this. You’re fired, Lauren. Good day.” I hang up, waiting for the anxiety to kick in. I even sit on the edge of the bed, ready to welcome it so I can start working through my fears. But it doesn’t come. It never comes because I know I did the right thing.
I’ll get another agent, but I won’t get a second chance at living life on my own terms unless I take it.
Three weeks later . . .
Escaping to the one place I know I can get away from everything—Manhattan, twelve-hour rehearsal days, and the paparazzi—I lie on the pink float and drift under a blue sky. And then the splashing begins.
“Hey. Hey,” I say, tapping the float. “Not over here. I don’t want to ruin my book.
It’s made of paper.” I haven’t managed to read one page of Never Got Over You because I’ve been doing research on my phone while sunbathing.
I still shake the paperback for emphasis, but I think most of my nieces and nephews are too little to understand.
Loch’s wife, Tuesday, rallies the kids to the opposite corner of the pool at my parents’ house. I’m usually the fun aunt, but I let her hold the title today, needing a few more minutes to search Cash Ryatt online.
I caved and broke the rule.
It started when I stopped receiving messages from him. He gave up on me so easily. I was looking for the grand gesture, and he just wanted me to make him feel better by replying.
One article led to another puff piece and then onto a feature spread, and I was deep into the rabbit hole.
I’ve learned a lot. I had no idea his mom lived in the same building as him.
He bought her the apartment three years ago to keep her close to him and Cullen.
And it’s only mentioned in a small indie press, but he also paid off the homes of the two men who paid his karting dues.
As an eighteen-year-old who had just signed his first major contract, that’s how he chose to spend the payout.
My heart beats a little quicker thinking about Cash.
This is the stuff that’s never mentioned.
They focus on how he and Terpidy wreaked havoc on his career with the drinking and smoking.
I’ve barely seen him drink a beer, and he must have given up smoking along with that relationship because I’ve never seen him do it.
The bad boy of racing was under a bad influence back then.
That’s not who he is, but the title stuck. Catchy headlines always do.
Like the heiress and the injured. I’m surprised they don’t call me the black widow for destroying so many innocent men’s lives. I roll my eyes.
The headlines blew over like I was told they would.
My new agent might have had a hand in it.
She’s out of New York and a huge advocate for Broadway, so she doesn’t play those Hollywood games.
I’m so glad to have found someone who asks my opinions and offers guidance instead of falling back on tired tactics.
Once I gave up Hollywood, they came calling. It’s ironic.
That’s the key—holding the upper hand.
It’s great money, though, so now I’ll try to balance a film here and there into my career.
Moving my sunglasses from my head to protect my eyes, I try to embrace the newfound fame of my movie star era to practice for my cover of Style Magazine I just booked earlier in the week.
I’m bored after one selfie. Leaving my book and phone behind, I jump into the deep end and swim to the other side of the pool.
Tuesday holds one kiddo in a floatie and the other on her hip. Harbor jumps in to play with his wildlings, and Noah’s sitting under a canopy on a blanket with Liv and their kids taking a nap. It’s been a long day of fun. A nap is tempting.
Leaving my dad to man the barbecue pit, Loch comes to sit on the edge, plucking his baby daughter off Tuesday’s hip.
Bouncing her on his legs, she giggles. Tuesday says, “So sweet.” She then lifts their eldest out of the water to set her next to her dad to take a break and hang out with me.
“I’ve been thinking about you. How’s the play going? ”
“Well, but I wish we had another week. Our soft opening is next Thursday for critics and bigwigs, and I’m nervous.”