Chapter 15
Jonas
This house is too small.
But even a thirty-thousand square-foot mansion would be too small.
I don’t want to be inside. Anywhere . I hate being cooped up. I hate feeling helpless. I hate knowing that this is all my fault , and I can’t make it better if I can’t leave the house.
But I can’t leave the house without making things worse.
“Anyone ever tell you your body will start to break down on its own once you hit forty?” Hayes says without looking up from the parenting book he’s reading in the sitting room in the more-spacious-than-I-give-it-credit-for house where he’s keeping me captive.
I mean that he kindly bought to give us privacy while I’m slowly working on convincing Emma that all I want is to meet my— our son and have an opportunity to be involved in their— his life.
I got the memo loud and clear, no matter how much I hate it, that I have no place in her life.
That opportunity evaporated when I left her without explanation in Fiji. When I thought I was doing the right thing.
Seeing her again—this isn’t regret for what I did.
It’s so much deeper than that.
“So?” I reply to my older brother.
“Seven workouts a day might be too much.”
“I’ve only done three.”
“It’s not even ten in the morning.”
“Insomnia.”
“Also bad for aging. Might get extra wrinkles and need more hair dye.”
“I liked you better before you met Begonia.”
One corner of his mouth hitches over his book.
I keep pacing the sitting room, letting him go back to his book instead of using him as a punching bag.
Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook mountain peaks still showing the last of the winter snow, even though it’s July. A deep blue sky vaults overhead. Towering pines and rolling meadows paint the smaller peaks green.
Emma said she lived somewhere beautiful.
She undersold it.
I know there are waterfalls hiding out there. Mountain streams and creeks and rivers to be rafted. Rock formations to climb. Animals to encounter.
Things to show my son .
And I realize this house is what she described.
The views. The space. The yard.
It might not be the house, but this is what she wanted.
Her dream.
“You ever box?” I ask Hayes, abandoning my plans to leave him alone.
He finally looks up from his book. “I’d buy another house to get away from you, but that would probably draw more attention.”
“Just tell people Mom’s coming.” She’ll want me to demand a paternity test.
Not much point when the only difference between my toddler pictures and Emma’s son’s pictures are that mine were all done professionally and in makeup for auditions.
Also, I’ve seen pictures of Emma’s ex.
That kid is not his. I have zero reason to doubt her messages that included the line there’s no one else who could be my baby’s father .
“I can’t believe I’m about to say this,” Hayes mutters, more to himself than me, “but have you tried jerking off and taking a nap?”
“Jerking off doesn’t put me to sleep, asshole.”
Yep.
That.
That’s what I say as Begonia walks through the door with Emma on her heels.
“Well. I’ll file that in my mental recycling box,” Begonia says brightly. “Jonas, you have a guest. Hayes, I’m craving fried ice cream and chicken salad. The curry kind like we get in Maine.”
My brother drops his book on the end table and rises with as much dexterity as if he, too, works out seven times a day and didn’t hit that magic forty milestone within the past couple years. “On it, my love. Let’s see what Francoise needs from the store.”
“I’ll introduce you two later,” Begonia says to Emma and Hayes. “Marshmallow, come with me. Ooh, I forgot this room has pocket doors. Aren’t they cute? Emma, if you need anything, we’ll be down the hall.”
She doesn’t wish me good luck, but she flashes me a smile as she pulls the pocket doors closed.
Begonia-expression for good luck, I believe in you, you’ve got this, and we’re here for you too but won’t say it out loud so your guest doesn’t think I’m picking sides .
I doubt Emma thinks Begonia would take her side.
She’d be wrong.
But I’m now alone with Emma for the first time since we talked in her backyard the other morning.
No clue what I’m supposed to say, so I settle for a small, “Hi,” with what I hope is a friendly smile.
She’s stressed. She doesn’t smile. Doesn’t say hi back.
Just stares at me with wary brown eyes. “What do you want?”
What do you want?
It’s all I’ve had to think about for nearly a week now. Ever since I got her messages and got confirmation that they were true, nothing else has existed.
Just the knowledge that someone who was once the friend I needed had carried and raised our child solo since the last time I saw her, and I haven’t been here .
I hold her gaze steadily. “I would like to be a present father.”
I was an idiot for telling Peyton I wanted kids three years ago.
I did . I do .
But I put her in an awful position. Fear of failing professionally was no reason to want to immediately start a family.
Finding out I have a family?
Instinct has taken over. I want to be here. I want to be here for my son, and I want to be a supportive co-parent for his mother.
His mother, whom I’ve thought of as a friend every single day since Fiji.
As more than a friend.
My life wouldn’t be what it is today—my career wouldn’t be what it is today—without Emma.
I owe that to her too, and I don’t think she knows it.
Nor would she likely appreciate it.
She looks away from me and rubs her hands over her bare arms beneath her short-sleeve shirt while she walks around the casual blue checkered furniture to stare out at the mountains.
“I want my son to have a normal life,” she says.
“I don’t want him in the public spotlight.
And I don’t want to introduce him to anyone who’ll leave and disappoint him if he gets attached. ”
I deserved that dig. “Okay.”
“You say okay, but how much of that is wishful thinking and how much is realistically possible?”
I nod toward the closed doors behind us. “Hayes hides from the spotlight all the time. It’s easier than you might think.”
“We shouldn’t have to hide from the spotlight to live a normal life.
We’ve been living a normal life. You didn’t want us .
That was the message I got. You didn’t want me in Fiji and you didn’t want your son when I tried to tell you he existed.
And now you’re here and you say you want to be here for him, but how do I trust you ?
How do I trust you can keep him safe? Not just physically, but mentally.
Emotionally. How do I know you deserve him? ”
Fuck.
She doesn’t.
Hell, I don’t know if I deserve it.
If I’m being honest, I know I don’t.
Not now. Not yet. “I’m here until I’ve earned it. However long it takes.”
She looks back at me, gnawing on her lower lip, and I feel something else.
Something I don’t need right now.
Zip it up, I order myself. Box it up and put it away.
I was undeniably attracted to Emma when I met her in Fiji. Not just as a friend, but as more . And for the past couple years, I’ve told myself it wasn’t true attraction.
That it was a knee-jerk reaction to being close to a woman who understood the pain and loneliness that went along with leaving a failed relationship that you believed in to the pit of your soul.
That it was me mistaking a friend for more because my head was in a screwed-up place.
But sometime since Fiji, I’ve healed.
More, I’ve thrived .
Professionally and personally.
Watching her now— nope nope nope .
Not letting that part of me have any influence in this conversation.
“People will notice you’re missing from your normal life,” she says, “and there’s only so long before people realize you’re missing because you’re here.
Once they realize you’re here, the reporters come.
My friends are telling anyone who asks that the reason you showed up here was because you want to talk my brother into letting you make a movie about his life, but the minute the reporters spot my son, they’ll see you, and then this easy, comfortable life he and I have is over. ”
“I can sell the story about making a movie about your brother if I have to, but a guy taking a sabbatical isn’t flashy. There’ll be other scandals and gossip that’ll overshadow me.”
“You’re on top of the world right now. The movie.
The podcast. The awards. The documentary.
You walking away from it all while you’re everywhere is more newsworthy than you quietly ducking out for a leave of absence while things aren’t going well.
And no one will believe you’re making a movie about a guy who’s effectively a porn star. ”
She’s not wrong.
Since I saw her last, I’ve taken risks. I’ve had a couple duds, but then I found my stride.
Where I fit in the entertainment world outside of my family’s name.
Success. Satisfaction. Fulfillment.
The movie she’s talking about is an epic biopic about Charles Darwin that came out about a month ago.
It’s getting Oscar buzz. My podcast—covering the topic of how we all become the people we are—is at the top of every podcast chart.
A documentary that I finally relented and agreed to about my transition from Razzle Dazzle formula actor to making my own mark outside the family company is also at the top of the streaming charts.
Walking away now will cause speculation about substance abuse and my mental health. The gossip sites will be happy to say that a kid spoiled from birth who’s never had to work to find success has finally cracked and fallen from grace.
Making a movie about a porn star would be viewed the same way. I’ve found success outside of Razzle Dazzle, but that doesn’t mean people wouldn’t question me lifting up the adult entertainment industry.
That’s the world I live in.
My family is good at squashing press, but not as good as we were before social media made speculation and rumor spread so fast.
I can handle the rumors.
But can Emma?
And why should she have to?