19. Skye
— ? —
Skye
I’m at Ellen’s apartment, finally showered, finally eating something that isn’t pizza. I’m halfway through editing act one of my screenplay - the one I abandoned years ago, the one I’m finally brave enough to finish - when the doorbell rings.
Ellen answers. I hear a low voice, then Ellen saying, “You have got to be kidding me.”
Jayden appears in the living room doorway. He looks nervous. Actually nervous. He’s holding a crumpled paper bag and standing like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to come closer, weight shifting from foot to foot, one hand shoved in his pocket while the other clutches the bag like a lifeline.
“Ellen let me in,” he says.
“Such a traitor. I can’t believe she did it again,” I say without looking up from my laptop.
“I brought breakfast. From that place you like. The one with the breakfast burritos.”
“It’s 2 PM.”
“Breakfast is a state of mind.”
I finally look at him. He’s wearing jeans and a t-shirt, no suit, no watch, no assistant hovering behind him. The jeans are worn at the knees. The t-shirt is slightly wrinkled. He looks like the version of himself I fell in love with, before the money changed everything.
My traitorous heart does a little flip. I ignore it.
“What do you want, Jayden?”
He sets the bag on the coffee table and stays standing. “I want to take you on a date.”
“We’re separated.”
“I know.”
“I filed for divorce.”
“I know. I haven’t signed the papers.” He shoves his hands in his pockets - both of them now, like he doesn’t know what else to do with them.
“I want to take you mini golfing. That place we used to go in high school, the one with the broken windmill. I checked - it’s still open.
I don’t know how. The health code situation is questionable at best. But it’s open. ”
“You want to take me to mini golf.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m trying to remember who we were before I ruined everything.
And that guy - the one who took you on dates to places he could actually afford, who made you laugh, who paid attention…
” He swallows hard, his jaw tightening around something that looks like fear.
“I want to be that guy again. I want to earn you back. And I figured I should start at the beginning.”
I stare at him. He’s not performing. He’s not doing the charming CEO act that used to make investors swoon and reporters fawn. He’s just standing in Ellen’s living room, holding a bag of cold breakfast burritos, asking for a chance.
He reaches for his phone at the same moment I reach for my laptop. Our hands collide. His fingers brush my wrist.
We both freeze.
It’s nothing. Barely a touch. Skin against skin for half a second.
But I feel it everywhere. Heat shoots up my arm, pools in my chest, makes my breath catch in a way that’s completely ridiculous given the circumstances. My whole body leans toward him before I can stop it, like a plant turning toward the sun, and I hate myself for it.
He pulls back first. Clears his throat. “Sorry.”
“It’s fine.”
It’s not fine. My wrist is tingling. My whole arm is tingling. My body is a traitor that apparently didn’t get the memo about us being separated.
“Mini golf,” he says, and his voice is rougher than it was a moment ago. “That’s what I came to ask. Will you let me take you mini golfing?”
“You came here to ask me out on a date.”
“I came here to ask you out on a terrible date to a place with questionable hygiene standards. Big difference.”
I should say no. I should absolutely say no. This is how it starts - a date here, a gesture there, and before I know it I’m back in that house waiting for him to come home from work, waiting for him to see me, waiting and waiting and waiting.
But my wrist is still warm where he touched it. And he looks so goddamn hopeful standing there, like a kid asking for permission to stay up past bedtime.
“I’m going to win,” I hear myself say.
“What?”
“Mini golf. I’m going to destroy you. I always beat you.”
A grin breaks across his face - the real one, the one that crinkles the corners of his eyes and shows the dimple in his left cheek. The one I fell in love with when I was seventeen. “You cheated.”
“It’s mini golf. How would I even cheat?”
“I don’t know, but you did.”
I close my laptop. “Pick me up at six. And the burritos better still be good.”
Sunset Mini Golf is exactly as terrible as I remember.
The windmill has been broken since 1997.
The astroturf is peeling in strips, showing the concrete underneath like bald patches on a mangy dog.
There’s a one-armed animatronic pirate at hole seven that jerks to life every thirty seconds and screams “AHOY!” loud enough to cause permanent hearing damage.
The whole place smells like stale popcorn and unfulfilled dreams.
It’s perfect.
“This place should be condemned,” I say, surveying the course with something approaching fondness.
“It’s a historical landmark.”
“It’s a tetanus waiting to happen.”
“Same thing.”
I’m winning. I’ve always been better at this - my shots are precise, controlled, efficient.
His are disasters. Absolute catastrophes.
At hole four, his ball bounces off the windmill, ricochets off the side wall, and lands in someone else’s lane entirely.
A kid in a Batman shirt picks it up and throws it back with the contempt only a seven-year-old can muster.
“Thanks,” Jayden calls.
“You suck,” the kid responds.
“Fair point.”
Hole seven: the pirate screams “AHOY!” right as he’s mid-swing. The ball goes flying into the parking lot. We watch it bounce off the hood of someone’s Honda.
“That’s going to leave a dent,” I observe.
“I’ll pay for it.”
“You could buy them a new car with what you used to make in an hour.”
“Technically still could. The consulting fees are obscene.” He retrieves the ball from under a dumpster. “Don’t tell Dr. Reeves I said that. She’s trying to help me develop a healthy relationship with money.”
Hole nine: he tries a trick shot - ball bounces off the castle wall, rolls backward, circles the moat, and drops into the water trap. A sad little plop, followed by the medieval-themed fountain spitting the ball back out at his feet like even the course is rejecting him.
I laugh so hard I have to lean on my putter. My ribs ache with it. I can’t remember the last time I laughed like this - full-bodied, unrestrained, the kind of laughter that makes you feel lighter when it’s done.
“You’re cheating,” he says.
“Still not possible.”
“You’re doing something.”
“It’s called being better than you at literally everything physical.”
He grins. And watches me. Really watches.
Not checking his phone - I realize suddenly that I haven’t seen him check his phone once since we got here.
Not calculating his next move or scanning the crowd or doing any of the things the old Jayden would have done.
Just looking at me like I’m the only thing in the world worth seeing.
“What?” I ask.
“I forgot how competitive you get.”
“You forgot a lot of things.”
It lands harder than I meant it to. His smile fades. The air between us shifts, the playfulness draining away.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I did.”
We’re waiting at hole eight - the pirate ship disaster - when a guy in a UCLA hoodie approaches. He’s tall, sandy-haired, with the kind of easy smile that probably works on most people.
“Hey, sorry to bother you, but are you Skye Rowland? From the Starlight Foundation?”
I blink. “I - yes. I am.”
“I thought so! My little sister got one of your scholarships a few years back. She’s at Berkeley now. Pre-med.” He’s grinning, earnest, practically vibrating with enthusiasm. Cute, in an overeager golden retriever way. “I just wanted to say thank you. It changed her life.”
“That’s - wow. Thank you for telling me. That means more than you know.”
“I’m Derek, by the way.” He holds out his hand. I shake it. He holds on maybe a beat too long, his thumb brushing over my knuckles. “I’d love to buy you a drink sometime. Hear more about the Foundation.”
I feel Jayden go rigid beside me. The temperature seems to drop several degrees.
“That’s very sweet, but I’m-”
“She’s with me.” Jayden’s voice is pleasant. His eyes are not. They’ve gone cold and sharp, the way they used to when a rival studio tried to poach one of his directors.
Derek looks between us. “Oh! Sorry, man, I didn’t realize-”
“It’s fine.” Jayden’s hand lands on the small of my back. Possessive. Warm. His fingers spread wide, staking a claim. “Nice to meet you, Derek.”
Derek retreats. The pirate ship becomes available. We move forward.
“That was subtle,” I say.
“I have no idea what you mean.”
“You looked like you were about to challenge him to a duel.”
“He was flirting with you.”
“He was being friendly.”
“He was holding your hand and asking you out for drinks. That’s not friendly. That’s optimistic.”
I shouldn’t enjoy this. It’s possessive and probably problematic and I’m a modern woman who doesn’t need a man to claim her like territory.
But his hand is still on my back. And his jaw is still tight. And there’s something deeply satisfying about watching my husband remember that other people find me attractive. That I’m not invisible. That I exist outside of the role of “Jayden Rowland’s wife.”
“Jealousy is a bad look on you,” I say.
“I’m not jealous.”
“You’re extremely jealous.”
“I’m protective. There’s a difference.” He leans closer, and his breath is warm against my ear, sending a shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with the evening breeze.
“And I’m very, very aware that I don’t have the right to be either.
But I am anyway. I’m jealous and protective and I want to put my hands on you so everyone in this terrible mini golf course knows you’re mine. ”
My brain short-circuits.
“That’s…” I manage.
“Too much?”
“A lot.”
“I’ll dial it back.”
“I didn’t say I wanted you to dial it back. I said it was a lot.”
His eyes darken. Something shifts in his expression, something hungry and intent that makes my stomach flip. “Noted.”
I miss the next three putts entirely.
Worth it.
The final hole is a disaster waiting to happen. A six-foot papier-maché volcano with a tunnel through the middle and a “lava” water feature that has definitely been a health code violation since the Clinton administration.
“I’ve got this,” Jayden says, squaring up his shot with entirely too much confidence.
“You’ve said that on every hole.”
“This time I mean it.”
He swings. The ball rockets toward the volcano, hits the edge of the tunnel at exactly the wrong angle, and ricochets backward - directly into the lava pool, where it vanishes with a small, greedy gulp.
A beat of silence.
“The volcano ate my ball.”
“The volcano ate your ball.”
“That’s… that’s not supposed to happen.”
“And yet.”
He stares at the bubbling red water like it’s personally betrayed him. “I want a do-over.”
“There are no do-overs in mini golf.”
“There should be. That volcano is a menace to society.”
I’m laughing so hard I have to sit down on the astroturf, not caring that it’s probably covered in decades of spilled soda and childhood tears. “This is the best date I’ve ever been on.”
“You’re mocking my pain.”
“I’m cherishing your pain. There’s a difference.”
I win by eleven strokes. He doesn’t complain.
He buys me ice cream. We sit on a bench outside the mini golf course, sharing a sundae like we’re seventeen again. The sun is setting, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink. His knee brushes mine. Neither of us moves away.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
“For losing?”
“For everything. For the years I wasted. For the person I became.” He’s staring at the ice cream like it holds all the answers.
“I had this idea of who I was supposed to be. Successful. Important. The guy who built an empire. But somewhere along the way, I forgot that the empire was supposed to be for us. Not instead of us.”
I’m quiet for a moment. Then: “I forgot too.”
“Forgot what?”
“Who I was. Before I was your wife.” I take a bite of ice cream. “I used to have dreams. Big ones. I was going to write movies that changed the world. And then I met you, and I thought… I thought supporting your dreams was the same as having my own.”
“It wasn’t.”
“No. It wasn’t.”
We sit in silence. The ice cream melts between us.
“I want to read your screenplay,” he says. “The one you’re working on. Ellen mentioned you’ve been editing.”
“It’s not ready.”
“I don’t care. I want to see it. Whatever stage it’s at.”
“Why?”
“Because I spent years building my dream while you shelved yours. The least I can do is be your first reader.”
I look at him. Really look. Trying to see past the apologies and the gestures to the man underneath.
“Okay,” I say finally. “But you have to be honest. I don’t want flattery.”
“When have I ever flattered you?”
“You called my cooking ‘creative.’”
“That was honesty. Your cooking was a creative interpretation of recipes.”
I laugh. And he looks at me like I’m the sunrise.
He’s looking at my mouth. I notice. The way his gaze drops, lingers, drags back up. The way his breath changes, goes shallow.
“Jayden.”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t look at me like that when I’m trying to stay mad at you.”
He leans closer. I can feel his breath on my lips. My heart is pounding so hard I’m sure he can hear it. The ice cream is melting, forgotten, and all I can think about is the heat of him, the familiar scent of his cologne mixed with evening air and sugar.
For a second, I almost close the gap. Almost.
Then I pull back. Look away.
“I can’t. Not yet.”
He doesn’t push. Doesn’t pout. Doesn’t do any of the things the old Jayden would have done - the sighing, the wounded looks, the subtle guilt trips. Just nods.
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
“I told you I’d earn it. I meant it.”
I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.
“I want to take you somewhere nicer tomorrow,” he says. “A real dinner. Somewhere with tablecloths.”
“This wasn’t a real date?”
“This was me getting humiliated. Tomorrow I want to impress you.”
“Fine. But I’m picking the restaurant.”
He drives me back to Ellen’s apartment. Walks me to the door. Doesn’t try to kiss me. Just says, “Thank you. For giving me a chance.”
I watch him walk back to his car, and for the first time in months, I don’t feel angry when I look at him. I’m not sure what I feel instead. But it’s something.
That’s a start.