6. Somewhere Real
Chapter six
Somewhere Real
Sutton
Isat at the long table in the dining room.
The porcelain plate rested in front of me, framing a meal I had no appetite for.
I dragged my fork through the sauce. The liquid had congealed over the roasted chicken, turning into a thick, unappetizing glaze.
I pushed a piece of meat around the rim, watching the gravy smear against the porcelain.
“What a waste,” I murmured to the plate.
I dropped the fork. It hit the table with a clatter.
I had spent four hours prepping and cooking this recipe, standing over the stove while battling waves of first-trimester nausea.
It was our third anniversary, and I wanted to tell him about the baby in the privacy of our own home.
Instead, the echoing silence of the massive house felt suffocating.
I reached across the placemat and picked up my cell phone.
The screen glowed, casting a pale light over my silk blouse as I unlocked it.
I tapped his contact name and lifted the device to my ear.
The hollow ringing began. Each tone stretched out in the stillness, echoing through the empty rooms around me.
“Once we survive the madness of this first movie, Sutton, I want a real life with you,” he had told me.
The memory of his voice clashed with the ringing on the line.
I expected our routines to change after his initial blockbuster success.
I expected him to carve out boundaries with the studio and establish a foundation for us.
Now, he was preparing to leave for a four-month European press tour, and I was sitting alone in a cavernous estate.
The ringing cut off. An automated voice filled the line.
“The number you have dialed is currently unavailable. Please leave a message after the tone.”
A short beep sounded in my ear. I gripped the phone, staring at the melted wax of the candles in the center of the table.
“I just wanted to hear your voice, Hayes,” I said to the room. “The food is ruined.”
I pulled the phone away and ended the call. The screen reverted to my open text thread. His message from hours ago sat at the bottom. I read the words again, staring at the screen.
“Babe, I’m so sorry, but Mom just cornered me on set. I’m trapped on PR duties right now, but I’ll be home as soon as I can before my flight.”
Eleanor had hijacked his schedule again, and he had yielded to her authority without a fight.
He always chose the path of least resistance when it came to his mother’s marketing demands.
I understood the unpredictable nature of Hollywood productions, putting up with the cancellations and the lonely nights to keep his life running smoothly.
But I hoped our anniversary would warrant an exception.
My hand drifted down to rest over my stomach.
The sonogram photo remained hidden inside my purse upstairs.
Telling him he was a father required an intimate, dedicated moment between us.
Handing him the sonogram while he rushed through the foyer to pack a travel bag for London would make the revelation feel like just another errand on his schedule.
I let out a breath into the empty room, setting the locked phone on the table and trying to believe his excuse.
The phone vibrated against the table, the sudden buzz lighting up the display. An entertainment news alert flashed across the lock screen.
“Just leave him alone,” I whispered to the glowing glass.
I assumed it was another studio headline hyping the upcoming press tour. I reached out and tapped the banner notification to dismiss it. Instead, the app opened. A video clip loaded and started playing.
“Sparks are officially flying! Hayes Gallagher and Blaire Hastings caught looking incredibly cozy leaving The Rustic Hearth tonight, holding hands and sealing the night with a kiss!”
The gossip reporter’s tinny voice leaked from the small speaker. I stared at the footage playing on the screen. It was raw paparazzi video.
The camera flashes strobed against the familiar facade of The Rustic Hearth. It was the restaurant where we used to scrape together enough money to share a plate of pasta before he booked the franchise. It was our sanctuary.
I gripped the edge of the table. He wasn’t trapped on a closed set working on PR drills.
I watched the video loop. Hayes walked out of the restaurant doors. Blaire followed close behind him.
The camera zoomed in, capturing the moment she slid her hand down his arm. She intertwined her fingers with his. She pressed close against his side, leaning her weight into him on the crowded sidewalk.
He didn’t push her away. He didn’t drop her hand.
I stared closer at the grainy footage. Blaire rose up on her toes and pressed her lips against his cheek. The paparazzi flashes flared white, immortalizing the kiss. Hayes endured it. He stood on the pavement and maintained a polite, professional smile for the lenses.
“You let her touch you,” I whispered. “You just stood there and gave it all away.”
He brought his co-star to our private spot on our anniversary. He let her hang on his arm in front of the press to protect the studio’s illusion, rather than protect the reality of our marriage.
“Insiders say the studio is thrilled with Hollywood’s newest It couple!” the reporter crowed through the small speaker.
I let the phone drop. It smacked against the table next to the plate. I took a step backward, putting distance between myself and the harsh glare of the video.
I backed up until my shoulder blades hit the dining room wall. I stared at the glowing phone, knowing the man walking into the waiting SUV wasn’t my husband anymore. He wasn’t my husband anymore; he was just a corporate asset hitting his marks.
I pushed myself off the wall. The ruined meal sat untouched under the dim pendant lights. My cell phone rested inches away from the plate, the screen finally going black. I didn’t reach for the device. I just left it sitting next to the ruined dinner and turned my back on the table.
The long walk down the hallway stretched in front of me. The air conditioning pushed a chill over my bare arms. “Hollywood’s newest It couple!” the gossip reporter had crowed through the phone. The echo of that manufactured enthusiasm chased me over the floorboards.
I didn’t want to scream, and I didn’t want to hurl the plates against the wall to demand his attention. A theatrical explosion meant I still expected him to fight for me. But Hayes didn’t want a partner. He just wanted a convenient secret tucked away in a mansion.
I walked straight into the master bedroom and stepped past the empty bed.
The walk-in closet smelled of cedar and his expensive cologne.
I tilted my head back, staring at the top shelf above the hanging racks.
A large canvas suitcase was pushed against the wall, out of easy reach.
I stood on my toes and stretched my arms up, hooking my fingers around the nylon handle.
The wheels caught on the shelving. I adjusted my grip, dragging the luggage forward. The handle dug into my palms as the bag resisted the pull. The awkward angle put a dull ache in my shoulders.
“Just come down,” I muttered.
I gave the handle a violent yank. The suitcase tipped over the edge and dropped. It hit the carpet with a thud, jarring my arms. I ignored the sting in my skin.
Grabbing the side strap, I dragged the bulky case out of the closet and hoisted it onto the mattress. I pulled the zippers open, revealing the empty compartments.
I walked back into the closet. Rows of expensive designer dresses lined the left wall, shielded in thin garment bags. He had bought them for the endless stream of industry events, premieres, and PR parties.
“You have to look the part for the studio heads,” Hayes had told me.
The glimmering sequins and delicate silk hung in the shadows. They were costumes for a ghost. If I stayed in this house, I would spend the rest of my life playing a manufactured role for a man who chose paparazzi flashes over his own family. The illusion was dead.
I turned my back on the designer racks. I walked to the dresser tucked in the back corner of the room.
Pulling the bottom drawer open, I gathered my faded cotton sweaters.
The soft, faded material offered a physical comfort the silk never could.
I carried the bundle to the bed and shoved the clothes into the open luggage.
I pressed the cotton down, making room for more.
I kept a steady rhythm, emptying the drawer of my oldest, most practical garments.
Worn jeans and plain T-shirts piled up inside.
I left the expensive gowns hanging in their plastic shrouds.
I didn’t need a red-carpet wardrobe where I was going.
I returned to the closet one last time, pulling a pair of scuffed leather boots from the bottom rack.
I carried them back to the mattress. I dropped the boots into the corner of the luggage and zipped the compartment shut.
The suitcase sat packed on the mattress. I turned away from the bed and walked over to the armchair sitting in the corner of the room. My purse rested against the cushions. I reached into the bag, pushing past my wallet and keys.
“Where is it?” I murmured.
My fingers brushed against an envelope wedged in the interior lining. I pulled the envelope free and slipped my thumb under the flap. Glossy sonogram printouts slid into my palm.
In the black-and-white images, a tiny, blurred gray smudge sat in the center of the frame. I rubbed my thumb over the smooth finish, tracing the exact spot where the technician had pointed out the rapid, flickering heartbeat. I pressed my nail into the paper, remembering the sound.
“Eleanor knows exactly how to market this movie,” Hayes had said.