Chapter 30 #2
Yesterday’s dance rehearsal went better than expected, and now we’re ahead of schedule.
That should’ve bought me today off, but Artie texted earlier that he wants to shoot the Big Dance Scene—the final scene—tonight while “it’s still fresh.
” Might as well strike while the iron’s hot, as Maggie would say.
But I wanted those extra few days to slow the clock.
I’m not ready for filming to end.
I’m not ready for us to end.
I spend most of the morning in bed, nursing my well-earned French hangover, last night’s conversation with Ben playing on a loop.
Maggie’s scared, and while I can’t exactly relate—my dad erased every trace of my mother the second she died—I understand.
This place is her legacy. And in her mind, what I asked her to consider threatens that.
But if I nix LA, maybe that fear eases up.
It’s just…what if it isn’t enough? There has to be some way to keep whatever this is going, because it feels too important to stop.
Too important to you, maybe.
It fucking figures. Women throw themselves at me—in airports, at restaurants, on the goddamn street. I literally pay Amar to manage my DMs.
But Maggie?
Maggie wants to forget me.
And man, that stings.
Next time, I’ll fall for someone easier. Like a nun. Or a tax auditor.
I press a hand to my empty stomach, willing it to shut up. I already cleaned out what was left of yesterday’s barbecue, and there’s no way in hell I’m braving the main house to scrounge for something else. A few of Ben’s week-old ham biscuits beckon from the fridge, but I decide it’s too risky.
This is when I miss Amar the most.
I grab my phone off the nightstand and text Artie. Can I get Loretta’s number? Need a favor
You know better than that kid, he replies. She’s standing right here. Want me to have her text you?
Yes pls
A minute later, I get the most Loretta text ever. Um Holden?
The one and only
OMG
I grin. Any chance you can make me a plate from the craft table and bring it to my trailer in—I check the time—about an hour?
I can totally do that! Know what you want?
Carbs, I type. Grease if they have it. Nothing healthy
I’m on it!
I shower and shave, throw on jeans, a plain white T-shirt, and my incredibly sad Golden Goose high-tops, finally splitting across the toe.
At ten ’til four, I grab my Dodgers hat from the hook by the door and head out. I’m halfway to the gate when I notice the two black SUVs parked across from the B&B—windows down, cameras up.
Goddamn paparazzi.
Not the big-league LA guys. Just bored freelancers hoping to make a quick buck. But they’ve got lenses, and they’re watching. Possibly listening.
My grip tightens on the wheel.
Son of a bitch. Were they here yesterday? Recording from the road while I spewed my feelings like some pathetic sap?
I run a hand over my face, heart kicking up as I replay the scene. I was preoccupied. Oblivious.
Until I got in the truck—facing the road. I was staring straight ahead. Watching Colonel.
I would’ve seen them.
Thank Christ.
I press the button on the clicker to open the gate, then dial Maggie—but it goes straight to voicemail.
And that fucking stings too.
“Hey, it’s me. Um, Holden.” I wince. “Just a heads up—there are a couple paps outside the gate.” I glance in the rearview, watch them pull onto the road behind me. “They’re following me, so you should be good, but…maybe lay low anyway.
“And FYI, Deuxmoi’s got a few grainy shots from the restaurant, but there’s nothing clear of you, thank God. People are sniffing around, though. So just be careful, all right?
“Okay, well…I guess I’ll, uh, talk to you later. Bye.”
I shove my phone in the console and flip on the radio. Some twangy country ballad fills the cab, and I suffer through the cheerful, hopeful horseshit as I put some distance between me and my two new friends.
With no other traffic—or cattle—on the road, I make it to set in record time.
Artie said he “beefed up” security after the restaurant incident Friday night, which apparently means a rent-a-cop at the entrance and a PA doing lazy loops in a golf cart.
Good enough, I guess, for the rent-a-paps that could barely keep up with me on a rural farm-to-market road.
Even ten minutes early, Loretta’s already waiting at my trailer. I chuckle as she wrestles with the wind whipping her long brown hair in every direction.
“Try this,” I say, pulling off my baseball cap and slapping it onto her head.
Her face lights up. “Wow. Thanks, Holden.”
I shrug like it’s no big deal, but it sort of feels like it is.
“Oh…food,” she says, spinning to grab the takeout bag behind her.
She presses it into my hands, and I swear I tear up—the familiar yellow arrow glowing like a beacon of greasy salvation.
“You got me In-N-Out?”
“Craft services was down to a veggie tray and some chips.”
I want to hug her but tug the bill of her new cap instead. “You, sweet Loretta, are a lifesaver. But hold on,” I say, studying her. The kid’s fourteen. “How’d you pull this off?”
Her eyes sparkle with barely contained pride.
“I might’ve said it was an emergency. And that we were filming.
Which is technically true.” She grins. “They didn’t even charge me.
” She bounces down the stairs, voice trailing behind her.
“You should really try Whataburger, though. Way better. Okay, see ya.”
Before I can ask what kind of blasphemy she’s peddling, she’s gone.
Inside my trailer, I flip on a single lamp—the one in the corner that casts everything in warm, dusty gold—and scarf my food like it might fix the ache in my skull. The burger’s cold, the fries limp, but I don’t care. It’s fucking perfect.
When I’m finally full, I stretch out on the sofa and close my eyes, Maggie’s sweater draped over me. It still smells faintly like her floral body wash, and I hate how much I notice.
Outside, it’s blessedly quiet. But as soon as I start to drift off, someone knocks.
“It’s open,” I say, expecting Artie or one of the PAs. Maybe Gabi.
But it’s Maggie’s voice that hits me, soft and unsure, and suddenly I’m wide awake.
“Hey,” she says, stepping inside. “I tried to call but it went to voicemail. It’s full, by the way.”
“Uh, yeah. I need to clean it out.” I scramble upright. Her sweater slides off my lap, catching her gaze. She doesn’t mention it, just quietly closes the door.
“Is it okay that I’m here?”
I scoot over, making room for her on the couch. “Yeah, yes. Of course.”
She’s wearing a vintage-looking Calhoun Family Hill Country Bed and Breakfast baseball cap, gray leggings, and—despite the warm Texas weather—another sweatshirt, this one bright pink with two white block zeros on the front.
Almost the same outfit as yesterday. Almost the same girl. But everything feels different now.
I tip my chin toward her hat. “Looks good on you.”
“Oh, thanks,” she says, taking it off and shaking her hair loose. “I was worried about the paparazzi, but they weren’t there.” She sits beside me and drops her hat on the coffee table. “When I got your message, I figured this is where you were headed. So it’s tonight? The Big Dance Scene?”
I nod, the hurt in her eyes hard to miss. “I should’ve told you. I just…wasn’t sure you’d even want to come. After everything.”
“Holden, about yesterday—”
“Hang on,” I say, reaching for my hat that isn’t there. I grip the back of my neck instead. “You were right. I was pushing too hard. I see that now.”
“Yeah, but you had to, because I wasn’t giving anything.
” She draws my hand into her lap. “Ben and I had a long heart-to-heart today, and I’ve been thinking about what you said.
About LA. About you coming here. And I wanted to explain why I freaked out.
” A slow breath leaves her, like she’s been holding it for days.
“It’s not that I don’t want to keep seeing you.
Of course I do.” She lowers her voice. “But LA? That life? It scares the crap out of me. I’m not built for red carpets and public scrutiny and…
comment sections. I can’t imagine the entire internet picking apart my outfit, or how I talk, or what I am to you. ”
“I get it.”
“But it’s more than that.” Her thumb traces over the back of my hand.
“Because it’s not just fear. It’s guilt.
If I fall in love with you, I might stop being scared.
I might decide you’re worth the red carpets, and the scrutiny, and every awful comment.
And then what? I start resenting the place I love most. For holding me back.
For keeping me from you. And I can’t, Holden.
I won’t. My mom’s here. My whole life’s here.
If I ever started to hate it…” She swallows hard.
“I don’t think I could live with myself. ”
I lift my hand to her cheek. “You’d never have to choose.”
“But I would,” she says. “Because deep down, I think I already want to. And that terrifies me.”
Voices rise outside, but neither of us moves.
“Ben made me realize I tend to jump the gun. Everything’s always been all or nothing with me.
Yes or no. Black or white.” She shakes her head, smiling a little.
“He said maybe—before I go mentally selling my family home—I should just see where this goes.” She air quotes the phrase, but the hope behind it is unmistakable.
I sit up straighter. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying, if you really meant what Ben said you told him—that you’d come here, just for now, just to see—then I want to try.”
“Yeah,” I say, my voice rough with relief, lips curving into a grin. “I did. I do.”
I lean in to kiss her, my smile still in place. She laughs, light and breathless, like she can’t quite believe we made it here.
Neither can I.
It’s not a commitment. It’s not an I love you. But it’s a start.
“Okay then,” she says, her mouth brushing mine.
“Okay then.”
The kiss deepens, and I scoop her onto my lap.
She glances at the clock on the microwave. “How much time do we have?”
Forever, I want to say. But instead I say, “Enough.”