46. Reese
Chapter 46
Reese
The sun beats down beyond the wraparound porch of my family’s home. Mama, Cleo, and I are sprawled across weathered rocking chairs, the sweet scent of pansies mingling with the leftover shrimp po’ boys on the table.
My phone sits heavy in my lap, Dante’s name glowing on the screen.
Cleo slides her lavender sunglasses down her nose, fixing me with a glance she’s perfected since we were teens stealing peaches from old Mrs. Dubois’s garden down the road when Cleo would visit. “Reese’s Pieces, it’s Christmas Eve, either text him or throw your phone in the pool, but this whole pretending-you’re-not-missing him thing? I can’t with you.”
“I’m not—” My protest dies as the ancient rocker betrays me with a knowing creak. “Just checking the editing timeline with Amara, that’s all.”
“Baby girl,” Mama says with her infinite patience, “your heart’s sitting heavy. Let’s talk about it.”
I twist a loose thread on my sundress until it threatens to unravel, much like everything else these past few weeks. “What’s there to say? Dante kept things from me when things between us were supposed to be simple. Then suddenly they weren’t, and now…” I trail off.
Mama’s nails tap a gentle rhythm against her glass. Her voice is soft but knowing, like Spanish moss in the breeze. “I saw how that boy looked at you in those photos. Like you were something he couldn’t quite believe was real. Not just that, I saw how you were last time you visited. Bright and alive. You gonna let some scummy reporter steal it all away?”
“He knew her, Mama,” I whisper. The words that have been echoing in my head all week finally spill out. “And he never told me.”
“Never told you what, exactly?” Cleo shifts, arching an expertly threaded brow. Her bikini shows off her gym-sculpted abs. “That cameras might show up? Because, babe, that’s literally your Monday through Sunday.”
The truth of her words settles over me like the afternoon heat. Dante hadn’t called the paparazzi or tipped them off about the beach. Amara confirmed it all after I’d walked away from him that night at the gala. Susan had known about us already.
I’d been discovered the way I always was, the way I probably always will be.
“I know, but some small, insecure part of me is afraid he may have used me,” I say, but as the words leave my mouth, they feel wrong. “Like Ricky did. That’s definitely my old wounds talking, I know it is, but it was my only other relationship, so I don’t have much else to refer to.”
“That bastard manipulated you when you were just a child. Lord, don’t get me started on him.” Mama shakes her head.
I grip my hands tighter in my lap. “I know. I opened up to Dante about Ricky, about all my fears of history repeating itself. And I know that Dante is nothing like him, but it still hurts.”
“That’s the thing you’ll have to forgive, doll,” Mama says gently. “When I met your daddy, I lied and told him your Grandpa Fern approved of him. Truth was, Fern didn’t like your daddy much—never did tell me why. But then again, my daddy didn’t like many people. Our little love story started with a lie too.”
“See? Everyone’s got their secrets; that’s how you figure out who to trust,” Cleo drawls, propping herself up. “Show me someone who claims they’ve never lied, and I’ll show you a liar.”
“Please. You’re, like, pathologically honest,” I say with a playful nudge to Cleo’s shoulder.
“Oh, honey,” Cleo drawls, a familiar mischievous glint in her eye, “there’s plenty I don’t tell you.”
“Like what?” I challenge, leaning forward.
Cleo taps her chin thoughtfully before breaking into a grin. “Like the fact that you were the world’s most adorable mess of a first kiss.”
“CLEO!” I squeal, throwing a napkin at her. “I had braces! I was fifteen!”
“Just teasing, sweetie pie,” she says with a wink. “You’ve clearly mastered the art since then.”
“You are absolutely impossible,” I say, but I’m already dissolving into giggles.
“Made you forget about your boy problems for a minute though, didn’t I?” She reaches over to squeeze my hand, and I’m reminded why she’s been my best friend since forever.
“Sugar,” Mama says, “you both did your own wrongs, didn’t you? With Felix gone and all that PR you wanted swirling around?”
The weight of truth settles in my bones. Yes, I used Dante. We used each other, really.
“You’re right, but that’s not exactly the start of a great love story.”
“Could be yours.” Mama’s voice is gentle as she reaches for a chip, the bowl balanced precariously between her knees.
Could be . If I called him right now, he’d drive through the night to be here. And if he called, I’d catch the first flight back to California.
The truth is, after I left the Hastings gala and flew my jet to New Orleans, I saw why Dante did what he did—yes, he messed up. But it wasn’t some calculated deception or strategic manipulation, it was a fundamentally human error. Just a man who made the kind of mistake people make when they’re trying to protect something they care about.
I’ve spent years portraying artificial love stories—where romance follows a pristine trajectory, where leading men arrive fully formed and flawless, their histories conveniently blank. I played the girl who gets swept off her feet by Mr. Right, who never does a thing wrong, from the words he says to the job he works.
But they were always just that—roles.
Reality is messier. Nobody wants their heart rattled, their trust tested, their communication messed up, but perhaps that’s unrealistic. True intimacy requires this constant negotiation between two imperfect people.
With Dante, everything had felt so natural that I’d forgotten a fundamental truth: even the easiest love needs trials and tending.
“Can you really commit to being with someone when you’re still trying to figure out who you are?”
Cleo’s laugh is knowing. “Reese’s Pieces, none of us know who we are. We’re all making it up as we go along.”
Mama’s eyes hold mine with that steady love that’s always felt like home. “I know exactly who you are. Not the Hollywood version—I mean the one who cried at her first movie premiere because she wanted to share it with the whole neighborhood. The one who’s never learned how to slow down since she was eleven.” Her hand finds mine, squeezing gently. “And I know the woman you’ve become—kind, determined, fierce in all the right ways.”
Something tightens in my throat.
“Life doesn’t wait for perfect timing,” Mama continues. “Your daddy was fixing cars when I met him. Now he’s got people trusting him with their smiles. That’s the beauty of finding your person—you get to witness who they become.”
I let myself imagine it: cheering for Dante at his next competition, watching him coach young fencers with the patience he gave me. Celebrating another gold medal. Being there for his big moments like he has been there for mine.
And I want him beside me at the premiere, want to tell him about the production company Mari and I have been casually texting about starting all week, want to share Heather’s excitement about investing in it. Fighter Films. I want to keep growing together like we have for the past four whirlwind months.
“Has he seen all of you?” Mama asks. “The temper, the scowl, all those pieces you try to hide?”
“Yes.”
“Even the stubborn streak?” Cleo arches an eyebrow again.
“He’s seen it all,” I admit.
What happens if we do decide to be together? Will every shared glance, every casual touch, become fodder for speculation?
Destiny was practically exiled for a year after her scandal. The thought of dragging Dante down with me, of compromising his career, feels like too heavy a burden.
Realization dawns on me. This protective instinct coursing through my veins, this desire to shield him—isn’t it exactly what Dante felt when he held back about Susan?
“Then it’s for him to decide if you’re who he wants to be with, sweet girl. For both of you to figure out together.”
Cleo sits up. “Ask yourself one simple question: does he make you feel safe?”
Safe.
The word echoes through me.
“He does,” I admit.
Dante never tried to pull me into the spotlight—I was already there. He just stood beside me, steady and sure, letting me shine in my own way.
Before Felix left, Dante would shield me from the cameras. The masquerade, the beach—they were meant to be just for us. He never dominated conversations on set or tried to steal focus like so many of my costars had in the past.
Unlike those who saw me as their chance at image redemption, he wanted to elevate me, support me. Even when the media storm hit, he only did what I asked, never feeding the frenzy.
“You’re both right—it’s okay to fall in love, be human, and make mistakes and figure things out along the way.”
“Yes, darling,” Mama says.
“You know,” I say, “my Women in Media speech is in two days, and I think I just figured out how I’m going to end it.”
Cleo’s grin turns mischievous. “Sounds like we need to get our notebooks and pencils out.” She bounces up. “That bottle of Sazerac rye still in the kitchen, Mama Sinclair? If we’re having any more emotional revelations on my vacation, we’re definitely spiking this tea.”
Mama’s laugh ripples through the humid air. “Now that’s the first sensible suggestion I’ve heard all day.”