Chapter 18 #2
He joins me on the bed, pulling my back to his chest before placing a gentle hand over my belly protectively. “If it were up to me, I’d have a whole baseball team with you. But your body’s been through enough to give us this little miracle.”
“Baseball team?” I look back at him. “Are you saying my uterus just narrowly escaped becoming a team bus?”
“Pretty much.” His lips brush my cheek, the subtle notes of his familiar bergamot and minty scent making me nuzzle further into him. “It chose to be the Rolls-Royce of reproductive power instead. Exclusive and one-of-a-kind, just like its owner.”
“You really do know how to charm a girl’s reproductive system.”
He runs the tip of his nose along my neck. “Well, that’s a good thing, considering I’m about to upset you.”
My heart sinks. Even without him saying the words aloud, I already have an inkling of what they’ll be.
I turn, finding his eyes. “What is it?”
He takes a long breath. “Tony’s asking me to fly out tonight. He wants to film a few scenes for Credit Card Millionaire before the monsoons start in Thailand.”
“But you just got home two days ago. You said we’d have two full weeks before you had to fly out again.”
God, I hate sounding so needy. I’ve never been this way, truly. But whether it’s the lack of seeing him over the past few years, aside from a few days here or there, or these pregnancy hormones, or simply just feeling lonely in this city, I’ve been a mess lately.
Not to mention, it’s been hard to have a normal relationship—giving him updates about the baby—with Patton being in all sorts of different time zones so many weeks of the year. Just this past year alone, he’s filmed two major films and squeezed in several small passion projects between press tours.
“I know.” His voice is contrite as he tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “I promise, I’ll be here for your birthday.”
“Patton, that’s almost six weeks away.”
“Babe, this movie is expected to become a worldwide blockbuster—”
I pull out of his arms, my after-sex glow feeling more like a bad sunburn. Getting off the bed, I rise to my feet and pull on the white button-down he’d discarded on the rug before our lovemaking.
“Neesh—”
“What about in a few months when this baby is here, Patton? Will you be around then, or am I signing up to become a single parent?”
He scoots to the edge of the bed before getting to his feet and pulling on his boxers. Even disheveled, with his dark hair sticking up around his head and his neck and cheeks still flushed, he looks every bit the gorgeous man who’s displayed across the billboard on Sunset Boulevard.
Sauntering forward, he closes the distance between us in two strides. His hands try to find purchase on my hips, but I take a step back before they can.
“You wanted this baby as much as I did. You knew I would have trouble conceiving, and you said you didn’t want to wait until we were in our thirties—”
“I know I said that. Of course I want this baby—”
“Then why do I feel like you want your career more?”
He stares at me incredulously. “A—that’s not fair. And B—it’s simply not true.”
My hands lock on my hips. “Did you ask me before you signed on for those projects? Knowing we were trying to have a family, did you even consider the time commitment for so many movies? It’s more than you’ve ever taken on in a single year.”
I pace to our dresser, then turn around and amble toward him again. “Yes, we moved across the country for your career, but have you considered the impact that’s had on my life? I have no one here—”
“What about Sarina and Rome? Plus, I thought you liked working at the salon?”
“You know I barely see my sister. Her asshole pro-golfer husband drags her and my nephew all over the world so much, it’s like they don’t even live here.”
Patton knows how much I miss my sister and seeing my two-year-old nephew, because I’ve complained often about how much I dislike her husband, Jamie. Ever since she married him, it’s like I don’t recognize her anymore. She’s a shell of the person I’ve known since the womb.
“And as for the salon—yes, I do like working there, but when I come home, it’s to an empty house. Day in and day out, for weeks.”
“What about volunteering in the foster program? I thought you said you had made a few friends there?”
“I have, but it’s still new.”
The foster system is something both Patton and I are passionate about, given he lived it first-hand and I saw it through his eyes.
After his mom was sent to jail for dealing drugs when Patton was six, Patton was thrown into the system, bouncing around before he found some stability with a great family in the same Boston neighborhood I grew up in.
It’s the reason we went to the same high school and even found each other in the same dojang.
And though he’s never forgiven his mom for both her decisions and for never having found him, even after she got out, he’s always been grateful for how his life turned out.
“So come with me,” he says, moving to me again, cupping my face with his hands.
I lean into his touch, but still feel frustrated with his lack of understanding.
Or maybe it’s me. Maybe I just don’t know how to explain it to him. Maybe I don’t even know what I want.
Didn’t I agree to be here, supporting him while he lived out his dreams? Didn’t I realize that this was what I was signing up for when we came here after he got his first break?
I guess I never realized how that stardom was going to become his lifestyle—his whole life.
How it wasn’t just about filming, but marketing, publicizing, and so much more, even as an actor.
That, at some point, he’d become public property, not just his talent, but his time and presence.
That every dinner would be cut short by “a quick phone call”.
I didn’t realize when we were just newlywed twenty-one-year-olds, dreaming about him “making it” and me using my business degree to open up a salon, that his dream would grow while mine shrank.
Somewhere between his rising stardom and our move to L.A., the life I’d imagined has taken me by surprise. Like expecting to catch a ball headed your way but misjudging the speed, so that when it hits your hands, the impact sends a throb up your arms.
I’ve attended five red-carpet events over the past four years.
To be honest, they were four too many to have gotten an understanding of things.
Things I don’t really want to invest my time on, like figuring out what to wear so I don’t end up on someone’s worst-dressed list or smiling through conversations with people who asked what I did but didn’t give a shit about my answer.
Everything feels performative—friendships, compliments, even laughter. Everyone’s always “on”—for the cameras, for their next role, or maybe because they’ve forgotten who they really are. And honestly, I get it; it’s part of their job.
But it’s not mine. It’s not what I signed up for.
Because I signed up for him.
And even though I’ve accepted being in the background or even being known only as “Patton’s wife” or “Patton’s plus-one,” I can’t deny there are times I wish I had something that was mine. An identity of my own.
God, look at me. Don’t I sound like a privileged asshole? How many women out there would kill to be me, the woman on Patton Pierce’s arm?
I shake my head, encircling his wrists with my hands. “Patton, I can barely make it through a drive across town to the salon without throwing up. You want me to get on a fifteen-hour flight to Thailand? Plus, I want to stay close to my doctors here, in case something happens—”
His hand tightens around my jaw. “Nothing is going to happen. You’re further along this time.”
“I hope not,” my voice is quieter now, “but I don’t want to risk anything. And anyway, what about after the baby’s here? What, do we just follow you around the globe, hopping from set to set with a diaper bag and a car seat in tow?”
His hands drop from my face.
“I know you want me with you. That you love me. I love you, too, Patton. But I don’t know if—”
My words are cut off when his phone vibrates on the nightstand, and he goes to check who it is. From just the way his shoulders sag, I know he has to take the call.
No, he doesn’t have to take the call, but I know he will. Because that’s who we’ve become—a couple on Hollywood’s schedule.
I make my way to our bedroom door, my heart somewhere in the pit of my stomach.
He’s stuck between a rock and a hard place. I get that. He’s chased this dream for as long as I’ve known him. From our high school stage to the silver screen, he’s worked his ass off to get here.
I know how much he loves me, I do. So, I get that this can’t be easy for him, either.
And yet, I still feel a little deprioritized. Like I’m a piece of mail he’s told himself he’ll open later when he has more time, energy, and bandwidth.
Knowing this conversation isn’t going to be resolved today—not when he’s made the decision to leave tonight—I decide to let him off the hook. Again.
I’ll just make it easier on him, letting him know I understand, even if understanding doesn’t make it hurt any less.
I give him a reassuring smile over my shoulder, hoping it reaches my eyes. “I’m going to make myself some tea.”