24 #2
in distress behind the trembling shelter of her hands. She bent at the waist, the ache in her heart literal and so painful
she wanted to keep collapsing in on herself, tighter and tighter, until she disappeared entirely.
He’d never seen her like this before. No one had, outside her family.
It was humiliating. She hated it. Hated herself. Hated him for witnessing it from across the room, already so unbearably distant
before he’d even stepped foot on an airplane.
Only he wasn’t across the room anymore, because he’d somehow dragged her out of the chair and onto the couch. Onto his lap.
Into his arms, which closed around her securely.
His palm cradling the back of her head, he pressed her face into his neck and held tight.
“Sweetheart...” It was a ragged murmur. “For fuck’s sake. I have no idea what the fuck’s happening here, but please don’t cry. And i-if”—his voice wavered and broke—“if you l-love me even a little bit, even a fraction as much as I love you, please don’t fucking leave me.”
At that, she jerked her head up and back. “ I’m n-not the one leaving, Peter.”
“We both know that’s not true.” His own eyes wet, he simply looked at her, his arms still supporting her as she nestled in
his lap. “I’d never leave you. Never , Maria.”
To him, it obviously wasn’t a lie. Which meant his definition of leaving didn’t match hers. At all. And maybe, if she could make him understand . . .
“Then tell me something.” She cupped his face in her hands, willing him to hear her. No, more than that. To listen , even if he wouldn’t like what she was saying. “If you’d never leave me, why will I be spending most of the next three years
alone?”
His head gave a little bewildered shake, his beard abrading her palms.
“But that’s not leaving you. That’s doing my job. Our job.” Ducking his head slightly, he looked her dead in the eye and kept making promises, so many solemn promises, and none
of them were the ones she needed. “And when it’s over, or anytime I have more than a day or two off, I’ll be right back by
your side. Or you can come live with me there if you want. That’s fine by me. I’ll be making enough to support us both.”
When she closed her eyes in frustration and grief, tears leaked out from beneath her lids. “I—I don’t want you to support me, Peter. I like working. I like having a career of my own. I just want you to stay with me. To not leave me for three fucking years.”
“We’re working actors, Maria.” His voice was very gentle as his lips captured her tears, one by one, and kissed them away
in a gesture so loving, more promptly appeared. “When an opportunity like this comes around, we have to take it, because we
might never get another offer that good again. Not even if we audition the rest of our lives. You know that. Please tell me
you know that, after all this time.”
Gods above, he still thought she was the one who didn’t get it.
She might not have spent two decades in Hollywood, but she comprehended the nature of their profession.
Its inherent instability. The challenge of career longevity in a youth-obsessed industry.
The extent to which any actor’s success, in the end, depended on luck and timing and privilege of various sorts as much as talent.
But she also comprehended her own nature, in a way he evidently didn’t.
“I get that work is important to you, and I get why. It’s important to me too, although I know you have trouble seeing that.”
Letting go of his face, she knuckled away her tears and tried to explain herself as plainly as possible. “But I need to be
your priority. Not something you squeeze in between jobs, stowed safely away until the next time you’re available.”
His voice held the faintest hint of an edge. “It’s not like I want to be separated from you, Maria.”
Beneath her, his thighs had gone rigid. Steely.
He was bristling instead of listening.
“I know that. I understand why you want this role. I even understand your decision to accept the offer, no matter what it
means for us.” Unwilling to give up yet, she spoke carefully as his sharp eyes bored into her, demanding she concede her position,
when she couldn’t. Not without conceding herself too. “But I want a real home. A shared home. I won’t accept spending most
of my time alone after I moved halfway across the world for you. I also won’t uproot myself to follow you every time you land
a new role. Not even if I love you, and I do , Peter. More than I think you understand. If I loved you less, I wouldn’t need you this much.”
So much it frightened her sometimes.
He went silent. Bit his lip, thinking, before he spoke again.
A wild burst of hope made her tremble in his arms. Because his eyes had gone cloudy with concentration as he considered her
words, and maybe he grasped what she was saying now, maybe—
“Is this about what happened with your ex?” His hand clenched against her back, then flattened and stroked. “Because, sweetheart, I’d never cheat on you, and I thought we already—”
He understood nothing.
“ No .” When that emerged as an impatient snap, she took a breath and deliberately lowered her voice. “This has nothing to do with
Hugo’s infidelity.”
His cheating might have been dramatic and heartbreaking—and, again, hilariously inept in retrospect—but even if he’d remained
faithful, underlying fissures would have fractured their relationship anyway, given enough time. She saw that now, more clearly
than ever.
“This discussion only involves Hugo because my relationship with him taught me I didn’t want to be with someone long-distance.”
At the charity auction, as they’d discussed their exes, she could have sworn she’d made that point very clearly. “Even before
I found out he was cheating, I was miserable, Peter. I hated that we were living so far apart.”
She grasped his shoulders and squeezed, as if that would force her words into his resistant, stubborn brain and help him see
who and what she truly was. Not the version of herself he hoped she was, or fooled himself into believing she was, or found
easier to handle.
“I love you so much more than I ever loved him. I need you more than I ever needed him.” All her love, all her heart, all
her raw, aching sincerity suffused every word, and his eyes on hers softened. “And if I was lonely without Hugo , of all people, even when I was living a five-minute walk away from my parents’ house, how do you think I’ll handle being
without you? A stranger in a foreign city, tucked away in your gated community without family nearby?”
Despite his half-stifled wince, she continued, relentless.
“How do you think I’ll feel every morning when I wake up alone, and every day spent rambling around an empty house alone, and every night I go to bed alone?
For three years, Peter. Three fucking years .
And what if they want to renew your contract?
Will you turn them down, or will you stay away even longer? ”
They both knew what his preference would be. His instinct.
And to be fair, it was the same preference and instinct most actors in Hollywood would have. But she wasn’t from Hollywood,
and she wasn’t willing to put her career before her heart.
“Not all the time.” His knuckles pressed against her spine, his open hands curling into fists once more. “You wouldn’t be
alone all the time.”
He sounded resentful now. Sullen.
And both of them knew precisely why he hadn’t answered her question.
“You’re right. Some of our castmates live in LA. You’d visit between seasons and during filming breaks.” They’d reunite with
heartfelt joy, like the lovers they were—and then he’d leave her again. And again. “But I’m not you, Peter. I need people
I love around me every day to be happy.”
This time, there was no pause for thought before he responded.
“I spent most of my Gates money on the house.” The words were flat, and for an actor of his caliber, that was a choice. A decision not to reveal emotion
to her anymore. “For us to be financially secure, I need steady work. A steady paycheck.”
His voice, his posture—everything told her he was closing down now. Digging in, just as she’d feared. Just as she’d known
he would, somewhere deep inside herself, despite all her hopes. It was why she’d already mentally prepared herself to buy
a plane ticket.
She’d always understood him more than he understood her. Just as, over time, she’d grown to love him more than he loved her.
Or maybe she was being unfair. Maybe differing priorities didn’t mean differing amounts of love. That was how it felt, though.
The familiar crawling sensation wasn’t shame, exactly. But it was related. Cold and sticky, it crept outward from her heart.
Every pulse beat spread it further, the rapid thud in her aching temples a steady accusation. A chant that looped around on
itself again and again.
You betrayed yourself again.
You knew who he was.
You let yourself care too much, when you knew better.
Of all people, you knew better.
You betrayed yourself again.
Further argument was pointless. She wouldn’t change Peter’s mind. She wouldn’t change anything. She’d only hate herself more
for begging.
But she couldn’t seem to stop trying. “I get that you’re concerned about money. But don’t you think you could find enough
jobs in LA, ones that wouldn’t require sacrificing years of our life together? And what about our Gates residuals? What about the money I’ll bring in from my work?”
So much of the film and television industry still flourished in Hollywood. It gave him options. It gave them both options.
Why didn’t he see that?
“What if all that’s not enough, Maria?” His nostrils flaring with frustration, he shifted in tiny, restless movements beneath
her. “I may not have a mortgage, but we need retirement savings, because our careers won’t stay hot forever. Even apart from
that, we have property taxes and Community Association dues and living expenses to cover, and they’ll drain us dry if the
jobs we take don’t pay enough.”