24 #3
To her, the answer was obvious, though she knew—she knew —he wouldn’t agree. “Then we should sell the house. Because if you feel forced to take certain jobs just so you can keep it,
those gates aren’t keeping you safe. They’re keeping you stuck.”
The yoke above the community’s entrance was all too fitting. That zip code was a burden laid across his broad shoulders, keeping
him in harness and hard at work.
“Peter...” She placed her palm over his heart. “Moving wouldn’t change what’s most important. You’d still be just as much
a success no matter where you lived. Besides, I adore your house and yard, but we could own that same house with an equally
beautiful view in another neighborhood, a good neighborhood, for far less money.”
As soon as she’d mentioned his home, his body had turned to stone, his chest and arms hard and unwelcoming underneath any
surface softness. And she loved him, but if she wanted to be held by a cold, blank-faced statue, she could go visit an art
museum and alarm some security guards instead.
She slid off his lap and sank onto the couch beside him.
The instant she left his arms, he flinched. His gaze flicked down to his empty lap, then to her. Then, with visible effort,
he seemed to force himself to relax. To soften his posture and his expression. Swallowing audibly, he reached out to her again
and gently clasped her upper arm. His thumb stroked her bare bicep in a tender, coaxing gesture.
He spoke quietly. “Living there was my dream, Maria. Ever since I moved to Hollywood. How can you ask me to move?”
Put like that, how could she argue his point? If that community was truly his dream, and not a crutch, not a yoke, of course
he should stay there. But either way, it wasn’t her dream, and she wouldn’t sacrifice herself on the altar of his ambitions.
“Taking this job is the best way to keep moving my career forward.” He was still speaking, still trying to persuade her to
his side, as if they didn’t both know the battle was already done. “When it’s over, I’ll have plenty of experience on a network
television set, which will broaden my appeal to casting directors, and I’ll have enough savings so I can pick and choose my
next project without worrying so much about money. I won’t ever have to leave you again. Not for years at a time, anyway.”
He said that now, but she could already see it. See him, a decade later, still taking whatever role offered him the steadiest,
biggest paycheck or the biggest bump in his career, no matter how long and how far they’d be apart.
They’d be together, but she’d be alone.
“Peter. Sotnos .” She stroked his bristly cheek, her attempt at a smile quivering with sadness. “It’ll never be enough money for you. Enough
security.”
Because he’d never have enough reassurance that his dream couldn’t be taken from him like his mother’s had. He’d never have
enough proof that he’d made it, no matter what his father said or believed.
His heart was still empty, even with her in it.
She couldn’t fill it. She wasn’t enough. Again.
Why was she even still talking? It didn’t really matter what she said, did it? He didn’t understand her position, and he wasn’t
compromising his.
“Sweetheart.” His hand covered hers, pressing it to his jaw. “You say you love me. But real love wouldn’t require me to give
up my dreams and ambitions.”
Such a tender gesture for such a harsh judgment.
She returned the latter in kind. “Maybe so. But in that case, real love wouldn’t require me to be alone when being alone doesn’t make me happy.”
Any remaining light had drained from his eyes.
He was still looking at her, still cradling her hand, but he was gone.
“It doesn’t matter if you think my needs are irrational or foolish.” One last caress of his temple, his cheek, his beard.
Then she dropped her hand and stood. “I know myself. I know what makes me happy and what makes me miserable.”
Slowly, his own hand dropped to his side and curled shut.
Otherwise, he held himself completely still.
“Fine,” he said hoarsely. “I could say the same for myself, though.”
“You’re telling me you know yourself too. You know what you need to be happy.” When he dipped his head in silent affirmation,
she offered him a final, wry smile. “Do you, Peter? Do you really?”
But he didn’t bother answering. The discussion was done. And if this was a battle for their future together, she’d lost before
even taking the field.
She dug in her purse for her cell. With a few taps on the screen, she booked a flight to LA and a car to take her to the San
Francisco airport in half an hour.
The winner might take it all, but this loser didn’t intend to leave behind her belongings. She needed to start gathering everything
she’d brought to the hotel. All her other possessions—the things she’d carried to LA and deposited in his home—she could easily
retrieve next weekend, while he was in Wisconsin for his scholarship event.
The busier she kept herself, the less likely she was to break in front of him again. So she bustled around the suite, checking every drawer, every shelf, every nook and cabinet and corner in their rooms, no matter whether she already knew they were pristine.
She tended to pack lightly. At least when she wasn’t hauling several suitcases’ worth of Swedish snacks to stymie kn?ppgokar who wanted her to starve picturesquely on film. Within fifteen minutes, her bag was full of neatly folded clothing and toiletries
zipped into waterproof pouches. The items she’d need for the plane ride went into her purse: her cell, earbuds, lip balm,
a quilted eye mask.
And tissues, of course. Lots and lots of tissues, discreetly tucked into a side pocket when her back was turned to Peter.
The whole time she searched and folded and packed, he sat motionless and silent.
Funny. He didn’t look like a man who thought he’d won. He looked... hollowed out. Pale and expressionless, arranged stiffly
upright on the couch, eyes aimed in her direction but empty. Like those unsettling Victorian photographs of beloved dead family
members she’d once seen at a museum exhibit.
He was obviously hurting too, and she hated— hated —seeing him that way. But the wound was self-inflicted, easing his pain was no longer either her responsibility or her privilege,
and his company in misery was the coldest comfort imaginable.
She needed to go.
The car wouldn’t arrive for a while yet, but she couldn’t guarantee her composure if she stayed any longer. She’d wait in
the lobby, or—better yet, given the groups of fans likely still congregating in that area—just outside the hotel, behind a
convenient potted plant.
Her soft knitted wrap would help keep her warm on the plane, so she looped it around her neck before donning oversized sunglasses.
It was a futile gesture. If she cried, anyone watching would notice her blotting her nose with all those tissues, and her
height and build and hair were likely unmistakable to fans even without her eyes visible. But she could at least try to preserve her anonymity.
A good faith effort, Americans called it.
She’d always liked that phrase.
In her opinion, she’d put forth a good faith effort with Peter too, although he’d probably disagree. But his opinion shouldn’t
matter to her anymore, right?
She slung her purse over her shoulder. Her suitcase handle telescoped smoothly, and the bag trailed behind her to the door
without a hitch.
Her breath, however, did hitch. Once, twice, a third time, as she looked back over her shoulder and prepared to say farewell
to the man she’d loved far too long, far too much.
In the end, she couldn’t say it. She couldn’t say anything. If she opened her mouth, a sob would emerge, and if she waited
any longer, her tears would spill beneath her sunglasses.
So she left their hotel room without a word. Again. Just like their first night together.
But this time, his eyes were open.
He watched her go.