26
For someone who hadn’t lived in Peter’s home especially long, Maria had spread out to a surprising extent. Somehow, without
her noticing, her belongings had scattered to every room in the house, and that was before she’d even shipped all her stuff
from Sweden.
Good thing she hadn’t finalized those arrangements yet. She wouldn’t exactly have been able to ring up the barge in the middle
of the Atlantic and tell it to turn around.
Still, the packing process was going to take longer than she’d hoped. Every minute she spent in Peter’s house was another
minute she spent miserable, unable to distract herself from her grief in the setting where they’d spent most of their time
as lovers. So she was moving as fast as she could, but the whole endeavor would take about two hours, probably. Which was
an hour and a half more than she’d prefer.
At least the man himself wasn’t anywhere nearby. Since she’d helped him make the arrangements, she knew he’d planned to check
out from his Madison hotel Sunday morning to head to the airport and board his flight to LAX.
It was only Saturday, and after spending another night at Carah’s house, she’d left bright and early to drive to his home and remove all traces of their brief life together.
So even if he got sick of socializing and left early—and odds were good he’d do just that—he still wouldn’t make it back before she was gone, no matter whether it took her a half hour or two hours to pack.
Besides, no way he’d come if he knew she was there. And he did, because she’d texted him to ask for permission to enter his
house, even though she’d still had her keys and remotes and everything else that allowed her access to his life.
Fine , he’d texted back yesterday evening, an hour or so before the alumni event.
One word. Nothing more. Because he was Peter, and because he was pissed and hurt.
Oddly, though, he’d written her again close to midnight and used a somewhat wider selection of his vocabulary. Text me when you get there and before you leave, please.
The please was weirdly polite. And why did he care when she came and went? Maybe it was an alarm company thing? Or he’d revoked her
permission to enter the stupid community gates, and now he’d need to make an exception?
Or maybe he just wanted to be very, very sure she was gone before he came home. If so, fair enough. She wanted the same thing.
So she’d obediently texted him upon arrival without expecting to hear back, because what else was there to say, really?
But as she gathered up all her elastics, clips, and other hair supplies from both bathrooms, her phone dinged again, and gods
above, did he want her to fucking record her packing process so he could ensure she hadn’t stolen anything, or—
Oh. It was Ingrid, her agent. Not Peter.
After reading the text, Maria obediently FaceTimed Ingrid so they could discuss the movie script her agent had received the evening before.
The project had a great director attached, a woman Maria had wanted to work with for a while, and an award-winning cinematographer interested too.
The story was a suspenseful woman-on-the-run movie with a romantic arc—the main character’s computer-genius best friend–turned–more—and absolutely no reference to her size.
Again and again, she’d used her moments in the media spotlight to advocate for more films starring fat people that had nothing
to do with fatness. Superhero movies starring fat people. Erotic movies starring fat people. Romantic comedies starring fat
people. Period films starring fat people. Gangster movies starring fat people. Spy movies starring fat people.
Suspense movies starring fat people.
Like this one.
Apparently, the director planned to film in Iceland, a setting Maria found absolutely breathtaking. The project would require
three months of shooting, more or less. And if her agent’s opinion could be trusted—and it could—the story might as well have
been written with Maria in mind. So unless the script itself failed to impress her, she wanted that part.
Which would require three months. Three months of shooting. In Iceland.
And she’d have wanted the part even if she and Peter were still together.
She dropped abruptly onto the oversized, ridiculously comfortable couch in his great room and told her agent she’d call back
later in the day. Because...
Skit . There was no use in denying it.
She’d fucked up. Not entirely. Not in the essentials, not in the decision she’d made to walk away, but her own blue cupboard
was far from pristine at the moment.
There were nuances to her position, and in her panic and grief and hurt, she’d considered and explained exactly zero of them to Peter. Three years spent mostly apart would still destroy her, so his insistence on accepting that FTI role still meant the end of their relationship.
Three months, though?
It would hurt. But she could handle that length of separation, if either one of them found an amazing role they truly wanted
to accept, rather than just a role that paid well.
Fy fan . No, she was still fucking up.
If Peter wanted to take a role simply because it paid well, and he needed the security of a huge financial cushion and an
expensive house in a gated community after what had happened to his mom, after what his father had done to him, who was she
to judge?
They both had pasts. Because of her past, she had needs other people might not, and she’d drawn a boundary to protect them
and herself as well. Because of his past, he had his own idiosyncratic requirements for happiness, and he should be able to
fulfill those without criticism too. As long as meeting those needs didn’t mean hers went unmet.
Her therapist had once said Maria’s tendency toward all-or-nothing relationships would come back to—as Americans liked to
say—bite her in the ass one day.
Well, no.
Because Kerstin was a therapist, she’d tilted her head before noting with complete neutrality, “When it comes to sex and romance,
you only seem open to relationships that fall into one of two very distinct categories: absolutely everything you ever wanted
or casual sex. I’d like to hear more about how that choice is serving you.”
Sometimes, she kind of wanted to slap Kerstin.
Even when Kerstin was correct. Especially when Kerstin was correct.
But her therapist would still agree that Maria had the right—no, the imperative —to walk away from a relationship that would leave her miserable, and three years of separation from her partner would do
just that. Maria knew Kerstin would say that, because they’d had an emergency appointment earlier in the week, and Kerstin
had said that.
Well, no.
Not exactly that. Not in those words. Again: therapist.
“Do you have any uncertainty about whether that amount of time apart from Peter would make you unhappy?” she’d asked. And
when Maria had shaken her head and swiped at her cheeks with a tissue, Kerstin had simply said, not without sympathy, “Then
let’s talk about the coping skills you’ve been employing.”
So yes, Maria had fucked up in the particulars, but not in her overall decision.
Maybe someday she’d apologize to Peter for those particulars, once the thought of seeing him again at various cons and awards
shows and press junkets stopped nauseating her.
Time to keep packing.
But as soon as she rose from the couch, the front door slammed open, and she jumped at the loud thud, her chest squeezing
in instinctive panic as she swung toward the entry. Only to find Peter, breathless, brows drawn tight, racing through his
own door at a sprint.
He skidded to a halt just inside the house and stared at her.
She stared back.
He said nothing.
She said nothing.
Bewildered, she glanced out the open door to see his SUV parked crookedly in the street in front of his house, his right front bumper buried in one of the bushes lining his yard. And if she wasn’t mistaken, he’d left the driver’s-side door open.
Gods above, what had happened? And why wasn’t he saying anything?
“Is... something wrong? Did I set off an alarm? Or do you need me to leave so you can deal with... whatever’s going
on?” She swung a hand toward the leafy bush now decorating his SUV’s bumper. “I’m not quite done packing yet, but I can come
back later in the—”
“No.”
One gruff word. Zero explanation.
She waited for explication that didn’t come, waited some more, and then lost patience.
“No... what? I can’t come back another time?” Her hands on her hips, she glared at him. “Because really, Peter, I need
to—”
“No, you didn’t set off an alarm. No, I don’t want you to come back another time.” He stalked closer to her, step by step.
“No, I don’t want you to leave.”
Another two steps, each one eating up enormous amounts of hardwood flooring. Another.
“Ever,” he finished.
His eyes devoured her, raking her from sloppy ponytail to slippered feet, then back again. He was wearing a wrinkled suit
for reasons she couldn’t even begin to guess, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar. His wavy mane looked like he’d dragged his
fingers through it a million times, and his hands were fisted at his sides so tightly his knuckles were white, and—
And she didn’t understand any of this.
“What...” Skit , this was cruel of him.
He should not be looking at her that way, with so much heat and need and affection , not when she’d told him exactly why she had to go and shown him in such an unmistakable way how much leaving would hurt her.
“Peter, why are you even here right now, instead of Madison?”
“Ramón and Nava were there.” He clarified, “At the event.”
“I’m glad,” she said slowly. And she was. Just entirely befuddled too, and entirely miserable and increasingly angry. “Okay,
the next time you’re out, I’ll come by and—”
His face softened. “If they’d known I’d see you so soon, they’d have sent their love.”
When she’d intended to stay here in Los Angeles, the four of them had made plans, but...