Chapter 23
TWENTY-THREE
FORBIDDEN LOVE’S FILMING WAS MORE than halfway finished, and Caitlin had begun to dread the inevitable end.
Ever since she and Gemma had found their rhythm, filming had flown by.
Each scene required fewer and fewer takes as their chemistry unfurled.
It was exactly what Caitlin had hoped for in the beginning, yet now a quiet panic had settled on her chest. She didn’t want it to end at all, afraid of what that finality would mean for her and Gemma.
After their conversation in Madame George’s bathroom, Caitlin had delicately tried to address their relationship multiple times, but Gemma would always nimbly steer the conversation away.
On her last attempt, Gemma had shut down completely, refusing to acknowledge either the past or present, using the argument as an excuse to put distance between them.
They had returned to only seeing each other at work, polite and careful, the closeness they recently shared reduced to guarded exchanges.
Still, Caitlin refused to accept that there was nothing left between them.
Later that night, walking along the Hudson River, Caitlin looked up to see a single bright star arching across the dark sky. She made the same wish she had once formulated as a teen, hoping for another second chance.
Sitting in her suite and studying lines for the next day, Caitlin wrestled with how best to deliver each gut-wrenching moment.
The scene opened with Kate attending Sarah’s Broadway debut, undeterred by her husband’s threats to stay away.
There was no way she would miss it. Kate arrived at the theater with a large bouquet of red roses and sat in the audience, utterly captivated by Sarah’s performance.
Eager to congratulate her, Kate weaved her way through the crowded backstage until she found Sarah.
“I didn’t think you’d make it.” Sarah beamed.
“And miss your big night?” Kate kissed her cheek as she handed over the flowers.
“These are so beautiful, thank you.”
“Congratulations, sweetheart. I’m sorry, I must run, but you were tremendous, and I am so proud of you.”
Sarah’s sadness was evident, but Kate left, desperate to make it home before her husband returned from a business dinner.
When she walked past his study, she discovered her husband home early and more furiously drunk than she had ever seen.
The moment she crossed the threshold, the abuse began.
Between each hateful word, his fist connected with her body, saliva flying from his mouth.
By the time it was over, she lay curled on the floor, bruised and sobbing, tears soaking the carpet. The scene made Caitlin feel nauseous.
Years earlier, a friend had knocked on Caitlin’s door, failing to hide bruises of her own. Caitlin had done what she could, giving her friend a safe place to stay and holding her hand throughout the hours of police reports.
Her friend hadn’t deserved it—no one ever did, and no one ever would. Caitlin felt like the world still wasn’t speaking loudly enough about the violence that hides behind closed doors.
Caitlin wanted to portray Kate’s strength, even as she crumpled beneath her husband’s rage. She didn’t want Kate to look fragile. Caitlin wanted survivors across the world to watch a woman reclaim her power.
A knock at her door snapped Caitlin back into her hotel suite.
The clock on the nightstand read almost midnight. Startled, she crept to the peephole. Her heart leapt as she fumbled to unlock the deadbolt and chain.
“Gemma. What are you doing here?” Caitlin stood half behind the door, suddenly aware she wore only an oversized top over Skims boxers.
“Sorry, I know it’s late. I was reading the lineup for tomorrow and saw Kate’s scene. It’s pretty rough. I guess I just wanted to come see how you were feeling about it.”
Caitlin paused. “Do you want to come in?”
Gemma smiled hesitantly, and Cailtin opened the door further.
“I was wondering where that had disappeared to,” Gemma said, nodding at Caitlin’s sweatshirt.
Caitlin flushed pink. She had forgotten she was wearing Gemma’s faded mint green UPenn crewneck. She crossed to the couch to steady herself.
“You kept that all these years?” Gemma asked, perched on the far end of the sofa.
“Of course.” Caitlin could feel her face getting hotter. She could only assume her cheeks matched her hair by now. “It’s my favorite sweatshirt.”
“I felt like I had stepped back through time when you opened the door.”
“It’s my go-to for a little extra comfort. Wearing it felt like… like your arms were wrapped around me. Like you were holding me. I know that probably sounds pathetic.” Caitlin lifted her legs and squeezed her knees to her chest. “I guess it still makes me feel safe.”
“It’s not pathetic...” Gemma wavered, seeming to debate her next words. “I actually wore your old cheerleading T-shirt the other day.”
They sat in silence for a moment, absorbing the implication.
“Can I be honest?” Gemma asked.
“Always.”
“I didn’t come here because of the scene. I saw you on Watch What Happens Live. Did you mean what you said?”
Caitlin was surprised by the question, but she answered without hesitation. “I did. There’s never been anyone but you, Gemma.”
Caitlin couldn’t read Gemma’s expression.
“I don’t really know why I’m here,” Gemma admitted, eyes down. “I heard you on the show, and the next thing I knew, I was in a taxi. I’m sorry for showing up like this.”
“Gemma, you never have to apologize for your presence. You’ll always be welcome here.”
Gemma finally met Caitlin’s eyes. “You said my sweatshirt makes you feel safe. Are you okay?”
Caitlin recognized Gemma’s familiar sidestep when she wanted a change in topic. She wished she could hear everything that Gemma was thinking, but she didn’t want to press too hard.
“I’m struggling a little, to be honest.” Caitlin sighed. “Tomorrow’s scene actually is kind of personal to me. A friend of mine went through this with her husband. It was absolute hell for her and her kids.”
Gemma moved closer and tucked her legs up onto the couch, ready to listen.
“When she first came to me, I was furious. I wanted to fight for her, but I had to let her choose her moment. The second she called and asked for my help to leave, I sent my security team to get her and the kids out and into my house until the divorce was finalized. Since then, I’ve been working with an organization that gives other domestic violence survivors a safe place to get help. ”
“Caitlin,” Gemma said gently.
“It’s the reason why this scene is so tough for me to nail. I want to honor and empower other survivors that might be watching.”
“I’m glad she had you to turn to.” Gemma placed a hand on Caitlin’s forearm. “The situation sounds awful, but what you did for her was incredible. Keep your head up—in the scene, I mean. Don’t let your face fall. Most importantly, don’t let Kate look ashamed.”
Caitlin nodded, picturing how the scene would unfold. “Thanks for that. I’m glad you stopped by, no matter the reason.”
“Happy to help.”
They didn’t move from their spots on the couch. It seemed neither wanted the night to end.
“Do you want your sweatshirt back?” Caitlin asked, trying to keep Gemma there a bit longer.
“No, you keep it. It looks better on you.” Gemma’s fingers uncoiled from her arm, and Caitlin felt the sudden absence of warmth. “I am surprised you got the smell out of it, though.”
Caitlin remembered that night like it was yesterday. They had gone to their first college Greek Life party for incoming freshmen and drank more than either of them ever had up until that point.
Back in their dorm room, they had fallen into sloppy, drunken sex, and Gemma’s crewneck—the one currently on Caitlin—had been tossed onto the floor.
They had laughed through messy kisses, and Caitlin remembered it feeling wild and perfect.
The next morning, however, Caitlin had woken up and vomited directly onto the sweatshirt.
“I had to wash it like ten times.” Caitlin laughed. “This sweatshirt could tell a lot of stories.”
Caitlin had practically lived in that crewneck throughout college and could recall dozens of times Gemma had ripped it off her in the heat of passion.
Years of silence had passed since the breakup, and the crewneck became a forgotten memory buried in the back of her drawer. But the moment she put the familiar fabric back on, the feeling was instantaneous, the soft embrace of a home she thought she’d lost.
“It definitely could,” Gemma agreed.
“I genuinely never stopped thinking about you, Gemma.” Caitlin had committed to total honesty.
When she saw the flicker in Gemma’s eyes, Caitlin slowly crossed the small space and intertwined their fingers together. Gemma hadn’t pulled away, causing her chest to tighten. It felt shockingly normal to be with Gemma again, to touch and breathe the same air.
“I should probably go,” Gemma softly spoke, starting to stand up and pull away.
“Stay.” Caitlin held on fiercely before Gemma could walk away.
Gemma hesitated, then, without a sound, led Caitlin toward the bedroom.
They slid under the sheets together, Caitlin keeping a respectful distance in the king-sized bed.
She didn’t want to push Gemma’s boundaries.
Caitlin lay on her back, feeling Gemma shift until her body pressed against Caitlin’s side.
She turned toward Gemma, delicately draping her arm over Gemma’s waist, holding her from behind. “Is this okay?”
“Yes,” Gemma whispered into the dark, snuggling back into Caitlin.
Caitlin couldn’t fathom how they ended up there, but for the first time since she was nineteen, she felt like everything would be okay. Letting out a sigh of contentment, Caitlin drifted to sleep with Gemma in her arms.
THE NEXT MORNING, CAITLIN WOKE feeling like she hadn’t slept that deeply in ages. But when she opened her eyes, the space beside her was empty. Had she dreamt that Gemma had stayed over?
As Caitlin set her feet onto the floor to start the day, she noticed a piece of monogrammed hotel paper on her nightstand.
You’re going to crush it today. I’ll see you at work, mi capitana. – G
Caitlin pressed the note to her heart. It may have been a simple gesture, but it felt monumental. It was the first note she’d received from Gemma since college, and she clung to it like a beacon.
With Gemma, Caitlin had always turned to handwritten notes when speaking her feelings out loud had felt impossible.
In high school, paper had given her courage when her voice had faltered, letting her say the things she couldn’t trust herself to say face-to-face.
Seeing the carefree scrawl of Gemma’s words again now gave Caitlin a whisper of hope that she might yet be forgiven.
Caitlin knew better than anyone the power that letters could wield, both healing and cutting deep. She remembered the letter she had written to Gemma ten years ago, hasty and reckless—and the destruction it had left in its wake.