8. Jameson
Jameson
The drive to Copper Falls takes four hours. Four hours of empty highway, of billboards for fast food chains and tourist attractions I've never noticed before, of radio stations that fade in and out like someone's trying to find a signal in the static of my head.
I've been to Copper Falls a dozen times.
Thanksgiving dinners at Andy's parents' table, Fourth of July picnics where I manned the grill and Phil gave me shit about my technique.
I knew this town the way you know a place that belongs to someone you love — through her eyes, through her stories, through the way her whole body relaxed the moment we crossed the town line.
They accepted me because I was hers. Now that I've hurt her, I'm nobody. Worse than nobody. I'm the guy on the gossip blogs who hurt Andy.
The motel sits on the edge of downtown, a low-slung building with a sign that creaks in the wind. Pete's Motel. I've driven past it before but never thought I'd need it. Andy and I always stayed at her parents' house, in her childhood bedroom with the twin bed and the posters she never took down.
A bell above the door announces me with a tinny chime that makes my teeth ache. The lobby smells like pine cleaner and something older — decades of travelers, maybe, or just the particular staleness of a place that's seen everything twice.
Behind the counter, an older man looks up from a ledger. Thick glasses, a nameplate that reads PETE in block letters. He leans both arms on the counter and stares at me over those glasses like he's cataloging every bad decision I've ever made.
"You that Hollywood guy who broke our girl's heart?"
The words hit like cold water. Not "your wife." Not "Andy." Our girl. She belongs to this town. She always has.
"Yes, I am."
No defense. No explanation. Just the admission. I am the guy. I broke her heart. I'm not going to argue about it with an old man in a motel lobby.
Pete rests both arms on the counter, still studying me. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting everything in harsh white that makes my skin look gray.
"So why should I give you a room?"
The question hangs in the air between us. I could lie. I could give him some story about business, about being in town for work. But I'm done with lies, done with the easy answers that let me slide past the truth.
"Because I'm here to win her over."
Pete's eyebrows lift slightly. "Weren't you with that younger chick?"
"I will never, ever cheat on Andy. She's the best thing that's ever happened to me."
The conviction in my own voice surprises me — real, unscripted, the kind of truth that doesn't need a camera to validate it. Pete hears it too. His expression shifts, not to friendly, but to something that might be the beginning of respect.
He reaches under the counter and produces a key. An actual metal key, not a key card. This place is old school.
"Room twelve. You hurt that girl, not having a room will be the least of your worries."
The threat is delivered in the same tone he might use to discuss the weather, but I hear the steel underneath. This whole town would line up to make my life hell if I screw this up worse than I already have.
"Understood."
I take the key. The metal is warm from his palm.
Room twelve is exactly what I expected. A bed with a floral comforter that's seen better decades, a nightstand with a lamp that flickers when I turn it on, carpet the color of old coffee stains.
I sit on the edge of the bed and the springs creak like they're commenting on my life choices. This is where an A-list actor is sleeping tonight, and the absurdity of it should bother me.
It doesn't. This is where I should be.
My phone sits silent on the nightstand. I turned it off somewhere outside Bakersfield and haven't looked back. Vinny is probably losing his mind. There are probably meetings I'm missing, calls I'm not taking, opportunities slipping through fingers I'm not there to catch.
I don't give a damn about any of it.
My only contractual obligation is showing up for promos in five months. Everything else can burn. The fame, the career, the machine — it was a nice dream when Andy was beside me. Without her, it's just noise.
I wash my face in the spotted mirror, splash cold water on skin that feels like it belongs to someone else. The man looking back at me is a stranger — hollow-eyed, unshaven, stripped of everything that used to define him.
Good. Maybe this version can find the words the other one never could.
* * *
Andy's parents' house looks exactly the same. I've been here for the holidays where Linda cooked too much and Phil poured too much wine and Andy laughed so hard she snorted.
Now I'm standing on this porch as the man who broke their daughter.
Phil opens the door before I can knock. He's not smiling. He's not the warm, welcoming father-in-law who used to clap me on the shoulder and hand me a beer. His arms are crossed, his jaw set like concrete, and he fills the entire doorway like a wall I'm not meant to cross.
"You have a lot of nerve showing up here."
The words are quiet but they land with force. Phil isn't a huge man, but right now he takes up all the space in the world. This is a father protecting his daughter, and I know — because of Jacob, because of everything — that he has every right to slam this door in my face.
"Please, Phil. I need you, Linda, and Andy to listen to me explain. That's all I'm here for. The media is spinning all sorts of crazy stories, but I want to say my piece. Andy can decide if she believes me or not."
Phil's jaw works like he's chewing on words he wants to spit at me. His hand grips the edge of the door so tight his knuckles have gone white. I can see him weighing it — the urge to protect his daughter against whatever she might need to hear.
"It's fine, Dad. Let him come in."
Her voice. I haven't heard her voice since the set, since the night everything went wrong. It's quieter than I remember. Steadier too, in a way that hurts, because it means she's been practicing being strong without me.
Phil steps aside. Not willingly — reluctantly, because his daughter asked. His eyes never leave my face as I pass him, and the message is clear: one wrong move and this conversation is over.
The living room is exactly as I remember — the single recliner that's Phil's, the couch across from it, the kitchen visible through an archway where Linda can watch and listen while pretending not to.
But the energy is different now. The warmth that used to wrap around me like a blanket has turned cold, suspicious.
Andy sits in the single recliner, and at the first sight of her, my heart does the thing it's always done — pounds out of rhythm, stumbles over itself, forgets how to be steady. She's always had this effect on me. Five years of marriage and she still makes my pulse trip.
But today, for the first time, she looks at me like she's not sure who I am.
Like she's trying to find the man she married in the face of the man who showed up at her parents' door.
And I realize that the distance between us isn't four hours of highway.
It's three years of every time I chose something else over her.
Linda appears from the kitchen, moves to Andy's side like she's been waiting for this moment.
She doesn't sit on the couch — she pulls a chair up next to the recliner and takes Andy's hand in both of hers.
Phil positions himself behind Andy's chair, one hand resting on the back like he's standing guard.
I sit on the couch across from them, alone. The physical arrangement tells the story: Andy's parents have formed a wall around their daughter, and I'm on the other side of it.
Looking at the three of them, it hits me like a punch to the gut: I am the man they trusted to care for and protect their daughter. And now they're shielding her from me.
The silence stretches until it becomes unbearable. Andy watches me with those brown eyes I've been staring into for five years, but there's something different in them now. Caution. Distance. The look you give someone you're not sure you can trust.
I press my palms flat against my jeans to stop my hands from shaking.
"Andy, I'm so sorry for putting you through all of this."
My voice comes out rough, unsteady. She doesn't react. She just watches me the way you watch a storm approaching — alert, wary, braced for impact.
"But I need to make one thing clear: I never cheated on you. Not once. Not ever."
I watch for something — belief, disbelief, anger, anything. Andy's face stays guarded. Linda's thumb moves across Andy's knuckles in slow circles. Phil shifts his weight behind the recliner, and the floorboard creaks under his feet.
"I don't know how those photos made those rounds. Those first ones — yes, Selena launched herself at me. It lasted all of three seconds."
I have to stop. Press my thumb against the bridge of my nose because my eyes are burning and if I cry right now, it'll look like acting. And this is the one speech in my life that cannot look like acting.
"I didn't touch her. I didn't hug her back. I just wanted to come home to you."
Andy's fingers tighten around the arm of the recliner. Her knuckles go white against the fabric. It's such a small movement no one else would notice, but I do.
"The videos — they were taken after a meeting with Christopher. The director. He had ideas for some reshoots and called for an emergency meeting at the presidential suite."
The words are getting harder to push out, not easier. My throat feels raw, like I've been screaming.
"There was nothing going on between me and Selena."
Phil's arms unfold slightly. Not a concession — just his body adjusting. Linda's eyes haven't left my face, and I can feel her reading every expression, cataloging every tells.
"My only fault —"
I stop. Breathe. Start again.
"My only fault was being stupid and dumb enough to neglect you."
The word sits in the room like a stone dropped in still water. I chose it deliberately. Not "being busy." Not "losing track of time." Neglect. The word I couldn't even think before Jacob forced me to see it. I see it now.
"I forgot our anniversary. I won't make excuses. I won't lie."
Andy's jaw tightens. The first visible crack in her composure. Linda squeezes her hand and Andy's eyes close for just a moment, like she's absorbing a blow.
"But I just need you to know the whole truth. I wanted to give you a good life, and yes — the fame got into my head. I kept chasing the high of validation, of being wanted, of being someone, and I —"
I stop. Swallow hard. My voice drops to barely above a whisper.
"And I stopped seeing that I already had everything that mattered. Right here. With you."
The room is absolutely still. Phil's hand rests on the back of Andy's recliner. Linda is looking at Andy, not at me. Andy is staring at her own hands like they might hold answers I can't give her.
"I'm sorry, Andy. You don't deserve someone like me. But I will still try, because without you, nothing else matters."
I don't wait for a response. I don't ask for one. I stand, and the chair legs scrape against the floor — the only sound in the room. I walk to the door without looking back because looking back will break the last thing holding me upright.
I step outside and pull the door shut behind me with a soft click that sounds like an ending.
I sit in my car for a moment before starting the engine.
The porch light is still on behind me, casting my shadow long across the steering wheel.
I don't know if she believed me. I don't know if she'll ever speak to me again.
I just know she needed to have the truth, and now she has it. What she does with it is her choice.
The streets of Copper Falls are dark and quiet around me as I drive back toward the motel. This town that used to feel like Andy's gift to me — her people, her places, her home — now feels like the place where I'm serving a sentence I wrote myself.
At a stop sign, I catch a glimpse of movement in my rearview mirror. The porch light is still on, but the door is closed. Whatever conversation is happening inside that house, I'm not part of it. Maybe I never will be again.
I would trade every movie, every magazine cover, every dollar for a second chance with Andy.
Not because the fame doesn't matter — it used to matter more than anything.
But sitting here in a car in a town that doesn't want me, my phone turned off and my career on pause and my wife in a house I'm not welcome in, I know with absolute clarity that all I ever needed was her.
Just Andy.
But I don't know if I'll get that chance. I just know I'll be here, trying, for as long as she lets me. And if she doesn't let me — if this is the consequence Jacob promised — then I'll live with that too.
I pull into the motel parking lot and sit behind the wheel in the dark. The engine ticks as it cools. The night is quiet except for the distant hum of highway traffic and the creak of Pete's sign swaying in the breeze.
For the first time in my life, Jameson Rivers has absolutely nothing left to offer except the truth and the willingness to wait.