10. Jameson
Jameson
The faucet has been dripping since before I got here. Pete says he's been meaning to fix it for two years, which probably means he wrote it on a napkin once and put the napkin in a drawer.
The sound drives me crazy at night — that steady drip, drip, drip through the thin walls — so this morning I'm under the sink with a wrench and a flashlight, replacing a washer that's so corroded it crumbles when I touch it.
When the dripping stops, Pete stands in the doorway and nods once, which from Pete is basically a standing ovation.
Two weeks. Two weeks of waking up in this room.
Two weeks of fixing pipes and replacing door hinges and earning the right to exist in Pete's space without him threatening my kneecaps.
Two weeks of sending coffee and pastries to Andy's studio and driving past it without stopping, just to make sure her car is there, that she's okay, that she's still choosing the life that makes her happy.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. I've been keeping it mostly off, checking it once or twice a day to handle whatever can't wait. Most things can wait. Most things should have waited three years ago.
Three missed calls from Selena. I delete them without listening to the voicemails. Jacob told me she's been posting stolen shots from filming, playing coy about our supposed affair on social media. Building her brand on the wreckage of my marriage.
The thought sits in my stomach like spoiled food, but I don't have the energy to be angry anymore. Anger would require caring what Selena does, and I don't. I care about Andy. Only Andy.
The phone buzzes again. Vinny's name flashes across the screen.
He's been calling for two weeks. I've been ignoring him for two weeks. This time, something shifts in my chest — not anger, not dread. Clarity. I'm ready to end this.
I answer on the fourth ring.
"Finally." Vinny's voice sounds exactly the same as it always has — clipped, fast-talking, the energy of a man who sees everything as content and everyone as a commodity. "The producers want to capitalize on the gossip. The talk isn't dying down. This is a goldmine."
My jaw tightens. Two weeks of silence from me, and his first move is strategy. Not concern. Not asking if I'm okay, if Andy's okay, if our marriage survived the media circus he helped create. Strategy.
"I didn't sign up for that."
"No, but it'll help the movie make significantly more at the box office. The speculation is driving engagement through the roof. We couldn't buy this kind of press."
We. Like my marriage collapse is a team effort. Like the worst two weeks of Andy's life are a collaborative marketing campaign.
"Don't you care that my marriage is in trouble?"
He actually laughs. The sound comes through the phone like nails on glass.
"Jameson, come on. Andy's a big girl. She'll get over it once the dust settles.
Just keep your head down, let the story run, and by the time promos come around, nobody's going to care about your marriage drama. This is business."
Marriage drama. And nobody's going to care. Nobody ever cared. That was the problem.
The words come out cold and flat and final.
"Fuck you, Vinny. You're fired."
I hang up before he can respond. Drop the phone on the nightstand like it's contaminated. The silence that follows feels clean, like the moment after you remove a splinter — the absence of something that was always hurting, even when you stopped noticing the pain.
For three years, I let that voice run my life. I'm done letting it.
The relief sits in my chest like warmth. Not triumph — just the quiet satisfaction of cutting something toxic out of your life. I get dressed and head downstairs for breakfast.
Meredith has set a plate for me at the small table in their kitchen. She does this now, without being asked. Not warmly — Meredith doesn't do warm — but there's no hostility in the gesture anymore. Watching me fix her husband's motel has shifted her from "I will poison you" to "sit down and eat."
The coffee cup is already filled. There's an extra piece of toast on the plate that wasn't there yesterday.
Small signals. Not forgiveness, not embrace. Just tolerance with decreasing hostility.
Pete sits across from me, thick glasses sliding down his nose as he reads something on his phone. His eggs are already half gone. The man eats like he has somewhere urgent to be, which is ridiculous because Pete's idea of urgent is replacing a light bulb before Christmas.
"You call that a pipe joint?" He glances up from his phone, nodding toward the ceiling.
I sit back in my chair and reach for the jam. "That pipe joint is going to outlast this building, Pete. Your plumbing is older than my grandfather."
"Your grandfather didn't have to work with what I'm working with. These pipes are historical artifacts."
"That's what I told you yesterday. You said I was making excuses."
Pete waves his fork dismissively. "Yesterday you hadn't proven you could do the work. Today you have. There's a difference."
Meredith refills my coffee without comment. Her version of approval.
"Speaking of work," Pete continues, "what exactly do they pay you people out there? For pretending to be other people?"
The question is so blunt it catches me off guard. "Depends on the movie."
"Ball park."
I tell him. Pete's fork stops halfway to his mouth.
"Jesus Christ, Jameson. For one movie?"
"Sometimes more if it does well."
"And people wonder why the world's going to hell." He shakes his head, chewing slowly. "Man can make more money pretending to kiss someone for two hours than I make keeping this place running for five years."
"The kissing is real," I say. "It's just not... meaningful."
"That's worse." Meredith speaks up from the counter, her back to us as she washes dishes. "At least if it was pretend, your wife wouldn't have to watch it."
The words hit differently coming from her. Not accusatory — observational. The way you'd note that it's raining or that the coffee's getting cold. A fact that needs stating.
"Yeah," I say quietly. "You're right."
Pete studies me over his glasses. "So why'd you do it?"
"The money was good. The roles were good. I thought I was building something."
"What'd you build?"
I look around the kitchen — the linoleum counters, the mismatched chairs, the coffeemaker that's older than both of us combined. This room is smaller than my walk-in closet in LA. It's the most honest place I've been in years.
"A house," I say finally. "With a kitchen bigger than this entire motel. And she still left."
Pete nods once, the way he does when something makes sense to him. The conversation moves on — something about the weather, about a guest who complained about the water pressure, about whether the Yankees have any chance this season. Normal things. Real things.
Then Pete drops it into the middle of his complaint about baseball salaries, casual as mentioning the mail.
"My stepbrother's thinking about selling that building downtown. The one with the dance studio."
My fork stops halfway to my mouth. The studio. Andy's studio.
"Someone wants to buy it?"
"Developer from Sacramento. Plans to tear it down, put up a strip mall." Pete shrugs like it's no concern of his. "Can't blame Tommy for considering it. That building's been bleeding money for years. Maintenance costs are eating him alive."
My mind is already moving. Not calculating — deciding. The studio is Andy's happiness. A developer wants to tear down Andy's happiness. I can afford to stop that from happening.
The math is simple.
"Who's the developer?"
"Some outfit called Central Valley Properties. They specialize in commercial development. Strip malls, chain restaurants. The kind of thing that makes every town look exactly the same."
I excuse myself from breakfast, thanking Meredith for the food. Pete nods at my empty plate with something approaching approval. Two weeks ago, he watched me eat like he was waiting for me to choke on it. Now he just expects me to clean my plate like a civilized person.
Back in my room, I call my accountant first, then my lawyer. The conversations are brief and businesslike. I need to buy a building in Copper Falls, California. I need it done quickly and quietly. Yes, I have the cash. No, I don't need to see it first. Yes, I'm sure.
They ask the questions they're paid to ask about investments and returns and market analysis. I give them the only answer that matters: the building stays a building. The current tenants keep their leases. Whatever it costs to maintain it properly, budget for that.
This isn't about profit margins or portfolio diversification. This is about protecting something that matters to Andy, whether I'm part of her life or not.
The whole thing takes maybe an hour. By the time I hang up, my lawyer is already drafting an offer. In twenty-four hours, maybe less, Andy's studio will be safe from developers and strip malls and anything else that would take it away from her.
My phone rings again. Jacob this time.
"How's the exile treating you?" His voice carries that particular brand of dry warmth that only comes from years of friendship.
"Can't complain. Fixed a faucet this morning. Pete almost complimented me."
"That's growth, I guess. Stay humble, brother."
"Fired Vinny today."
Pause. Then: "Should've done that a long time ago."
"Yeah. Well. Better late than never."
"Andy know you're there?"
"She knows. We haven't talked since I explained about the photos. I'm not pushing."
"Good. Let the work speak. And Jameson? Get her back. Or I quit."
That's Jacob — everything important said in the fewest possible words.
We talk for another few minutes about nothing much.
He's back in LA handling some security consulting work.
The weather's shit. The Lakers are disappointing everyone again.
Normal conversation between two friends, one of whom happens to live in a motel and the other of whom happens to carry a gun for a living.
After we hang up, I sit on the edge of the bed and look around the room.
I don't know if buying the building will matter to Andy.
I don't know if she'll see it as protection or manipulation, as proof that I've changed or evidence that I still think money solves everything.
I don't know if any of the work I'm doing — the pipes, the doors, the careful distance, the quiet persistence — will make a difference in how she sees me.
But I'm not doing it for the outcome anymore.
I'm doing it because this is who I want to be.
The man who fixes things instead of just promising to fix them later.
The man who shows up. The man who protects the people he loves even when they don't want him around, especially when they don't want him around.
Not the man who sits through dinner meetings while his wife goes to sleep alone. Not the man who lets other people decide what matters.
The building will be safe. Andy's studio will be safe. Her students will keep learning. Whether I'm part of that world or just protecting it from the outside — that's up to her.
But the studio stays. Whatever else happens, the studio stays.