11. Andy
Andy
The kitchen smells like Mom's pot roast, the kind that takes all day and fills every corner of the house with warmth.
Dad sits across from me, methodically cutting his meat into perfect squares.
Mom moves between the stove and the table, refilling water glasses and asking if I want more mashed potatoes even though my plate is still half full.
This is my life now. Dinner with my parents most nights, stories about the kids at the studio, Dad's quiet nods when I tell him about Lily's pirouette progress or Marcus finally holding his plié for a full five counts.
It's small and predictable and mine in a way nothing has been for years.
"Maeve says enrollment is up," I tell them, spearing a piece of carrot. "Three more kids want to start after the holidays."
"That's wonderful, sweetheart." Mom settles back into her chair, the one that faces the kitchen so she can keep an eye on everything even when she's sitting down. "You're good for that place."
Dad grunts his agreement and reaches for the salt. High praise from a man who measures his words like they cost him money.
The front door opens without a knock. Only one person walks into my parents' house like she owns it.
"Hope you made enough for one more." Ellie appears in the kitchen doorway, cheeks flushed from the cold, eyes bright with the particular energy she gets when she has news that can't wait. She looks at me, then at my parents, then back at me with barely contained excitement.
Mom stands automatically, already moving toward the cabinet for another plate. "Of course, honey. Sit down."
But Ellie doesn't sit. She hovers near the table, shifting her weight from foot to foot like a kindergartner who needs to use the bathroom but doesn't want to miss story time.
"Andy, did you hear? Jameson bought the building. Your building."
My fork stops halfway to my mouth. The bite of pot roast hangs there, suspended, while my brain tries to process what she just said.
The building. The one that houses Maeve's studio, where I teach Lily and Marcus and kids who call me Miss Andy and show me their loose teeth and ask if I've ever been on TV.
He bought it.
"What?"
Ellie drops into the empty chair beside me, her jacket still on, her hands moving as she talks. "Yeah. And he also bought McKinnon's farm lot."
The fork falls from my fingers, clatters against the plate. McKinnon's farm lot. I know that place.
We went there during our second visit to Copper Falls, back when Jameson was still doing carpentry during the day and auditioning at night, back when visiting my hometown felt like a vacation instead of an escape route.
I drove him out there after dinner at Ben's ice cream shop, parked the car on the dirt shoulder, and spread a blanket in the tall grass.
"Look at this place," he'd said, lying back with his hands behind his head, staring up at the stars you can't see in LA. "You could build a house right here. Big front porch, garden for your mom's tomatoes, enough yard for a dog."
I'd laughed at him, called him ridiculous, told him he was getting ahead of himself. But he'd rolled onto his side, propped his head on his hand, and looked at me with those gray eyes completely serious.
"I'm not getting ahead of myself. I'm planning ahead. There's a difference."
I'd kissed him to shut him up, but part of me had wondered what it would look like—that house with the porch, the garden, the dog we'd name something stupid like Pancake or Sir Biscuit. Part of me had wanted it.
Now he owns the land.
Dad looks up from his plate, matter-of-fact as always. "Yeah, and Pete mentioned Jameson talking about helping renovate his motel."
Three things. The building where I work, the land where we used to dream, and Pete's falling-apart motel that's been held together with duct tape and stubbornness for the past decade. Three investments in a town that isn't his, for a wife who hasn't spoken to him in days.
"What even is happening?"
The question comes out strangled, like my throat forgot how to work. Ellie reaches over and squeezes my hand, her fingers warm and solid and real.
Mom sits back down, her plate forgotten, her eyes gentle but direct. "He's trying to show you he cares, sweetheart. He knows how much you love this town, so he's doing what he can."
Something defensive rises in my chest, hot and automatic. I pull my hand away from Ellie's and press it flat against the table.
"I didn't ask him to."
The words come out sharper than I intended.
I didn't ask him to buy the building or fix Pete's motel or send granola bars to the studio without notes attached.
I didn't ask him to stand in the rain with an umbrella that barely covered both of us or drive me home when I could have called Dad.
I didn't ask for any of it, and the fact that he's doing it anyway is?—
I don't know what it is. Confusing. Overwhelming. The kind of thing the old Jameson would have done, the one who paid attention to what I needed before I knew I needed it myself.
Mom's voice stays calm, warm, not pushing. "Yes. And he's not forcing you to take him back. He's been here for three weeks now, and he hasn't forced himself on you. He's just there."
The truth of that hits differently when she says it out loud.
He hasn't pushed. He drove me home and didn't try to come inside.
He sends snacks but doesn't show up at the studio.
He's helping Pete and buying buildings and apparently renovating motels, but he's not knocking on our door demanding forgiveness.
He's just there. Present without being intrusive. Giving without expecting. Proving something without demanding credit for the proof.
"I don't want to go back to our old life."
The words tumble out before I can stop them, raw and honest. Not "I don't love him"—everyone at this table knows I do, and pretending otherwise would be pointless.
The fear is deeper than that. If I open this door, if I let him back in, we end up in LA again. Back to watching him kiss other women while cameras roll and pretending my heart doesn't crack every single time.
I'd rather stay heartbroken here than go back to being invisible there.
Dad puts down his fork, looks at me with those steady eyes that see too much. "You don't have to."
Four words from a man who rarely uses more than four.
But those four words change everything. He's not saying forgive him.
He's not saying don't forgive him. He's saying the old life isn't the only option.
Whatever I choose—with Jameson or without him—going back to what was killing me isn't required.
Ellie pulls out her phone, the screen bright in the warm kitchen light. "There's something else."
She scrolls for a second, then holds the phone where I can see it. A headline on some entertainment news site: "Jameson Rivers Turns Down Blockbuster Role Opposite Selena May."
I take the phone with unsteady fingers and read. He turned down a movie. Not just any movie—the biggest project of his year, maybe his biggest project ever. The kind of film that wins awards and breaks box office records and defines careers. He said no to all of it.
And he would have been starring opposite Selena.
The comments below the article are a mess of opinions and speculation:
"Finally a man who chooses his wife over his career"
"Still think he cheated tbh"
"That director already said the hotel thing was a meeting about reshoots. Some of y'all need to apologize"
"Selena's been posting thirst traps since he left town. Girl has NO shame"
"Andy Rivers is living her best life in her hometown while her husband follows her around like a puppy. Good for her"
"Plot twist: what if Selena set the whole thing up for publicity?"
I scroll through more comments, each one a stranger's opinion about my marriage, my pain, my husband's choices.
The story has shifted. I'm not just "the wife who got cheated on" anymore. The narrative is more complicated now, messier, and somehow that makes it worse. My private reckoning has been turned into entertainment, my heartbreak dissected by people who've never met me.
I set the phone down and look around the table. Mom, Dad, and Ellie are all watching me, waiting for a reaction I don't have words for.
The building. The farm lot. The motel renovation. The movie he turned down. The public narrative shifting in real time while I sit in my parents' kitchen eating pot roast and trying to figure out what any of it means.
Ellie leans forward, her voice gentle but curious. "What are you planning to do now?"
The question hangs in the air between us. Mom's hand rests on her coffee cup, Dad's eyes stay steady on mine, and Ellie waits with the patience of someone who teaches five-year-olds for a living.
I look at each of them—the people who love me most in the world, who opened their doors when I showed up broken and didn't ask questions, who let me build a life here without pressure or judgment or timelines for healing.
And I realize I don't have an answer.
"I don't know."