13. Andy
Andy
Ilock the door to the studio and turn off the lights one by one. The mirrors catch the last bit of evening sun through the windows, throwing fragments of gold across the floor where the kids spent an hour learning to balance on one foot without falling over.
This is my favorite part of the day — after the chaos of giggles and stumbles and "Miss Andy, watch this!" — when the studio belongs to just me again.
The quiet settles into my bones. No cameras, no crowds. Just wooden floors that smell like resin and effort, walls that hold the sound of children believing they can fly.
The front door opens behind me.
I turn around, expecting Maeve or maybe Ellie with coffee and unsolicited advice about my life. Instead, Selena May stands in the doorway like she materialized from a gossip blog.
"Get out of here."
The words come out flat and immediate. Not polite, not accommodating. I don't smile or soften the edges to make this easier for her. This is my space. She doesn't belong in it.
"Please." Her voice is smaller than I expected, missing the practiced confidence from set. "Just listen to me."
She looks different without the cameras rolling. Younger. Her hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail, no makeup artist's touch, wearing jeans and a sweatshirt that's seen better days. Like a regular person instead of the woman whose name has been linked to my husband's for weeks.
"I've been documenting the filming. My team wanted to release a documentary eventually." She holds up her phone, screen already glowing. "I need you to watch something."
I cross my arms over my chest, plant my feet wider on the floor I swept twenty minutes ago. "Why would I do that?"
"Because it changes things."
The certainty in her voice catches me off guard. Not pleading, not manipulative. Matter-of-fact, like she's holding evidence I need to see whether I want to or not.
I hate that my curiosity wins. I've never been the kind of person who can walk away from information, even when it might hurt. Especially then.
"Fine. Show me."
She steps closer, angling the phone so we can both see the screen. Her finger hovers over the play button.
"This was from one of the final days of shooting."
The footage starts mid-scene. Jameson and Selena as their characters. I’ve watched him film scenes like this before, but seeing it on her phone feels different. More invasive. More real.
On screen, their characters kiss. Break apart. Stare at each other with the kind of intensity that sells movie tickets. Then Jameson pulls Selena into a hug that lasts longer than it needs to, her face buried against his shoulder, his hand cradling the back of her head.
The jealousy hits me like it always does — hot and sharp and immediate — but I force myself to keep watching. I've been here before. I know it's acting. I know the camera loves what looks real even when it isn't.
"Cut!" The director's voice breaks the spell. Cast and crew start moving around the frame, reset mode kicking in. Jameson steps back from Selena, instantly professional, and I watch him scan the set like he always does after an emotional scene.
That's when Vinny appears in the frame.
He sidles up to Jameson with that slimy grin I've learned to hate, the one that says he's about to turn everything into a transaction. Jameson is checking something on his phone.
"Goddamn, Jame, you might as well divorce Andy after the film's release."
Vinny's voice is casual, almost laughing, like he's commenting on the weather instead of joking about the end of my marriage. On set. In front of everyone. Treating my life like a punchline.
My body goes rigid. Every muscle locks into place as I watch my husband's reaction.
Jameson moves so fast the camera barely catches it. One second he's scrolling through his phone, the next he's got Vinny by the collar, hauling him close until their faces are inches apart. His hand fists the fabric of Vinny's shirt like he's considering something more violent than words.
"You ever talk about me and my wife and our marriage that way and you're done." Jameson's voice is low and dangerous, every word carved from stone. "I'm just doing my fucking job."
He shoves Vinny away hard enough to make him stumble. Then he walks off set without looking back, leaving Vinny to straighten his collar while the crew pretends they didn't see anything.
My hands are shaking.
I stare at the paused screen, at the frame where Jameson's face is twisted with something I haven't seen before. Pure, protective fury.
He fought for me. On set. In front of everyone.
I never knew. All these months of believing he was passive, that he let Vinny treat me like furniture, that he stood by while his world slowly erased me — and there's footage of him grabbing his manager by the throat for making a joke about our marriage.
"I'm sorry."
Selena's voice pulls me back to the studio, to the present, to the woman standing in my space with her apology phone.
I wait. Don't make it easy for her.
"I knew what it meant if my name was associated with his. I was too tunnel-sighted and desperate for the fame to care. I went with what Vinny wanted — the photo ops, the speculation, all of it. I thought the attention would help my career."
She's sorry, I can hear that much. But I can also hear the other thing underneath — someone who got caught and is facing consequences.
The online backlash has been brutal since news broke about Jameson dropping everything to follow me home.
She's been called a homewrecker by people who used to worship her Instagram posts.
"I never wanted Jameson like that. He was always professional.
The moment the scene cuts, he's just like another coworker.
No chemistry, no flirting, nothing." She pauses, meets my eyes.
"I don't know what's going on between you two, but I want you to know — Jameson is one of the very few men in Hollywood who is head over heels in love with his wife. "
The words settle into the quiet studio like dust motes in afternoon light. Head over heels in love with his wife. From the woman the entire world thought he was sleeping with.
"Again, I'm sorry."
I study her face for a long moment. The regret looks real enough, but so does the calculation behind it. She made choices that contributed to the worst period of my life, and now she wants absolution because the consequences are inconvenient.
"I appreciate you coming here and showing me this." My voice is steady, clear. "But you knew what you were doing, and you did it anyway. You'll have to learn to live with that."
She nods once, sharp and final. She got what she came for — the chance to apologize — but not what she wanted. I don't offer forgiveness like it's candy I can hand out to make people feel better about themselves.
The door closes behind her with a soft click. I'm alone again in the studio, surrounded by mirrors that reflect a woman I'm still learning to recognize.
I sink onto the bench by the barre, legs suddenly unsteady. The footage loops in my head — Vinny's casual cruelty, Jameson's explosive response, the way he walked away without waiting for applause or acknowledgment. He defended me when he thought I would never know about it.
Everything else clicks into place like puzzle pieces I didn't realize were scattered.
The building he bought to protect the studio.
The farm lot where we once talked about building a house.
The repairs at Pete's motel that he does for free because that's who he was before Hollywood taught him to commodify everything.
The movie alongside Selena that he turned down without explanation.
The snacks that appear at the studio with no note, no expectation.
The ride home in the rain when I was too stubborn to ask for help.
The truth he delivered at my parents' table before walking away without waiting for forgiveness.
Weeks in a cheap motel room because this is where I am.
The accumulated weight of it all shifts something fundamental in my chest.
I reach for my phone.
My fingers know his number by heart, could dial it in the dark, have called it a thousand times from this same town. But this feels different. This time I'm not calling to check on him or ask when he's coming home or beg him to remember we had dinner plans. This time I'm the one making the move.
It rings twice before he picks up.
"Let's talk."
I can hear him breathing on the other end of the line. I picture him in that motel room, sitting on the edge of a bed with springs that creak, staring at the wall.
"I'll go to where you are."
Of course he offers to come to me. That's what he does now — shows up where I am, asks for nothing, waits for scraps of my attention like a man grateful for whatever he can get.
Not this time.
"No. Where are you?"
"At the motel."
"I'm on my way."