14. Jameson
Jameson
Ihear the car before I see the headlights. My chest tightens as the engine cuts out, followed by the slam of a door. Footsteps on gravel. A soft knock.
When I open the door, she's standing there in jeans and a sweater, hair pulled back, eyes red-rimmed but determined. Three weeks of living in this motel room, and she's never been here. Now she is.
"We can talk outside. I know this isn't much."
The ghost of a smile crosses her face. "Pete will listen to our conversation and not bother to hide it."
She steps inside. The door closes with a soft click, and suddenly the small room feels even smaller. She doesn't sit on the bed or the single chair. She stands in the middle of the space, arms wrapped around herself.
"I saw Selena today."
My entire body goes rigid. "What?"
"She came to the studio. Showed me something." Andy starts pacing, three steps to the window, three steps back. "Documentary footage from the set. You and Vinny, after a scene."
The blood drains from my face. I know exactly what she's talking about. The day Vinny made that crack about divorcing her after the film's release. The day I grabbed him by the collar.
"Andy—"
"No." She holds up a hand, palm out. "Sit down."
I sit on the edge of the bed. She keeps pacing.
"You stood by while I lost whatever spark I had when we first met. You watched me get smaller and you didn't say anything."
The words hit me. Her voice is steady, but I can hear the tremor underneath.
"Do you know what it's like to rehearse conversations with your own husband? To plan what you're going to say because you know you'll only get ten minutes before he checks his phone or falls asleep or gets called away to something more important?"
Her voice cracks on "more important." She wipes her eyes with her sleeve but doesn't stop walking.
"I stopped telling you about my day. Did you notice? I stopped because every time I started talking, I could see you waiting for me to finish."
She's crying now. Not the quiet, controlled tears I've seen before. Real tears that make her voice thick and her words unsteady. My whole body lurches forward instinctively. I stand, reaching for her.
"No. Sit down. You need to hear this."
The command in her voice stops me cold. I sit back down, my hands gripping the mattress until my knuckles turn white. The distance between us — six feet of cheap carpet — feels like miles.
"People would look through me to get to you. At events, at dinners, on the street. I became invisible unless I was standing next to you, and even then, I was just — an accessory. Someone's wife. Not a person."
She stops pacing for a moment. Stands still, facing the small window, her back to me. Her shoulders shake.
"I hated myself for staying. Every morning I woke up in that house and knew something was wrong, and I stayed anyway because I thought that's what love meant. Making yourself smaller so someone else can be bigger."
My throat closes. Every word is a blade, and I deserve all of them. The way she's standing there, back straight despite the tears, forces me to see what I did. What I allowed to happen.
She turns to face me, tear-streaked but fierce. "Coming back here — teaching those kids, running the studio — I realized I hadn't taken a full breath in three years. Three years, Jameson. I was suffocating and you didn't notice."
The room goes silent except for her ragged breathing. She's said it. All of it. Three years of swallowed words, unpacked in a forty-dollar motel room.
"I never needed much, Jameson. I only wanted you to achieve your dreams and still be mine."
That's the line that breaks me. Not the accusations — those I earned. This. The simplicity of what she actually needed. She just wanted me to succeed and come home. Both.
"I've always been yours." My voice comes out rough, barely held together.
"It sure didn't feel like that these past three years."
I have no defense. Her reality matters more than my intentions.
"I know. And I'm sorry. I was stupid and selfish. I had these visions of showering you with gifts, taking you to luxury vacations, giving you everything you've ever wanted."
"The only one I ever wanted was you." The words are quiet, devastating.
I swallow hard. "I know. I know that now."
She wipes her face with both hands, takes a shaky breath. "Selena showed me you defending me to Vinny. You grabbed him, told him he was done if he ever talked about us that way again."
The memory of that day floods back. Vinny's casual cruelty, the way he dismissed her like she was disposable. The rage that shot through me.
"I fired Vinny. Should have done it a long time ago. But everyone I talked to said he was the best. Jacob also threatened to quit if I didn't get you back."
For the first time since she walked in, Andy almost smiles. Through tear-streaked cheeks, that familiar spark appears. "I knew there was a reason he was my favorite."
The humor catches us both off guard. Two people remembering they're funny together, that we used to lose entire evenings to jokes.
"What now?" she asks.
I lean forward, talking with my hands the way I do when I'm building something, describing something I can see clearly. "If you let me — if somehow a miracle happens and you decide I'm worth a second chance — then I'll spend every day making sure you feel loved. You feel happy."
"At what cost?"
"There's no cost, Andy. I achieved my dreams at the cost of losing you. I will never let that happen again. If you'll let me, we'll sit down with my architect. If you don't like the plans I gave him, you change them. Whatever you want. Then we live on that farm. You work in the ballet studio."
Her eyebrows lift in surprise. "You're not going back to LA?"
"I might, if the work is worth it. We'll sell the house and move here."
"What about your career?"
"I'm pulling back. One movie a year, starting next year.
More careful with my choices. No more intimate scenes.
Might try my hand at directing. On days I need to shoot, I'm either bringing you with me or finding a way to get back to you the same night.
One thing's for sure — you will have a husband.
A partner. Not some glorified roommate."
I can see her processing this, the life I'm describing taking shape in her mind. A husband who comes home.
"I'm scared."
"I am too. But you won't ever be alone, Andy. I learned my lesson. It felt like death when you left. I don't want to experience that ever again."
She's quiet for a long moment, studying my face like she's looking for something. Whatever she finds there must be enough.
"Then maybe we can try one more time."
I'm off the bed and pulling her against me before the words fully register. The kiss is urgent, demanding, desperate. Not gentle. Not the tentative reunion I imagined.
This is weeks of separation, three years of distance, and a lifetime of wanting compressed into a single moment. She kisses me back with the same hunger — hands twisted in my shirt, both of us shaking, pouring everything into this.
We break apart, foreheads touching, breathing hard.
"I love you so much, Andy. And I'm so sorry for hurting you."
"I love you too. Please don't ever do it again."
"I promise."
She pulls me down to her, and we kiss again.
The second kiss is different. Deeper. Her hands find my hair, and I feel the tremor in her fingers — like she's afraid I might dissolve if she doesn't hold on tight enough. The sound she makes against my mouth, this small desperate thing, undoes me completely.
My hands shake when I cup her face, thumb brushing away the dampness on her cheek.
The urgency breaks for a moment. I pull back just far enough to look at her — flushed, tear-streaked, eyes bright in the lamplight. I don't deserve this woman. But she's here.
"Andy."
Just her name. But the way I say it must carry everything else — the question, the permission I'm asking for. She answers by pulling me back down, and I know.
The motel bed creaks under our weight, Pete's ancient springs protesting. Andy laughs breathlessly against my neck, and the sound shoots straight through me.
My Andy. My wife. Here, wanting me despite everything I've done wrong.
Her fingers work at my shirt while I map the familiar territory of her — the curve of her waist, the soft skin behind her ear that makes her shiver.
Everything is both remembered and new. I know her body, know the sounds she makes, but this feels different. Earned. Like I'm touching her for the first time since she chose me back.
"I missed you." The words come out rough against her temple. Simple. True.
She turns her face into my palm, presses her lips there. "I missed you too."
What happens next happens slowly. Deliberately. Like we're both memorizing this — the way back to each other, the warmth of skin on skin, whispered words that don't need to make sense to anyone else. The creak of bedsprings becomes a rhythm. Her laugh turns into something softer, breathless.
The floral comforter that's been my only companion for weeks wraps around us both now. Andy's head finds its place on my chest, her hair tickling my jaw. My arm circles her shoulders, and everything fits.
Her breathing evens out, but she's not sleeping. Just quiet. Content. I can feel her smile against my skin.
The silence stretches, comfortable and warm, until she starts giggling.
"What?"
"Nothing." But she's still laughing, the real Andy laugh I've been missing. The one that comes from her toes and makes her whole body shake.
I press a kiss to her forehead. Her temple. The corner of her mouth. Her jaw. Peppering her with small, lazy kisses while she laughs harder.
"What is it?"
"I think Pete heard us. He's probably calling my dad right now."