Emma
TWENTY-SIX
The bed feels cold.
It’s the first thing I notice when I wake up. My body instinctively turns to find the warm, hard body that’s been next to me the past couple of days. My hand reaches out before my mind catches up with the fact that it’s empty.
The absence has me sitting up, checking for any noises coming from the kitchen. Everything is quiet. The bathroom door is wide open, lights off. For a moment, I frown, trying to piece together where he might have gone. Then, I see the piece of paper resting on top of the pillow.
My heart does a small jump. Matt’s been so thoughtful lately and leaving a handwritten note instead of a text message is exactly the kind of move he’d pull. I pick it up, wondering, again, how I got this lucky.
The feeling doesn’t last long. As soon as my eyes scan the first sentence, I know what this is. It’s not a love letter.
Three paragraphs don’t feel like enough for this. It’s too controlled. I can picture Matt forcing himself to keep it together. I almost wish he would’ve woken me up, full of anger. I could’ve handled that. The bickering. The fighting. Not this.
The thought of him hurting because of me rips my heart in half. My stomach turns so suddenly, I have to brace myself, one hand pressing against the side of the mattress, the other reaching for my nightstand. I feel like I’m either going to be violently sick or I’m going to pass out altogether.
I scan the lines again like they might change, but it only settles everything deeper.
I keep replaying everything, trying to figure out where I got it wrong.
Right now, I don’t know what was real and what wasn’t.
And I hate that. All I can say with certainty is I meant everything I said to you.
I keep coming back to the same thing… you still didn’t tell me the truth.
I wish you would’ve trusted me enough. What the article was really about, what you actually do for work.
I know you might not have felt the same way about me for as long as I have for you, but I thought we were starting something real. Enough to be honest when the lines started to blur. I would’ve listened.
I would’ve stayed.
This is goodbye. A break up.
And I didn’t even have a chance to argue my case. A few more days and he would’ve known the truth.
I reach for my phone, my hands sweaty and trembling, and dial his number before I can think about what I’m going to say. Because I need him to pick up. He has to let me explain.
It rings. Once, twice… ten times, before it goes to voicemail.
“No, no, no,” I mutter under my breath, already calling him again.
My heartbeat’s climbing way too fast like it’s trying to outrun the rings before it goes into voicemail.
I go into my messages and send him a text.
Matt, please pick up.
He reads it, but the typing bubbles never appear. I wait a couple of minutes. He might be thinking what to say. That has to be it. I’m pacing now, all over the bedroom.
The panic starts to set in. Matt doesn’t text back, or call. He’s choosing not to answer. A clean break.
“Shit,” I mutter. My phone hits the floor and bounces until it ends up at my feet. The screen breaks with spiderweb-shaped cracks. My hands, curled into fists at my sides, loosen. I didn’t even register letting go.
Great. Another thing to fix. Because I can fix this. I have to.
I pick up my laptop, and as soon as it unlocks, the last email Martha sent me lights up the screen.
“Fuck,” I curse. This. This must have been what he saw.
My whole day yesterday was spent defending my draft of the article.
Sure, it isn’t what we typically write for The Golden Scoop, but this isn’t for the column.
It’s quieter, moving, nonetheless. Not a piece that sells, but the kind that sheds light on issues that matter.
Matt Hunt, the man behind the Hollywood star mask.
She isn’t budging. No matter what I say, how much I go to bat for it, the only thing she cares about is publishing an article that will cause chaos in Matt’s world.
Subject: Re: Matt Hunt Feature Article
Emma,
There’s no discussion here. Make it bleed.
I don’t care what it takes. My patience is running thin. You have until Monday night to turn in the final draft.
I expect the same level of quality and investigative journalism you bring to every other Golden Scoop article you’ve written. We will take no less than the juicy details and rumors you typically uncover. How you make this happen is up to you. I don’t need details of the process, just results.
Sometimes our journalistic integrity has to bend to get the ratings we want. You need to come to terms with this if you intend on writing anything other than gossip.
No wonder he’s not answering his phone. There’s nothing she could’ve said that’s worse than that. The same gut-wrenching feeling I got when I first read it yesterday punches straight through me again.
Bend my integrity? Martha might as well have said make something up if you have to, as long as it wreaks havoc on the industry. That’s not what I do. I only report on facts. I don’t purposefully cause damage. Do I?
Matt thinks I lied. No—he’s right. I did lie. I did it because I have to. It’s my job, what pays the bills. I argue with myself it’s not the same thing, even when I know it is. But he knows me. At least I thought he did.
My laptop pings with a new incoming email. A newsletter from Golden with a teaser headline for my article.
A headline I didn’t write. For an article that isn’t mine… anymore.
The Secrets Behind Hollywood’s Action Star Matt Hunt: What do you really have to do to get to the top?
Suddenly, Martha’s last email doesn’t seem like another random order. The teaser is a threat. A deliberate push to back me into a corner, to make me deliver exactly what she wants. Nothing less.
She’s put it out into the world, public for everyone to see—including Matt—the opening shot of a story I’m being forced to finish. There’s no saving it. She’ll do it herself if I don’t deliver. With or without the truth.
The problem is… if I’ve seen this, it’s only a matter of time before it lands on Matt’s inbox as well. He needs to know I wouldn’t write something like that. Even if it costs me my job.
My head’s a mess. I’m heartbroken. Frustrated. Furious. Somewhere past those things it’s just noise.
This is ridiculous. We’re talking about people’s lives.
Fuck the confidentiality and anonymity clause. I should’ve known lying never ends well. I told myself hiding the truth wasn’t the same. That it didn’t count. But it does. Maybe I’m not as genuine as I thought I was.
Integrity isn’t flexible. I know that. I might have kept things together professionally, but I still abused it every time I looked at someone and told them I was an editor. I just didn’t think it would hurt this much to lose him because I finally stood my ground.
I reach for my phone. Thankfully, it still works.
The list of outgoing calls to Matt already covers the entire screen. It doesn’t matter. I can’t give up. I dial again. No ringing this time.
I text him.
Give me five minutes.
I can explain everything.
My fingers type ‘I love you.’ I delete it. Type it again. Delete it once more.
That’s the truth. It’s how I feel.
But saying it now would feel like an emotional weapon. I don’t want to be the girl who drops the ‘L’ bomb when things get hard.
I feel it too.
The typing bubbles pop up.
They stay there long enough that I start breathing again.
Then they vanish. Nothing comes through. That’s when we start to look less like something I can fix, and more like something I’ve already lost.
My foot slams on the brake as a light turns red right in front of me. Tires skid, the seatbelt across my chest locking tight to keep me from lurching forward.
I don’t even remember deciding to go look for him. The Jeep was staring at me, taunting me, asking why the hell I wasn’t doing something about it.
Autopilot immediately kicked in. I put on the first pair of jeans I found in my closet and tied a knot at the hem of Matt’s T-shirt, making it look like a style choice instead of evidence that I’m indeed head over heels for this man.
The drive to his house is a blur. I know, realistically, he’s not going anywhere, but this pressure in my chest won’t ease until I see him. If he lets me explain, maybe he’ll understand.
For all I know, he could choose not to forgive me. At least I’ll know I didn’t sit there and watch everything collapse.
One of his two cars is usually outside, whichever one he drove last. Today, there’s nothing. I ring the doorbell and wait. And wait. The gate never opens.
Either he’s fully ignoring me, or he’s not home.
The feeling of someone else I care for ghosting me snaps something loose in my chest, dragging up every other version of this I thought I’d buried.
I grip the steering wheel so hard it squeaks.
“It’s fine. You’re fine,” I whisper to myself.
It’s not fine.
Matt’s not like the other guys. They left because they didn’t really know me. He knows me. The sharp edges. All my quirky little details. Even the parts I don’t explain. And he stayed… until last night.
Shit. Was that where he draws the line? Did I become too much for him too?
I pull out my phone and resort to my last, and least favorite option: social media.
Most of the time it’s so overly saturated with fake news that I avoid it like the plague when I’m writing, but it’s a great way to find people.
Matt’s profile is as active as it gets, and yet I don’t think he even has the app on his phone. Whoever takes care of it does a terrifyingly good job.
He’s been tagged in a picture posted earlier this morning on set.
‘Last day of filming with this crew.’
He’s in the middle of the photo, standing behind a huge sheet cake. Hat and sunglasses hiding whatever mood he’s actually in.
This means it’s going to be extra hectic there today. Everyone that’s worked remotely on this movie is currently fighting for a piece of Matt’s attention.
Well… that means I have to fight for my five minutes too.
I put the car in reverse and head straight to the studio. All possible conversation outcomes play out in my head. None of them end well, but at least they’re something.
Security stops me before I even get to the gate. I’m about to pull out my pass from the glovebox when I remember the three weeks are up. Expired. Useless.
“Hi,” I say, popping my head out. “I forgot my pass. I’ve been coming here for the past three weeks. Shadowing Matt Hunt?”
“I’m sorry, miss. We don’t have anyone authorized to enter today,” the man says.
I groan under my breath.
Why is this so hard?
Think, think, thin—Frank.
He’s on his way back with two cups of coffee. Relief hits instantly, because if anyone will let me in, it’s him. Frank’s seen me with Matt plenty of times. He knows me, he trusts me…
I hop out of the car, with it still running, gunning straight for the barrier.
“Frank!”
The old man turns to the sound of his name, but when his eyes land on mine, he hesitates. I know then there’s no way they’re letting me through.
“Emma…” he says. There’s something pained in his tone. He wants to help, he’s just not allowed. “I can’t.”
The words don’t make sense at first. I haven’t even asked.
“You can’t what?” I ask, my voice rising with anxiety more than I’d like. “Maybe you radio him here? It’ll be five minut—”
Frank must see something in my eyes because he heads into the small guard house and grabs his walkie-talkie. I can’t hear anything, but by the looks of it, it’s not good.
I could make a run for it. Those golf carts are not that fast. I’ve seen enough of Matt’s action movies that I could sneak my way through.
“Emma,” Franks says gently, snapping me out of my thoughts. “He can’t right now.”
Right now, or never? Matt knows I’m here. He’s never busy for me. Not enough to spare a couple of minutes. He wasn’t.
The fight drains out of me all at once. I give Frank a small nod and get back into my car. It’s almost like the thread I was holding onto has snapped, and there’s nothing else to reach for.
I don’t make it a mile before I have to pull over to the side of the road. My vision blurs. I can feel my pulse everywhere. I’m unraveling faster than I can control.
My phone starts ringing, but deep down I know it’s not Matt. I reach for it anyway.
“Em, where are you?” Julia asks, clearly worried.
“He won’t answer. He doesn’t want to see me,” I say, messy and uneven. “He thinks I—the headline. I didn’t write that. And now there’s nothing I can do.”
“Emma, slow down,” Julia whispers. “Breathe with me for a sec.”
She counts to three, then back down to one. My mind’s still racing. But after a couple of times, I feel my heart settle.
“Thank you,” I mumble.
“Always,” she assures. “Now, I’m at your door. Why don’t you come back here, and we can figure this out together?”
“There’s nothing to figure out, J,” I mutter. “I think I’ve already lost him.”