Chapter 13
thirteen
INDIGO
When my phone buzzes, I expect to see a text from Sebastian coming through.
We’ve spent the last week texting regularly.
The team had a few days’ break, but there’s not much of a gap between the regular season and the postseason in the NHL.
They won the first two playoff games against the wildcard winners, the Denver Stags, here at home, so three days ago they hopped on a plane to play games three and four.
They won game three and, if they win tonight, they’ll clinch the series and move on. If they lose, they’ll be back in Minneapolis for game five.
But when my phone keeps buzzing, I look away from my laptop with a frown.
It’s not a text from Sebastian. It’s a call from my mom.
Sucking in a deep breath and steeling myself for the inevitable drama that always comes with a phone call with one of my parents during this divorce, I hit the accept button and force cheer into my voice. “Hey, Mom.”
“Indigo. It’s been too long since we’ve spoken, sweetie.” My mom sounds vaguely out of breath, and I’m not sure I want to know why.
“I called you last week.”
“Oh, I know, honey. I’m sorry I wasn’t able to answer. I’ve been in talks about this fabulous role in a psychological thriller, and it’s been consuming my energy this past week or two.”
“That’s great, Mom. When will you find out if you got the part?”
“Hopefully in the next few weeks.” There’s a slight commotion in the background, then the slamming of what sounds like a car door. “I’m leaving my Vinyasa session with my yogi.”
Ah. That explains the out-of-breath-ness. Ever since my parents decided to divorce, I’ve been dreading the moment one of them calls to tell me they’ve fallen for some younger movie star or one of their assistants.
Though, in my dad’s case, that would mean he’d be falling for my ex-boyfriend, so that seems unlikely. Not entirely out of the realm of possibility, but unlikely.
Also, I guess my mom could be fucking her yogi.
“Have you spoken to your father lately?” She may be a world-class actress with two Oscars on the shelf and a whole host of other accolades, but I can always see right through her.
“Not really.” Neither of my parents is great at keeping in touch. I love them, but I’ve spent the better part of my life with one or both of them away from home for months at a time. Regular phone calls aren’t a staple of our family dynamic.
She makes a huffing sound. “He wants to keep the estate in Hollywood. You know he doesn’t love that house as much as I do.”
Oh, no. I’m not doing this. The very last thing I want is to get in the middle of their divorce drama. “Mom, we’ve talked about this.”
“I know. I just can’t believe he’s doing this to me.”
There’s been a lot of speculation in the media as to why my parents are divorcing.
Affairs, jealousy, boredom, even that the whole thing could be one giant PR stunt to get people talking about them again.
I have no idea which is the real reason, and to be honest, I’m not sure I want to.
They’re not perfect people, but I love my mom and dad.
I don’t want the way I see either to change.
“Divorce is always hard, Mom.”
“I never thought I’d be in this position.” There’s a weariness in her voice that can’t be faked. A lot of people were surprised to find Robert Bloom and Vivian Marsh in this position. They’ve been America’s sweethearts for decades. The pinnacle of a Hollywood love story.
But I’ve watched the cracks form and grow firsthand.
I’d have recognized them even if I wasn’t a romance writer, but they’re even more obvious to me because I am.
It was the way they stopped kissing each other goodnight.
How my mom’s smile wasn’t as bright when my dad would come home from a particularly long shoot on location halfway across the world.
They used to hold hands anytime we left the house when I was a kid.
But somewhere around my late teens or early twenties, they’d switched to holding their phones, necks bent, bodies angled away from each other.
“I’m sorry, Mom.”
“It is what it is, I suppose,” she replies a little too breezily. “How is Minneapolis? I still don’t understand why you had to go halfway across the country. What does Minnesota have that California doesn’t?”
Sebastian Navarro.
“I needed to get away from the media circus.”
She hums at that. “I’m sorry they’ve been bothering you again.”
“Comes with the territory,” I reply. Which is why I needed to leave it.
“Ryland was asking about you the other day when he came to the house to pick up something for your father.” My parents both love Ryland. They were more devastated than I was when he ended things, which felt great, let me tell you.
“Was he?” I don’t care.
“He was surprised to hear you and Lola had gone to Minnesota. You didn’t tell him?”
“Why would I, Mom? We broke up. He broke up with me.”
“I still think you two were perfect together. He’s such an ambitious young man.
And so handsome.” Which are two of the most desirable things you can be in Hollywood.
Handsome and ambitious. Too bad things like kindness, loyalty, and empathy aren’t as celebrated.
The things I happen to value are often seen as weaknesses in my parents’ circles.
You need to be cutthroat to succeed in Hollywood, and it’s difficult to be cutthroat when you’re also kind and loyal.
“Sorry to disappoint.”
My mom sighs. “Oh, sweetie, no, that’s not what I meant.”
“It’s fine. Listen, Mom, I’m pretty deep in this chapter. Can we talk later?”
“Of course. Do we get to read this one?”
I close my eyes, steeling myself. We have this discussion every so often, and while I appreciate that my mom wants to be supportive, I can’t risk her or my dad leaking my identity as Violet Quinn to anyone. “Mom, you know I keep my pen name a secret for a reason. One day I’ll show you, it’s just…”
“I understand, sweetie. When you’re ready to tell me, I’m ready to cheer you on and tell the world I’m your biggest fan.”
That’s what I’m afraid of. “Thanks, Mom.”
“Talk soon?”
“Definitely.”
“Okay. I love you, Indigo.”
“Love you too.” Some part of me feels guilty at the relief that floods my system when I hang up the call, but it’s a very small part, and it’s easily brushed off.
Unfortunately, that relief is short-lived. The first email in my professional inbox is from my agent.
Hey superstar,
Don’t shoot the messenger, but the publisher is really on me about doing an identity reveal. Your last book did well enough that they believe this one could be huge, and they’d like you to attend some large book conventions and signings.
They understand why you’ve hesitated all these years, but at this point, they believe your work stands on its own, and I have to say I agree with them.
You know I’ll always have your back. If you’re not ready to tell the world who you are, you’re not ready, and I’ll make sure everyone respects that. All I’m asking is that you consider it.
You deserve to enjoy your success.
Let me know what you think. We can do a call about it if you need to run through some pros and cons.
Yours,
Elise
“Shit,” I mutter under my breath. But apparently not quietly enough, because a man from the table closest to mine eyes me curiously. When he smiles, I quickly turn my head and refocus on my laptop.
I won’t get anything else written today. Between the call with my mom and the email from my agent, my mind is swirling.
Right when I found my balance after Ryland broke up with me, everything else started to unravel. My parents’ very public relationship issues, the pressure from my publisher… The foundations I’ve depended on for so long are shaking, and I’m not sure how to keep my footing.
Then there’s Sebastian. God, he throws me off-balance. But at least that’s a mostly welcome disruption.
Packing up my laptop, I hurry out of the cafe and make the walk to our little rental. I need to talk to Lola.
The weather is finally truly starting to warm.
Birds sing and warble in trees covered in buds and unfurling leaves.
The breeze carries a scent I can only describe as renewal.
Fresh, faintly floral, and bright. After a couple of months of the cold, I appreciate the rebirth in a way I’m not sure I ever have in California.
Despite the anxiety I can’t quite shake surrounding my publishing contract, I’m smiling when I push through the front door.
Lola looks up from the laptop perched on her lap from where she sits, curled up, on the couch. “You look refreshed. Get a lot of writing done?”
I shake my head. “Nope. Almost nothing.”
“Okaaay…” Lola raises one eyebrow, waiting for me to explain.
“It’s just nice out.”
“Sure.”
“I’m serious. It’s all springy outside.”
“If you say so, boo.”
“I do. Hey, are you at a stopping point? I could really use someone to talk things out with.”
Lola doesn’t even hesitate to shut her laptop, set it to the side, and give me her full attention.
This is one of the things I appreciate most about her.
She reads me better than almost anyone. If I need to laugh, she doesn’t hesitate to make a fool of herself.
If I need to talk, she locks in, takes whatever I’m saying seriously, and helps me work things out.
“Hit me.”
Sucking in a deep breath, I twist my neck, cracking it, and flop down beside her on the couch. “My publisher wants me to reveal my identity.”
“Well, that’s nothing new. They’ve always wanted you to do that.”
“Yeah, but I get the sense that they’re getting more insistent. And Elise agrees with them.”
That has Lola rocking back. “Really? Elise has never pushed you about this.”
“And she’s not pushing me now, but she wants me to seriously consider it. I guess they want to book me at some big conventions and stuff.”
“To sign or to speak?”
I shrug. Signing, I could probably handle. Speaking? That’s a different beast altogether. “Not sure.”
“Okay. And how do you feel about that?”
I shoot her a look that says really?
“Right. Sorry.” She chuckles. “But, babe, would it be so bad?”
My mind supplies a highlight reel of the worst things people have written and printed about me.
Chubby movie stars’ daughter steps out in a cropped top. Has the body positivity movement gone too far?
Robert Bloom and Vivian Marsh’s daughter is legal now. Three plastic surgeons weigh in on what they’d do to elevate her look.
Does talent skip a generation? Six examples that prove famous parents don’t always pass on their genius. I’d been the first example cited in that little gem.
Headline after headline, comment after comment, I’ve spent the better part of my adolescence and early adulthood being told all the ways I don’t stack up.
And most of those comments simply centered on my weight.
I may have my insecurities, but when push comes to shove, I don’t actually give a shit what anyone thinks about my body.
It hurts to be the butt of so many jokes, but I can brush all that off.
But if the work I’ve poured my heart and soul into becomes the butt of jokes simply because of who my parents are and what my body looks like?
I’m not sure that will be so easy to recover from.
Lola sighs. It’s a sympathetic sound. She’s not judging me, because she’s been around for plenty of those articles.
“Sweetie, at some point, you’re going to have to say fuck ’em all and own your brilliance.
” She reaches across the space between us and grabs my hands in hers.
“Because you are brilliant. I wish you could see it as clearly as I do.”
“I don’t think I’m ready.” To be rejected again. To be mocked again. To put my heart out there, only to have the world decide it isn’t good enough.
“Okay. I get that, I do. But, Indie, you can’t let those assholes win forever.”
“I know.”
“There are always going to be haters. You’re the first one to say your books won’t be for everyone.
That if everyone loved them, you’d be doing something wrong.
Not taking enough risks or being vulnerable enough.
People are like that too.” Lola squeezes my hands.
“You don’t want everyone to like you. Can you imagine if all the assholes and ignorant shitheads of the world were singing your praises? You’d fucking hate that.”
My lips twitch at that, a smile trying to overtake the frown I’ve been wearing for the past few minutes.
“You know I’m right. So, who cares if the assholes of the world don’t like you? The right people—your people—will love the shit out of you. Just like I do. Like a certain tall, dark, and handsome goalie does.”
“Lola.” I roll my eyes. “He doesn’t love me.”
She shrugs, smirking. “Okay.”
“He doesn’t.”
“Sure. Quit trying to change the subject. Are you going to consider it?”
Am I? Logically, I know Lola and my agent are right. It would probably be smart to tell the world I’m Violet Quinn. If we timed it right, it could bring a lot more attention to my new book, and that would give me more sway to do things the way I want to do them when the publisher and I disagree.
“I’ll think about it.”
“That’s all I can ask. Now, when’s your next date with Sebastian?”
“That wasn’t a date.”
“You’re the worst liar.”
“Just a realist, Lols.”
“A real pro at denying what’s obvious to the rest of us, maybe.” My best friend lets go of my hands and repositions her laptop on her lap. “Either that, or you are woefully ignorant about love for someone who spends her life writing about it.”
It’s probably a mix of both. But my real flaw?
Cowardice.
And since that cowardice keeps me safe, I have no desire to shed it in favor of bravery.
Bravery leads you to do foolish things, like surprise the boy you’re in love with at a bonfire a day before he’s expecting you so you can confess your feelings. Bravery leads you to getting your heart ripped out when you see that boy kissing someone else.
In my experience, bravery breeds rejection.
Maybe that makes it the real flaw, and cowardice the virtue.
So, once again, I embrace cowardice and simply shrug at Lola’s comment.