Part 10 (2/2)

Joey had nothing to offer, for once. He got up and left the kitchen.

I bit into the delicious cake, but at Mrs. Weaton's words, its decadence got lost on me.

”Well, he told me he is. In love with me,” I said, softly, lest Joey still be in earshot. ”But I told him if he meant it, he would leave me alone. And he sure didn't do that. He showed up at work night before last.” I shook my head. ”How can he possibly be in love with me? He hardly knows me!” I dropped the fork back on my plate with a clang and pushed it away. How dare he just come back here and tip my life upside down again?

I lunged for the letter, intent on ripping it to shreds in my irritation. And fear. I was scared it would change my mind.

Mrs. Weaton surprised me by whipping it off the table with her bony and liver-spotted hand before my fingers had landed. ”No, you don't!”

”d.a.m.n. You're fast!” I said, shocked, as we looked at each other wide-eyed. Then I snorted, and we both erupted into laughter.

”Well, that was some welcome comic relief, it was beginning to get rather maudlin around here.” Mrs. Weaton sniffed in mock disapproval.

”Sorry,” I offered. ”I wouldn't really have ripped it up. I guess I'm still so mad at him. How could he be gone for so long without a word if he really feels the way he says he does? And truly? What the h.e.l.l, sorry, kind of a relations.h.i.+p am I going to have with a movie-star?”

”Well, have you asked him?”

”No,” I said, shaking my head. ”I mean, I meant to, or at least, we've tried to talk, but ... I wouldn't listen.”

I tried to piece together all the snippets of his explanations I remembered. ”He said ...” I paused, wondering how much to share. ”He said he had to stay away to protect me, and he said he hasn't ... ahem, ... you know.” My cheeks heated as I cleared my throat. ”Since me.”

”I should hope not!” she said, looking incensed. ”But, I know how you young ones are these days. I suppose that is something. Well,” she continued, ”I'm not saying you forgive him right away, or even believe everything he says, but, honey, you at least need to get all the facts.” She slid the letter over to me. ”You don't want any regrets over this. Trust me, I know. Now, eat. Then, go read.”

I took a big gulp of coffee and chewed my way through four pieces of bacon and half the cake slice. It really was deliciously vile. When I was done, I hugged Mrs. Weaton and went up to the attic.

I sought out my little reading nook I'd created as a young girl. Ripping open the large envelope, I expected to find a letter. Albeit a long one based on the thickness of the envelope. Instead, I pulled out a folded sheaf of white pages tied with an aged and faded red string. The pages had clearly been torn from a lined book and were filled with Jack's scrawl that I recognized from the grocery lists he used to leave.

As I sank down onto the old mattress and pillows, my heart thudded heavily. The pages were dated. It really was a journal or diary of sorts. Why on earth would he share his private thoughts with me? I sifted through the pages dating from January through to last month. I began seeing s.n.a.t.c.hes of my name, and I quickly folded the pages back up and held them against my chest, exhaling a long breath. Did I really want to do this?

Despite saying I didn't need to know, I was desperate to understand what had happened when Jack left and why he hadn't come back. It was obvious now too, after two failed attempts at speaking in person, that it was impossible to be around him long enough to hear him out before the fight or flight response I was so d.a.m.n good at, kicked in. And he'd obviously realized it before I had and known this might be the only way to reach me. And the only way I might believe he wasn't just spinning me a line.

G.o.d. It was real.

He was real.

This was real.

I unfolded the pages and started reading.

I can't believe I'm back here. In England. I'm f.u.c.king freezing. The air is white, and wet, and thick with tiny, icy, droplets. The green everywhere I look is so deep and dark, I feel like no other colors exist.

My mum used to give me blank journals when I was younger to help me ”sort things through” she'd say. ”Put it on paper if you can't talk, and get it out of your head so it doesn't fester.” That was how she'd found out about the drugs when I was sixteen. Getting me to write everything down was a smart move on her part.

Of course, I went to see Mum as soon as I arrived. I needed to apologize for not coming home when I'd been in London with Audrey. Of course she forgave me. She always does. I went to bed in her and Jeff's guestroom and slept for two days. When I woke up, she gave me a cup of tea and this b.l.o.o.d.y journal. There's nothing like being with a parent to regress you straight back to childhood. ”I don't need it,” I told her. But here I am already, baring my soul to the pages of a book instead of to the one person who has ever even tempted me to open up.

Keri Ann.

Just writing her name causes a weird current inside me. Like I shouldn't be writing it.

It's an echo of what I experienced when I was with her. Like she was too good for me to drag into the bulls.h.i.+t that comprises my life. I should have listened to myself.

I'm on set. I just met all the crew and the screenwriter today (Alistair McGowan) and he's a total p.r.i.c.k. I hate to say that about people I hardly know, but he was drunk at the meeting at seven this morning and proceeded to stick his hand up the skirt of this poor runner girl who was delivering coffee to us. He laughed it off and told her she shouldn't wear a skirt to work. Like I said, a p.r.i.c.k. If I hadn't promised Peak I'd get this project back on its feet in return for them keeping Audrey quiet and stop her from bringing her scorned woman act down on Keri Ann, I'd walk.

We're all going into London tomorrow night, the cast and crew. Luckily we're only twenty miles out. It will be my first opportunity to have some pap pictures taken. Duane texted me to say Audrey's been rocking the boat again, complaining the fans still hate her, and I needed to get on with my part of the deal. Maybe I'll ask that runner girl, Suzy, if she'd mind having pictures taken with me. We can ham it up. I'd rather it be someone I can sort of trust, rather than a potential stalker nutcase. Give Audrey what she wants as quickly as possible and hope to G.o.d Keri Ann doesn't see it and think I truly don't give a s.h.i.+t.

I've been playing the part of the happy, go lucky, flirty movie-star for so long I've begun to believe it. At least I had started to believe it before I met Keri Ann. I wore the c.o.c.kiness, the surety, the knowledge that I could, if I wanted to, have anything, and do anything I wanted. Wearing that skin had become easier. I'd buried my true self so deep inside, I'd forgotten him. Or I didn't think he was ever worth digging out. I'm still not sure.

The problem is, I love what I do. Today really reminded me of that. I hate the s.h.i.+t, the fakeness, the shallowness, the games you have to play. The little dances you do to stroke egos and keep people happy and show the precise amount of grat.i.tude and humility. But today, we were shooting a particularly emotional scene where my character leaves the love of his life and hurts her ... crudely and deliberately. It was, or could have been, a brilliant scene, but we've been taking swings at it for days and still haven't nailed it. I've been giving it everything. The scene ... it was just ... written wrong. I could see it so clearly. I finally got the b.a.l.l.s to say something to the director, Dan, and he let me do it my own way while Alistair, the tool, was doing whatever the f.u.c.k it is he does when he disappears off for hours. Why is he even on the set? His consulting period is not supposed to be ongoing.

Ok, rant over.

I miss her. How can you miss someone you haven't really spent much time with? I think it must be my soul that misses her then. It's the only explanation.

I'm really getting into the head of my character, this artist, and I keep wondering what she would say about this. What advice she'd give.

Now that we've mostly gotten ”Alistair Molester” removed from the set, things are going brilliantly. I'm really involved, it's been a pretty awesome experience. Dan, the director, is talking about giving me a writing and directing credit. Word's been getting out and we've had some press asking to get past our closed set policy. I've pushed back. I need to keep my contrived off-camera persona separate from what I'm doing here. I've had a few more photo ops with Suzy and some friends of hers. They're cool girls and good for a laugh. And mostly blonde, thank G.o.d. It's bad enough when I'm feeling b.l.o.o.d.y lonely and half a bottle in, that sometimes I think if I met someone with her exact hair color, like burned caramel, it would be easy to just pretend. For a moment. I'm not sure why I don't actually. I mean at this stage she's got to have moved on. Maybe it didn't even take her this long. Or maybe she's seen the pictures and a.s.sumed the worst.

Maybe I should move on, too. I just ... can't.

Maybe, what we had wasn't ”all that.” Maybe I imagined it all. Maybe she never gave a f.u.c.king s.h.i.+t, and I'm the only one who read more into it. I wanted her to see past that ridiculous coat of confidence I wear, but what if she never did? Or what if she did see me, and I wasn't enough for her?

Conference call about Dread Pirate Roberts' movie today. It was good to hear Devon's voice on the phone. Some guys from Peak were on the call too, and a money guy from right down the road here in London. I've been pus.h.i.+ng for them to set the movie in Savannah. I knew Devon would be on board since he has a place near there that he doesn't get to enjoy enough. I went on about the history of the city and the riverfront docks, etc. We'll see. I just need a way to spend a LOT of time there. No guesses as to why. I called Duane back again after everyone else hung up and practically begged. We'll see what the price is down the line if he goes for it.

f.u.c.k, I'm depressed. It's good for my role. The part I'm playing is as morose as they come.

It doesn't even f.u.c.king rain here, it's just wet. Like a constant bone-deep chill with the incessant grey drizzle. I keep remembering the rainstorm I trudged through to get to her house, before I ... s.h.i.+t, I can't write about that right now.

Now that's what you call a raindrop. Just one of those things'll drench you all by itself. They don't mess around with rain there. This s.h.i.+t is just taking the p.i.s.s.

I found a tiny old copper sea turtle on a leather cord while I was on Portobello Road last week. I seem to be carrying it around in my pocket all the time. Apparently a tattoo on my foot isn't enough. Who knew I was this sentimental? Not me ...

Oh and it's my birthday. I was given a case of Bushmills. I wonder how long it will take me to get through it? Perhaps I should give it away rather than take a bet on that.

Great news. Turns out Savannah has a new studio being built, and a huge film grant ever since Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil increased tourism to the city by over forty percent. Also, the money guy in London is obsessed with the ”deep south” and was all over the idea. And ... I'm getting a writing and directing credit on this! Alistair is p.i.s.sed (p.i.s.sed off and p.i.s.sed drunk). Still.

I want to tell her. I want to call her and tell her. I even pulled up her number on my phone and stared at it between takes today.

I told my mother about Keri Ann today. It was time we had a really good talk. I've been working on dealing with some of the s.h.i.+t about my father, too. Asking her stuff I just never wanted to know before. She was happy I was talking, said I always bottled stuff up and found it hard to express my own emotions. ”You're really good at it when you are being someone else,” she said. ”Why can't you just do it for yourself?”

She called me a man-sized ”message in a bottle.” A love story waiting to happen if the right person found me, and if I would only open up and embrace who I am.

She always was a bit cliche.

The movie's wrapping soon. It's been an amazing experience professionally. Personally, not so much. I'm trying not to think of what's next. I've been drinking a lot, more than usual. When we all go out, I just want to get hammered. My few photo opportunities may have led to a bit of a ”party guy” image. In a way, I don't care because it's probably p.i.s.sing Audrey off, and that satisfies me in a small way. Although why anyone would want to poke at a snake, I have no idea. And of course underneath it all, I'm worried I've probably really killed the last chance I had with Keri Ann because of it. The end of the contract is coming up which means I have no reasons not to go back to Butler Cove. And then there's the movie in Savannah. I'm definitely headed back there either way. And I've done everything I can to ensure she'll never want to see me again.

Something almost happened last night with one of Suzy's friends. It didn't get too far. But it was bad. Picture taking bad. And then after ... well, I thought she knew the deal, but she started kissing me and before I knew it we were in the back of a town car. She smelled really good, like strawberries, and she was soft, and d.a.m.n but I was drunk. Like really. But all of a sudden her hand was in my pants and she was telling me it was ok, that she knew I was in love with someone else and that she was too, and we should just have fun and no one would know ... I'd think at that stage I'd be too far gone, but there I was grabbing her hand, squeezing it as I pulled it from me, telling her she couldn't possibly really be in love with someone if she was doing this with me.

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