Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 65643 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 328(@200wpm)___ 263(@250wpm)___ 219(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65643 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 328(@200wpm)___ 263(@250wpm)___ 219(@300wpm)
“But I want you to take a percentage. I need you here.”
My mother looked torn, and I was beginning to get an idea of what she was torn between. Being here to support me and being able to support herself. A sick, leaden feeling took hold of my stomach, like I’d swallowed a five-pound weight. It pushed everything aside, even this damn headache. “I’ll fix this, Mom. You don’t have to go back to Denver.”
“It’s hardly a death sentence.” She smoothed the hair back off my face like I was a kid again. Like my hair was its natural reddish auburn instead of fire engine red and stacked with extensions. “I could help out Gram and Gramps if I moved back. I could go back to my old school. My friends still work there.”
I shook my head vehemently and the hair she’d smoothed back dropped back into my face, burning in my periphery. “No. No. No.”
Rowena kind of sighed and smiled at the same time. “Okay, honey. I’ll be here as long as you need me.”
“I need you now,” I said protectively. “People think I’m a yacht girl.”
“An expensive yacht girl,” she teased. “You think it’ll raise your ask?”
I laughed, even though it caused pain to shoot out of my eyeballs like lightning bolts. My ask was how much I asked for to be cast in a role–or rather, how much Lorraine demanded. My ask now was nowhere near five million.
“Maybe so.” I reached out and squeezed her hand. “Don’t worry, Mom. Lorraine is overreacting. This is going to blow over. I promise.”
Maybe it was the headache, but I really believed it was true.
I wasn’t a yacht girl. I was as far from a prostitute as you could get.
Surely everyone knew that.
3
GARRETT
It had been a few months since I heard from my ex-wife, but I wasn’t surprised when Noemi stopped by for lunch the next day. Like the devil, she appeared when spoken of. When I opened the door, pretended like I didn’t recognize her, and asked if she was lost, she tilted her angelic blonde head and said, “Let me in the damn door, Garrett.”
I let her in, scanning over her shoulder to make sure no paparazzi had followed her. I lived in a gated community, but that was no guarantee. I didn’t see any. After twenty years in the business, Noemi was an expert at covering her tracks. I closed the door and followed her down the hall. “How’d you find me?” I asked. I was a chronic mover, and I was pretty sure I hadn’t seen her since I moved into my hilltop bungalow.
Though she’d never been here before, Noemi walked straight into my kitchen and unerringly found where I kept the plates and silverware. “I called your mom,” she said over her shoulder. “Janice says hi.” She found where I kept the bread on the first try and laid out four pieces, then moved to the refrigerator.
I settled onto the barstool across the island from her. “You just stop by to make me a sandwich?”
Noemi rolled her dark green eyes. “Yes, Garrett. Some habits die hard.”
“Hey, I made my share of sandwiches when we were married,” I defended myself. I had a shit ton of failings, but I’d been a good husband. Followed the girl to LA, worked two jobs while the girl auditioned, made the girl more peanut butter and jelly sandwiches than she could count because it was all we could afford. Let the girl go.
Noemi reached across the island and pinched my cheek. “Yes, you did.” She finished making turkey and cheese sandwiches with Miracle Whip and sliced tomato. Twenty years ago, that had been a treat for us. I took a bite. Still was a treat, actually.
“How’d you know I’d be here?” I asked after I swallowed.
“It’s Wednesday,” she said, like that explained it. Which it did. Anyone who knew me well knew that Wednesdays were my Sundays. Unless I was on vacation, I generally laid low at home and geared up for my week.
We finished our sandwiches in companionable silence. I wondered if Noemi was remembering the shithole we lived in twenty years ago, too. The one with mice that would chew right through the plastic bag and eat our bread. There were nights when we just had spoonfuls of peanut butter for dinner, but even when those days were happening and my stomach was growling and I would have traded my left arm for a steak, I knew they were good ones. Sitting here with Noemi like this was nice. It reminded me of them. Before shit got complicated.
Noemi smiled at me, and I knew she was remembering, too.
After we ate, I did the dishes lest she make any more snarky comments, then we moved out to the back patio. I had a small, kidney shaped pool that Noemi sat on the side of, pulling her long skirt up so she could dangle her legs in the water. I pulled up a chair.