Rebecca
THE NOVEMBER SUN blasts in my face and there isn’t a cloud in the sky. A steady breeze blows the side of my hair into my eyes and mouth.
“Should we wait for better weather?” I position myself in front of a used Kia Sorrento with a giant red bow across the windshield. Two enormous balloon bouquets are tied to the side mirrors.
Tommy Thompson, Houston’s Used Car King, is beside me. He’s dressed in a cornflower blue polyester suit, and a bead of sweat rolls down his neck as he squints up at the clear sky. “Can’t get much better than this!”
I smooth a hand down my flower-print pencil skirt. “Don’t you think the light is a bit . . . harsh? And the wind . . .” Another blast flutters my white silk shirt and sends more hair sticking to my lip gloss. I do a little laugh. “It’s like being in Dallas!”
“It’s damn fine Texas weather. Best weather in the world.” His grin is enormous. “Don’t you worry, Miss Fieldstone. Just say those lines, and it’ll be great.”
I can’t believe I’ve been reduced to making amateur used-car commercials with this guy. In fairness, Tommy is paying me more money than I ever made as a reporter. The red light goes on, and I start to move. Naturally the wind sends the balloons flying in a colorful spiral right at my face.
“Safety isn’t just my priority, it’s also the priority of Tommy Thompson Pre-Owned Vehicles—oh!” I bounce off Tommy, who’s standing with his feet spread and both hands on his hips like it’s a barn raising. “Excuse me,” I mutter.
“CUT!” Terence, Tommy’s neighbor or brother-in-law or cousin or I forget what, shouts like he’s Martin Scorsese. “Back to the top.”
“Gotta keep those eyes open, Miss Fieldstone!” Tommy’s voice is like my grandpa’s, and he lifts a meaty paw like he might pinch my cheek.
I swear to God, if he touches my face . . .
Taking a step toward the car, I bat a shiny gold balloon away from my head. “Maybe I should move toward the car? Hold my hand out like this?” I do a sweeping Price is Right motion toward the vehicle.
“I like it!” Terence calls from behind the camera. He’s a skinny guy shaped like a Coke bottle. “Let’s shoot it!”
I barely have time to get to my starting point before the red light switches on. Naturally, the wind kicks up to full-blast as soon as I start to walk.
“Safety isn’t just my priority, it’s also the priority of—shit!” The tornado of balloons twists around my arm, tangling in my bracelet. They’re around my waist. One bounces off my nose.
“CUT!” Terence yells, skinny shoulders falling. “Can’t use that!”
“Now, Miss Fieldstone, we’d like to run this during family hours,” Tommy laughs.
At least he has a good attitude. I’m ready to throw in the towel.
“Right . . .” I manage to untangle myself from the balloon ribbons. “How about I just stand beside you?”
“Great idea! We can act like we’re having a regular ol’ conversation.”
“That’ll give them something to watch.” I’m fighting to keep the sarcasm out of my voice.
“I know!” Terence’s skinny head pops out from behind the camera. His bushy brows are clenched. “Rebecca, how about you loosen your top button? You know . . . make it more interesting for the boys at home?”
“NO,” I snap.
Tommy lets out a loud laugh, I assume to gloss over his cousin’s bone-headed suggestion. Terence is back behind the lens.
“From the top!” he yells, and I take my place at my stocky employer’s side.
“I hate doing commercials!” My yell is muffled by the throw pillow. I can’t even say Thank God it’s Friday, because I have to be back out there tomorrow.
I’m lying on my stomach in our living room after a mind-numbing fifty takes, and Chas stalks from the kitchen holding a pitcher of pink liquid.
“You’re making more money than you’ve made in your life!” She emphasizes the words as she nudges my legs. “Have a drink.”
I sit up, pulling them under my butt and reaching for the flared martini glass. “But it’s not what I love. It’s not what I want to do.”
“You’re not speaking to what you love and what you want to do.”
My stomach cramps, and the ever-looming tears try to cloud my vision. “Stop!” I hold up one hand. “Do not say his name.”
Chas’s eyebrows rise and she shakes her head before sipping her Cosmo. My mind trips back to the night after it all came crashing down. That horrible night after that horrible morning when I’d arrived to see Savannah celebrating her new job . . .
After breaking up with Cade, I’d gone home to my apartment and cried until my head felt like it was going to explode and my nose was a snotty mess. I’d finally fallen asleep from exhaustion, and when I woke, it was nearly eleven—the perfect time to go back to the studio and finish cleaning out my desk.
I’d been so shell-shocked by what had happened and crushed by Cade’s involvement, I could barely see for fighting the tears. I was not going to cry in front of them. Now I had to make sure I didn’t leave anything behind.
“I was hoping you’d come back.” Vicky had met me in the hall. Of course, she’d still be at work. “I wanted to talk to you, and you aren’t answering your phone.”
“I turned it off.” My body was numb, and I continued to my desk without even lifting my eyes. “I don’t want to talk to anyone.”
“I’m sorry, Becks.” She followed me to the small area I’d managed to strip of most of my personal things earlier, in spite of my insides spiraling. “I had no idea the board would take Savannah seriously.”
Something about her tone made me snap. “You didn’t think the board would listen to Marv? You didn’t think they’d go with whatever their news director recommended?” I hadn’t meant to shout, but my emotions were all over the place. “Nobody even objected.”
“You’re right.” She’d nodded and looked down. “I let you down.”
“You never talked to Liz, did you?”
Her red head moved slowly back and forth. “We were so busy. The grabber story blew up, and then you were a hero. I didn’t think—”
“You didn’t think. It wasn’t your job on the line, so you didn’t care.”
Her eyes snapped to mine. “You know that’s not true. I’ve always cared what happens to my reporters.”
“Your reporters.” I surveyed my office space and decided I didn’t want anything else from this place. “I thought we were friends.”
I’d gone back to my apartment and spent the rest of the night sobbing in Chas’s lap. “She was supposed to be my friend.”
“Friends let you down.” Chas had stroked my head and fed me more alcohol.
More sniffing, more stomach cramps. “And him . . . I loved him.”
“I know, cupcake.”
“No,” shaking my head harder, “I really loved him. Not like James . . . Not like anybody else . . .” My chest squeezed, and more tears flooded my eyes. “He was . . .”
My roommate’s voice is sad. “He was your Star-Lord.”
Eventually I’d thrown up in the toilet, and cried myself to sleep on the cold bathroom floor. At some point Chas had gone to bed, and I’d woken up the next day covered in her fluffy pink robe, determined to move forward and not look back.
Three weeks later, it still hurts like hell.
“He betrayed me,” I say softly. “Vicky betrayed me . . . I counted on all of them, and they didn’t even fight for me.”
Chas is thinking—I can tell by the way she sips her Cosmo, but she isn’t saying what’s on her mind. Instead she rises with a flourish and returns to our small kitchen.
“By the way, this came for you today.” She picks up a white business-sized envelope and hands it to me.
“A letter?” I frown, ripping the linen envelope open and sliding out a single sheet of paper. “Who writes letters anymore?”
Across the top in gray ink surrounded by a sweeping circle in all caps are the words NBC 4 New York and the rainbow peacock.
“What is this?” I whisper, sitting up straighter and setting my glass aside.
My eyes fly down the sheet so fast, I’m barely reading the words.
“What is it?” Chas scoots closer to read with me. “NBC!”
“Brian Caldwell. He thanks me for my interest in working with their station . . . ‘Vicky Grant has spoken very highly of your work ethic and your recent assistance in capturing a criminal preying on senior citizens in the Houston area . . . ’” My eyes are huge, and I look up at my roommate. “He wants to schedule an interview! He says to call at my earliest convenience!”
Chas screams and jumps off the couch to do a boogie dance. I’m trying to swallow the knot tightening my throat. Working for a network affiliate in New York is one step below working for the network. It’s the chance of a lifetime.
My eyes go to the clock. It’s almost ten. “It’s too late to call him.”
“Fuck you, Marv!” Chas is singing and pointing her long fingers toward the door.
“I have to call Nancy . . .”
“We have to celebrate!” Now my roommate is clapping. “Get dressed—we are going dancing!”
I think about the texts Vicky had sent me over the last few weeks, apologizing again, asking if I were okay. I’d ignored them all. “I have to call Vicky and thank her.”
“You can do all that later. I’m calling for a car. Put on your party dress!”
Twenty minutes later, we’re in Barbarella, a funky-fun downtown dance club with 1960s Space-Race-era décor. We’re in the center of a smoke-filled, semi-crowded dance floor. Neon-purple lights flash all around us, and we reach for the stars, which are little white points of light scattered across the black ceiling. It looks just like the Milky Way, and with our arms up, we twist our hips to classic 90s house music. Chas is in a short sequined slip dress, a classic Julie Newmar flip wig, and sky-high stilettoes. I’d thrown on my red dress and heels, touched up my lipstick, and ran out the door behind her.
“It’s Priscilla!” Chas cries, and we jump up and down, singing and dancing to “Finally” by CeCe Peniston. “I’m Queen of the Desert!”
The song mixes into Robin S’s “Show Me Love,” and Chas pulls my arm toward the bar. I make a pouty face. “I love this song!”
“Too much desert. I must have refreshment.”
We’re stopped on the way off the floor by one of Chas’s fans wanting an autograph. I snort a laugh when she signs the guy’s bicep then squeals about how big and hard it is. Selfies taken, we make our way to the crowded bar.
“Why aren’t you performing tonight?” I ask as we wait for fresh Cosmos.
“I have the week off,” she says, rocking her hips to the beat. “Maybe I’ll go with you to New York. I haven’t seen Nan in ages!”
My eyes drift up to the flat-screen television hanging behind the bar. The news is ending with a recap of scenes from the charity ball earlier this evening. I’d done my best to avoid all coverage and put the event out of my mind, since it’s to benefit the same inner-city school where I’d started to fall in love with Cade. Eli Manning appears with other local celebrities, and my stubborn gaze searches every face looking for his. I see Coach Hart followed by Cheetah . . . and my heart stops when Cade appears on the screen.
Dark hair flops onto his brow, and his steel blue eyes laser from the television to burn a hole in my already decimated heart. The television is on mute, but I watch his full lips surrounded by that beard, his perfectly straight teeth as he smiles, waiting patiently as Matt asks him a question.
Tears burn my eyes as much as I fight them. It hurts so bad to see him standing there, looking healthy and amazing, like he doesn’t have a care in the world. I can still hear his voice. He stopped calling me, but I still have one of his voicemails saved on my phone. Sometimes, when it’s really bad, I’ll press it to my ear and listen to the rich vibration of him speaking. Hot tears will stream down my face, and I’ll cry myself to sleep . . .
Those are the bad nights, the nights when I wonder how much I truly care that he knew the entire time, every time I’d thanked him . . . when I’d told him everything, when I’d bared my deepest feelings, my hopes and dreams. He’d known it had been over for me the whole time. He hadn’t even tried to warn me.
“Be My Lover” by La Bouche comes on, and I turn to find Chas. I want to dance—correction: I need to dance. Only, I don’t turn fast enough to miss it. The last shot of the gala is that same blonde stick-insect prancing up to Cade and planting a kiss right on his face. Maggie Grace in a mixture of words including fiancée appears under her image, and my heart drops to my feet. I lift my martini glass and chug the rest of the pink liquid, ready to slam it on the bar when a deep voice freezes me in place.
“She’s always looking for some way to be on camera.”
Spinning around, I almost fall when I see Cade standing behind me staring up at the TV screen. He looks just as luscious as he had when Matt was interviewing him, except his black tie is gone. The top button of his white shirt is undone, and both hands are in his pants pockets.
“Cade . . .” My stomach clenches, and my voice is just above a whisper.
“I didn’t expect to see you here. Trent wanted to celebrate.” His blue eyes move around my face. “The gala was a big success.”
A sharp pain shoots through my forehead, and I fight back the tears. I remind myself my life is better now. I don’t need Cade Hill or his player ways and half-truths. I’ve just gotten the chance of a lifetime. I am not focusing on the past or betrayal or how much I want to bury my face in his chest and lose myself in the scent of warm fires and citrus and him.
I clear my throat. “I’m glad to hear it.” I sound way calmer than I feel. “Deadrick is a worthy cause.”
Cade waves at the bartender. “A Cosmopolitan and a Jameson.”
“You don’t have to buy—”
“So you’re working with Tommy now?”
Shaking my head, I do a dismissive wave. “It’s just a temporary thing. I-I actually got a letter from Brian Caldwell today. He’s with the NBC affiliate in New York. They want to interview me.”
Cade studies me a moment, and I can’t figure out the expression on his face. It’s some strange mixture of pride and anger. “You’re going to work in Manhattan?”
“It’s just an interview.” He hands me my drink, and I nod. “Thanks. I don’t know that anything will come of it. It’ll probably be just an expensive trip, but at least I’ll see Nancy.” His brow furrows, and I continue, borderline babbling. “My old roommate. She moved up there to go to culinary school and hopefully get a job with the Food Network, although—”
“They’ll offer you the job.” He cuts me off, and it sounds almost like saying the words makes him angry. “They’d be fools not to.”
I don’t know how to answer that, and we fall quiet. House music fills the gap, Be my lover . . .
“So you’re engaged now?” My stupid brain just has to know.
“No.” He answers quickly. “I don’t know why she . . . I’ll get Vicky to correct it.”
I look down, taking a slow sip of my drink. I don’t want to dance anymore. I’m buzzed and sad and having him this close is killing me. I’m not sure how much longer I can keep talking to him this way.
“You look . . . really good,” he says, and pain echoes in my chest with every heartbeat. “I always liked that dress.”
“So do you.” My voice breaks, and it’s time to go. I have to get out of here before I lose my grip on control and completely humiliate myself by falling apart. “Well . . . good luck to you.”
I turn and almost bounce off Trent and Chas prancing up arm in arm. “Rebecca Fieldstone!” Trent presses his hand against his chest. “Watch where you’re going, girl! My safety is your priority!”
I force a smile as we air-kiss each other’s cheeks. “Congratulations on the gala tonight.” I squeeze his forearm. “I’m sorry I can’t stay to celebrate.”
“Houston! We have a problem!” Chas cups her mouth dramatically with one long hand. “What’s up, buttercup? You’re calling it a night?”
“I’m sorry.” I step forward to air-kiss my roomie. “I think today’s hitting me all at once. I’m suddenly exhausted.”
“Do you need me to see you home?” My roommate’s chin starts to lift in Cade’s direction, and I see her trying to make history repeat itself.
I grip her arm, and my jaw tightens. “I’ll be fine. I’ve already called an Uber.”
“Bolt the door as soon as you get inside.” Chas uses her exaggerated mom-voice.
“I will.”
Trent and Chas are calling “Byeeee” in unison, and the heat of Cade is burning at my back. Without looking over my shoulder, I adopt a confident stride and make my way through the crowd and out the door.
Only a few steps more, and I can fall apart . . .