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But my thumbs hover over the keyboard because how do I tell her that the only woman I want to be photographed with is her? That every city feels gray and empty without her in it. That I’m wondering what would happen if we decide not to walk away after the six months end.
Keeping it light, I text back: ‘What can I say? My secret affair planning skills are clearly rusty. How’s filming?’
Her response comes quickly: ‘Wet. Very wet. 3 hours of rain scenes. I think I’m growing gills. Also, my passionate embrace with Leo had to be reshot 6 times because he keeps stepping on my toes. He doesn’t have your superior sense of rhythm. Miss you.’
I smile despite everything, picturing her soaked and probably complaining between takes. But something hot and uncomfortable twists in my gut at the mention of Leo. Not because I think something might be happening with them—I don’t—It’s just...
My phone buzzes again. She’s sent a selfie—hair plastered to her face, makeup running slightly, fist raised to the artificial rain. The caption reads:Hollywood glamour at its finest. Bet your date looked way more glamorous than me. Sigh.
Something in my chest constricts. Because even soaking wet and angry at the rain, she’s the most perfect thing I’ve ever seen. I save the photo before I can think better of it.
‘Miss you,’I type. Then add: ‘The real you. Not the perfect Hollywood version. Just... you.’
It’s more honest than I meant to be, but before I can regret it, she responds:
‘Ditto. Not the tabloid version. Just my private drummer boy who hates losing to me and makes the best damn waffles.’
Emily bursts in without knocking. “Rachel wants to know how to handle the Melissa and Leo situation.”
“There is no situation,” I growl, but there’s less heat in it now. Lacey’s messages have smoothed the sharp edges of my mood.
“Rachel thinks we need to get ahead of this,” Emily persists, dropping into the armchair. “She’s suggesting we do a big photo spread at Family First next week. You know, show the happy couple giving back to the community—“
“No.” The word comes out sharp enough to make Emily blink. “Family First isn’t a publicity stunt. Those kids aren’t props.”
“But Nate, the timing would be perfect. With all this Melissa and Leo nonsense—“
“Tell Rachel to back the hell off.” I’m on my feet now, anger burning hot and fast. “That place... those kids... It’s the one thing I’m a part of that isn’t about the spotlight. It’s private. Tell Rachel I said no—that place is off limits.”
Emily sighs but nods. “Okay. I’ll let her know.”
“Good.” I turn away, making it clear the conversation is over.
Three days later, I’m finally turning the key in my front door. The familiar salt breeze rushes in as I step inside, carrying the rhythmic sound of waves through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Inside, everything’s exactly as I left it, but somehow different. Emptier.
Her presence lingers like a ghost—the pink coffee mug she always uses still in the dish rack, her favorite throw blanket draped over the couch where we used to watch the sunrise over the Atlantic if we didn’t feel like getting dressed and sitting on the deck.
My carefully curated minimalist space has been invaded by splashes of her—that ridiculous lava lamp she insisted we purchase for my stark living room and the bright splashes of color from the vintage band posters we framed. Even the chess set seems lonely, set up mid-game from the last time she tried (and failed) to beat me.
My phone buzzes. Lacey: ‘Only three more days of filming, and then I’ll be coming home to Jacksonville.’
‘Can’t wait to see you.’ I type back, sinking onto the couch. The house feels too quiet, too still, despite the constant symphony of surf outside. The space that once felt perfectly ordered now just feels empty.
I glance at the lava lamp, remembering her delighted laugh when she first plugged it in and the way she’d dragged me off the couch to slow dance in its shifting purple glow.
Three days suddenly feel like forever.
Standing in my quiet house, I realize I’m in trouble. Because somewhere between the fake engagement and real laughter, between the headlines and quiet moments, she’s invaded every aspect of my life.
And I’m not sure I can survive without her.
Thirty
Lacey
“Cut!” The director’s voice echoes across the set. “Reset for another take.”
I suppress a sigh as Leo immediately drops my hand and stalks off to his mark, already complaining about the lighting. Thank God we’re filming our final scenes together. Two more days of his drama queen antics, and I’m free of him. The rest of my scenes are prior to our characters’ meeting.