Page 42 of Play the Part (Marsford Bay #2)

CONNIE

T urns out that staying as far away as possible is improbable when my best friend and Huxley’s brother are happily engaged and own a business together.

My silent protest lasts a measly seventy-two hours before I witness Huxley walk into the sandwich shop while I’m there visiting Jamie.

“ Shit ,” I say under my breath as I crouch down in my chair trying to hide behind Jamie, who’s sitting in front of me. It’s a fruitless effort, to say the least when the shop is so damn tiny.

“What?” Jamie asks innocently.

I watch in horror as she swivels in her chair.

“No, wait!” I whisper harshly.

But it’s too late.

Huxley is staring directly at us—at me.

I hear Jamie squeak a quiet Oh before waving at Huxley and turning back in her seat.

“Oops,” she mouths my way, her gaze apologetic.

But I’m too busy being caught in Huxley’s intense gaze to care about her small blunder. And by the stutter in his step, I can tell he doesn’t know what to do. So I decide for the both of us. Standing up, I quickly shrug on my coat and grab my purse.

“I’ll talk to you later — tell Ozzy bye for me.” I kiss Jamie on the cheek. “Love you.”

She nods in understanding, her eyes still wide. “Love you,” she answers quietly.

There’s no way for me to walk out the front door without having to pass directly in front of Huxley.

Kill me.

I keep my eyes down, holding my breath as I hug the row of tables to put as much distance as possible between him and me. But as soon as I walk past Huxley, he tries to grab my arm.

“Connie, wait.”

My irritation spikes, and I shake him off, my eyes landing back to his. I’m surprised by how steadfast his gaze is, urgent and demanding, but I don’t let it influence me.

“I’m not in the mood,” I hiss before pushing the door open, the chime of the bell above the door bidding me farewell.

I’ve barely taken a few steps outside before I hear Huxley call after me.

“Connie, please ,” he says as he catches my shoulder and tries to swivel me around.

I turn on my heels and face him.

“What?” I bark, my anger rising by the second.

I can’t pinpoint what exactly about this situation is making me so angry, just that I am .

Huxley lets out a small but exasperated sigh as if I’m the one being difficult.

“I wanted to talk.”

His voice is soft but expectant, eyes mournful, but I refuse to fall for it. I narrow my eyes and cross my arms.

“How convenient.”

“Convenient?” he repeats, looking confused by my response.

I feel a drop of cold rain land on my cheek. Reflexively, I look up to the gray February sky, another fat drop falling on my nose.

Great.

I glare back at Huxley.

“Now that you see me, all of a sudden it’s convenient to talk when you’ve happily been ignoring me.”

Huxley's expression turns sheepish, and I almost turn around and leave him standing there. But something has me rooted to the spot. Morbidly curious to see what he’s going to say, my anxious breaths making my chest heave up and down.

“I’ve been —” He groans, eyes to the sky before dragging his hand over his face.

It’s as if he’s already struggling to come up with something to say.

His pleading gaze lands back on me as he takes a step forward.

“Look, I’ve been meaning to, trust me, I have.

It’s just that —” He groans again, shaking his head. “I just couldn’t find the words.”

Unimpressed, I suck on my teeth and stare at him.

“You look like you’re struggling now, too,” I mutter.

Tightening my arms across my chest, I try to ignore the cold rain now steadily falling on our heads.

“Why don’t I help you, okay?” Arrogance and contempt drip from my every word as I take a step closer in some subtle power play.

“Why don’t we start with I’m so sorry Connie that I’m a huge fucking asshole and fucked someone else the first chance I got.

” I cock my head to the side. “How about that?”

Huxley takes a step back as if I’ve physically struck him. It’s a cheap thrill and only lasts a few seconds, but I smile devilishly nonetheless.

But his expression shifts from shock to outrage in a split second. He lets out an off-putting laugh as his lip curls, baring his teeth.

“Don’t you fucking get it?” he spits, glaring at me sideways and tapping his temple aggressively.

The rain is falling even harder now, the water sluicing down both our faces, but we ignore it.

I roll my eyes, acting impatient. “Get what, Hux?”

He takes another step closer as he starts to answer me—or more like yell, his voice loud and angry.

“There’s no one else , Connie.” His nostrils flare, looking more riled up by the second.

I don’t move. I don’t dare move. “I just went out with that girl to make you jealous. Do you not get that?” His eyes are wild, his face much too close to mine.

“I didn’t touch her. The thought of even kissing her made me fucking sick .

” His voice cracks, but he spits the last words with such venom that I wince.

For a few tense breaths, he falls silent. The raindrops cling to his long eyelashes, hugging his parted lips, dripping down his chin.

This moment feels bigger than us.

It feels like I’ll remember this moment for as long as I am alive and breathing.

“Don’t you get it?” he repeats, his tone softer now, laced with a visceral kind of hurt. “I fucking love you, Connie.”

The earth shifts on its axis, my knees buckling under me. I’m split into two. One who wants nothing more than to fall into Huxley’s arms and forget it all. Forget how we started. Forget how we got here. Forget everything. Except for us, standing in the rain.

To our dismay, she’s not the one who decides to speak when I finally open my mouth.

“No.” I shake my head. “You’re the one who doesn’t get it, Huxley.” I pause, my bottom lip trembling. “You don’t try to hurt someone you love.”

Huxley barely moves, but his eyes widen as if he’s just been shot. And maybe I’ve been hit too. It would explain the searing pain in my chest.

I walk away, leaving a trail of blood behind me.

The next day, in a measly effort to push the thought of Huxley as far away as possible from my mind, I decide to sit in on an early evening rehearsal with Virginia and Nacho.

We have one more month of rehearsals before Hell Week begins, followed by opening night the second week of April, and things have gone surprisingly smoothly.

At least one thing in my life is.

It’s also been quite the thrill to witness the play I’ve written come to life. If I were in a celebratory mood, I’d be gloating right about now.

I’m watching Mary-Beth monologue as Kate when I get a text from Oliver. I swallow down my groan, trying to be as silent as possible as I skim over his message.

He’s back in town.

Even after I told him not to bother last week.

He thinks I was joking. I was not.

And I’m fairly certain that he believes that his flying here is this grand romantic gesture when it’s anything but.

It’s so obvious that it's simply spurred on by guilt. I might have some sympathy for his addiction, but it’s not as if he was being held at gunpoint when he cheated on me.

He should stop trying to fix what’s been slammed into a million pieces.

I sure have.

Leaning into Nacho’s chair, I whisper, “Do you think we can have the actors take a quick break while I show my ex around the theatre? I wouldn’t normally ask that, but he’s close by.”

Nacho gives me a double-take but keeps his voice low. “Your ex? As in the Oliver Campisi?”

I don’t want to take away the sparkle in his eyes, but it’s taking me everything not to tell him that Oliver is not worth the idolization. That he would have never even broken into the business if not for his mother, the Susan Renfort, a three-time Oscar winner in her own right.

I say nothing of the sort.

I simply give him a thin-lipped smile and nod.

“The one and only.”

“Of course,” Nacho says quickly. “And besides, I’m sure the cast would love to meet him.”

I elbow his ribs and crack a real smile this time. “And by cast, you mean you.”

He muffles his snicker and puts a finger to his lips as if playfully trying to shush me.

We return to watching the rehearsal, and I text Oliver. He answers back immediately.

“He’ll be here in ten.”

Oliver is effortlessly charming, as always. He takes the time to speak to everyone in the cast individually as they gush about his superb acting skills and prolific body of work. I drag him backstage before he starts signing autographs in the next ten seconds.

“Nice group of people you got there,” Oliver notes as he follows me down a half-lit corridor.

“Please,” I say as I shoot him an unimpressed look over my shoulder.

“What?”

I stop and turn around to face him, his face a picture of innocence.

“You’re just saying that because they were showering you with praise.”

Oliver cocks a grin but doesn’t try to defend himself. He takes a casual step forward, his eyes dragging down my body, then back up.

“If memory serves, you enjoy praise just as much as I do.”

A pleasurable shiver travels down my spine at the obvious innuendo. But it’s more like a phantom reaction, a synapse fired by an old memory. It doesn’t mean a damn thing.

I roll my eyes and cross my arms.

“This concludes your visit to the Remington,” I say dryly. “You can leave now.”

Oliver’s laugh is dark and arrogant as if he’s getting a kick out of me acting like a bitch.

“Oh, come on, babe, don’t be like that,” he coos. “I thought we could celebrate tonight.”

My brows dip. “Celebrate what?”

“I’ll tell you all about it at dinner,” he says as he tries to place his hand on the small of my back.

Nothing about what he just said should leave me suspicious, but I get hit with a wave of apprehension nonetheless.

The feeling is akin to tapping into a truth that I am not yet privy to but still recognize.

I swing my hips to the side to avoid his hand and take a step away from him, my arms still crossed.

“Actually, I want you to tell me now.”

There must be just enough defiance in my expression for Oliver to heed my demand, because he sighs but then smiles widely. His eyes shimmer as he slides his hands into his Moschino trench coat.

“Guess who just sold Love Lies Waiting to Universal.”

My heart speeds up and sinks in one fell swoop.

“You’re shitting me.”

Too wrapped up in his narcissistic fairyland, Oliver doesn’t pick up on my accusatory tone. Instead, he laughs in excitement, smoothing a hand over his pomaded hair.

“I know, can you believe it?”

He’s too busy figuratively jerking himself off to see me coming. I shove him hard with two flat palms to the chest .

“What the hell?” he barks as he stumbles backward, trying to regain his balance.

“You mean my screenplay, asshole?!”

His expression sours instantly, his body turning guarded. “I mean, it was my idea.”

“Your fucking idea,” I repeat in disbelief. “You gave me one tiny plot point! I made it into a story and wrote the whole fucking thing and you know it,” I hiss between clenched teeth.

I feel sick to my stomach, the walls closing in on me.

I can’t fucking believe him. Can’t believe he could stoop so low and do this, let alone think I would celebrate with him. And this time, he can’t hide behind all his previous excuses. He’s clean and sober. He did this with a clear fucking mind.

“I thought you were done with Hollywood. So what’s the harm?” he asks with such snide arrogance that I think I just might be capable of murder tonight.

I stare back at him, completely dumbfounded.

I don’t think I knew it was possible to feel this betrayed. Somehow, this hurts even worse than all the secrets and cheating. It’s as if I’m finally, finally, seeing him for what he truly is.

A piece of shit who will always put himself first.

I take a step back and hold up a finger to him.

“Stay the fuck away from me.”

I turn on my heels and storm off.

“Oh come on, Connie, don’t be like that,” he says half-heartedly from behind me, then raises his voice so it reaches me down the corridor. “I thought you’d at least be happy for me.”

I don’t bother turning around when I yell back at him.

“I’ll be happy when you choke on your own spit and die!”