Page 104 of Reckless Hearts

When I finally make it out of the bathroom, I check my phone again.

Still no response from my father.

It’s stupid how much it hurts, how much I still crave even the smallest sign that he could see me as something other than a reminder of what he lost.

But no matter how many magazine covers I grace or how many box office records I break, it’ll never be enough to make him look at me properly again.

At least it’s now late enough that I can video call Seb without feeling guilty.

Seb answers on the second ring, the sound of traffic in the background. He props me up on the center console of his car so I can see his profile, lit by the early-morning sun. His hair is its usual mess of curls, and there’s a slight furrow between his brows as he concentrates on the road. He’s wearing one of his science pun T-shirts—this one has a picture of lots of test tubesin the shape of a tree and readsOh,Chemistree, Oh, Chemistreeat the bottom.

Just seeing him loosens the tightness in my chest.

“Hey,” he says. “Merry Christmas.”

“Thanks. Where are you off to?”

“Just on my way to weigh the chicks. Turns out endangered species don’t take holidays.”

“Don’t let those chicks sweet-talk you into giving them extra fish. I know how weak you are for a cute face.”

Seb laughs. “I am a sucker for a cute face. That is true.”

He switches on his indicator, flicking his eyes between the road and the phone.

“How did you sleep?” he asks.

Seb knows I’m plagued constantly by nightmares. Although I’ve never shared with him the details of my nightmares.

“Not too bad,” I lie. “So, how did the rest of Christmas with the Kleggs clan go?”

Seb shrugs. “It was the Saskia show as usual, but I’m used to it.”

Fuck. The look on his face cuts me.

“That sucks,” I say.

“Yeah, it does sometimes,” Seb replies.

I haven’t ever really talked to Seb about his family dynamics because I’m scared of where that conversation might lead, whether he’ll ask me about my family.

I think that’s why things with Seb work. He never demands more of me than I can give.

But now, seeing that look on his face, I want Seb to tell me how he feels about the way his parents have treated him as the understudy his entire life.

But how can I expect him to confide secrets in me when I’m unwilling to offer any in return?

So, instead, I chicken out and go for the easy conversation route.

“How are your parents liking Auckland?”

“Mum complains about the traffic every half-hour, and she doesn’t like the humidity, but otherwise, they seem to have settled in well.”

“Oh, that’s good,” I say.

Seb’s forehead creases. “Things seemed slightly tense between Tom and Saskia. Has she said anything to you about it?”

Fuck.