Page 35 of Take 2
Chapter Thirty-Two
C onsciousness seeps into me slowly like the sun peeking over the hills at Villefranche-sur-Mer.
I stretch and curl up, then blink my eyes open when I realize I’m alone.
My emotions tangle into an ambiguous knot that settles in my chest. Waking up without Preston is not my preference, but I’m secure enough about him not to freak out over it.
Except, feeling secure about him makes me spiral anyway, in a prime example of my ridiculousness.
Because I shouldn’t feel much of anything toward whatever I have with him.
It’s nice for now, but in a week, we’ll be back in LA.
LA is the killer of relationships.
Enjoy the moment.
I roll over and grab my phone from the nightstand to tap my first notification.
I Love Fucking Preston Greene: Went to the gym. Be back soon and we can get brunch? If you’re my gf today that is …
One more week of digging myself into my grave. There’s really no denying that’s what I’m doing. Life in LA won’t accommodate this. At least I’ll be too busy to be depressed. Removing all this from real life is actually perfect. I can box it all up and toss it into the Mediterranean on my way out.
In the meantime … I’ve gotten what would usually be a year’s worth of sex in a week and a half. The benefits of this trip will certainly outweigh the fallout.
I shower and dress to give me motivation to go out for brunch when Preston gets back instead of jumping him.
Already showered is a flimsy reason, but something is better than nothing.
When he walks into his room, and I look at him over my laptop screen from my signature keeping-my-chiropractor-in-business position on my stomach, the fact that I don’t pay the water bill here slithers through my mind. What’s an extra shower?
His eyes rake over me. “Good morning.”
“Good morning.” I rest my chin on my hand and admire his gleaming arms.
“I need to take a shower.” It’s said as an excuse.
“Yes, you do.”
Rather than the bathroom, though, he walks over to the desk and opens his laptop. He leans over it instead of sitting. “Are you checking out my ass?” he asks without looking back at me.
“Obviously.”
He snickers at his computer. “Hope I give you enough pleasure in the bedroom to make up for the hell I pushed you into with Rafi. Asks my opinion on a couple of shots and sends me a jumble of raw footage I can’t even sort through.”
“Have you written any movies that you just hand over and get to wait and be surprised at the screening?” I ask as I roll off the bed. “I think this is better.” I slip around him and into the chair. “What are you looking for?”
“Yacht shots.”
“Looking for an excuse to get back out on the water?”
“I wouldn’t put it past him.” Preston straightens up. “Whatever, he can wait.”
“I’ll see what I can find while you’re in the shower.”
“Thanks.” He kisses the top of my head and disappears into the bathroom. My heart skips to a pop beat at the chaste little show of affection. I need to calm the fuck down.
Raw footage kind of looks like trash compared to the final product of a movie. Colors are flat, background noises sneak in, and unusable footage hasn’t been trimmed off. It’s amazing what editors do to mold stuff like this into masterpieces.
It’s probably more than he needs, but I move a few files into a folder together. Less to sift through should be a little helpful. I click into a folder called Montage and find another bundle of raw clips and one longer piece. Do they already have a preview in the works?
I open it, and my skipping heart comes to a screeching halt when a long shot of the Mediterranean swings to … me.
That’s me sitting at the back of the yacht with my feet swinging off the deck. Then Preston comes into the frame, and the way I look at him makes goosebumps pop up all over my skin. We look like romantic leads as every glance, smile, and blush plays in HD.
I watch as he kisses me. His hand slides into my hair, he pulls me close, but why is this on film?
He pushes me off the boat, and we play fight when I get out.
A not-quite smoothed-out transition moves the video to my head on his shoulder as the sun rises in Villefranche.
Another of me with a dreamy look in my eyes in the mountains.
The two of us laughing near a beach. Every set we were at has some clip of us.
“It would make a good story.”
“Is that the whole point? Are you creating a good story?”
“That’s what we do.”
It was all too movie-perfect. I didn’t think any of this was real, but seeing it like this proves it.
We make for a great trailer of a romance, but anything can be romantic in such a beautiful setting.
The montage doesn’t include the depth it takes to really make a relationship work—a depth that can be crushing.
My chest heaves as my heart tries to beat me to death from the inside. I push away from the desk with shaky arms. The screen blurs. I might be crying, I don’t know. Apparently, I didn’t fully believe this whole thing with Preston was fantasy.
I get my laptop, and my feet manage to carry me to my room. The click of the lock on the connecting door sends a shudder through me. A familiar lightness washes over my head. Goddamnit, I need a sex cookie.
A cup of coffee with a few sugars will have to do.
I get one brewing and rub my temples. How could I have been so stupid?
I know better than to think the fallout with Preston would be survivable.
Seven years may have grown me as a professional, but I’m still a disaster who never really recovered from the first heartbreak.
Did I really think a few quick casual relationships changed that?
Did I think Preston could be one of those?
Maybe my marriage didn’t fail because I was young and stupid. Maybe it was just because I am stupid and save up all my cavalier tendencies for my love life. I’m overly cautious with everything else, then toss my heart to the wind like leaves in autumn.
I need to go home.
I take a few sips of the coffee while it’s a little too hot.
It won’t help my heart rate, but it should keep me conscious.
I pack my things quickly, though not as fast as it would be if James hadn’t gotten involved in my packing.
I dump my shoes in, right onto my crumpled clothes, and close the suitcase.
My laptop bag is looped over the handle of my suitcase, and my purse is on my shoulder.
A glance in the mirror confirms my suspicion that I look like hell, so I slide my sunglasses on and make my escape.
Or a step of it, anyway. Preston almost falls into my room when I open the door, as if he was about to knock on it. His hair is wet, and his green eyes look panicked. “Mira, that’s not—”
“I don’t really care what that is.” I try to push past him, but his hands cover both of my shoulders as he holds me in front of him.
“It was only for our eyes. It was for me—for us.”
“There is no us.”
“Like hell, there isn’t!”
“I don’t even know you!” My voice is at soap opera screechiness now. “You probably eat kale and everything!”
“You definitely eat kale.”
“But I hate it!”
“You put oat milk in your coffee,” he says. Because this has devolved into a fight over how LA we are.
“I do not! You got faulty intelligence from an assistant I didn’t trust with my dairy preferences!
” I look up at him with my jaw clenched.
“None of this was real. It was a scripted story version of what you wanted us to be. That’s why we had to come halfway around the world to make it happen.
We make a great montage, but real life doesn’t suit us.
Well, I need to get back to real life. I never wanted to be one of the characters in a story. ”
“Everything is a story. That’s not exclusive to fantasy. Our story being great doesn’t make it any less real.”
“It’s not the story I wanted!” My chin drops to my chest. “I had a story I loved, and I shredded it for stories I could script instead. Nothing I ever write will make me feel like the story I lost did, and I don’t even know why I gave it up anymore.”
He lifts my face and takes my sunglasses off. “I love you, Mira.”
My heart knots so fast I recoil. Is James the only person who’s said such a thing? Because everyone else who loves me calls me by another name.
“I can’t do this.” I can’t accept that declaration, and I sure as hell couldn’t utter the words I love you, Preston, even if he hadn’t sent me spiraling now.
I take my sunglasses and swallow back nausea while I put them on.
There’s no force behind it, but when I push him, he backs away. “I’m going home.”
A sound that’s either his fist or forehead hitting the wall sounds behind me as I walk away. Through the thirty-minute ride to Nice I book flights and a hotel by the airport for the night. Once I’m in my hotel, I get a group text to Cece, Morgan, Stephen, and James.
Me: I’m getting into Madison tomorrow around 2 p.m. Need drinks. Morgan and James, FaceTime in.