Page 26 of The Sun & Her Burn

His eyes widened before he smoothed over his surprise with a smirk. “How would you know this? Have you kept up with my career, Meyers?”

There was a folder on my computer labeled “The Universe,” rather melodramatically, where I kept screenshots and downloads of articles and interviews Sebastian had given over the years. My favourite, which I kept on my phone, was the photo of him accepting his Oscar forBlood Oathwith a wide, boyish grin.

A small part of me was proud of him, not just because he was preternaturally talented, but because I’d had a role to play in the inception of his rise to fame. I wasn’t arrogant enough to think he wouldn’t have made it without me, but it felt good nonetheless that I had given him a little leg up in his life.

“You’re impossible to escape,” I drawled mildly, sitting in one of the barstools and cracking my own sparkling water.

Even with the chaotic memories and the toxic guilt and remorse churning in my gut, Sebastian was doing what he’d always done best.

Putting me at ease despite myself.

He grinned. “Good. I like the idea of you being faced with me wherever you go. Did it make it easier or harder to avoid me all these years?”

“Was it me avoiding you or the other way around?” I quipped. “I don’t seem to recall you reaching out to me or crossing the crowd at award ceremonies to seek me out.”

If I hadn’t once known him so intimately, I wouldn’t have noticed the tightening around his eyes, a minute flinch that meant my well-meaning jab had hit a little too close to home.

“Well,” he said flatly. “We did not end on very good terms.”

“No,” I agreed quietly. “A fact which has plagued me for ten years.”

Our gazes met, a humming resonance in the air between us. I wanted to go to him as much as I wanted to flee. Instead, I sat very still to avoid either impulse.

“I want to help you,” Sebastian reiterated softly, almost the way one would speak to a spooked horse. “If you’ll let me.”

I’d let you skin me alive if it meant your love and forgiveness, I thought rather desperately.

I swallowed down the words painfully and said, “I’ll try.”

He nodded, satisfied perhaps because he knew I would have been lying if I gave him an unequivocal go-ahead. I’d always struggled with being transparent and totally committed to anything other than my craft.

“Bene,” he said with a little smile. “Bene. Well, then, as I said, I know you probably have all the best people on it, but I had anidea that could change things around for you. Completely switch up the narrative for the better.”

“Oh?” I asked, not expecting much, which was always a mistake when it came to Sebastian Lombardi, who could wring miracles and inspire visions.

“Yes,” he declared. “I think you should get married.”

7

LINNEA

“Iwas worried you wouldn’t ever be very beautiful.”

I closed my eyes for a moment as I ripped a few weeds out of the garden beds by the front door. It helped to take a second to shore up my shields when Miranda acted out like this. The problem was, she hadn’t been the kindest mother before her frontal lobes had started to atrophy, and now that the disease was progressing, she was downright cruel much of the time.

“Life is hard for ugly people like you,” she continued blithely from the Adirondack chair I had set up for her in the yard.

It was a hot morning, and I had a few hours between my audition that morning and my shift at the restaurant later that evening, so I thought it would be nice to spend it together in the garden. I didn’t particularly like the chore, but I always felt better out in the sun, and Miranda loved flowers, so I tried to keep the garden thriving for her.

“Life isn’t difficult for ugly people, Miranda,” I said calmly. “And ugliness is subjective. Everyone has something beautiful to offer the world.”

She laughed. “You’ve always been such a funny thing. Savvy always called you the ugly duckling. Where is she? Have you been keeping her calls from me?”

I sighed. Savannah hadn’t called in ages. The last time she’d been by to visit, Miranda had accused her of stealing her baby, her film roles, her lovers, and a vintage Prada purse she claimed Robert Redford had given her. Savannah had left ashen-faced and never returned even though Miranda accused Mrs. Ramirez of the same things every week.

“She’s been busy, but Bobbi called and she said she would visit you next week. Won’t that be nice?”

Miranda sniffed and studied her nails, painted a sunny yellow by yours truly. “Bobbi is a cow.”