Page 94 of When I Had You

“That’s the thing, Marina. You’re not any other woman. You’re famous, and that’s not going away anytime soon.”

“Maybe it should. I never wanted to be famous. I wanted to act—”

“And you’re acting,” she barks. “You’re actively getting offered scripts and being talked about in high-level casting meetings. What more do you want?”

“So much more than this. You’re fired, Lauren. Good day.” I hang up, waiting for the anxiety to kick in. I even sit on the edge of the bed, ready to welcome it so I can start working through my fears. But it doesn’t come. It never comes because I know I did the right thing.

I’ll get another agent, but I won’t get a second chance at living life on my own terms unless I take it.

* * *

Three weeks later . . .

Escaping to the one place I know I can get away from everything—Manhattan, twelve-hour rehearsal days, and the paparazzi—I lie on the pink float and drift under a blue sky. And then the splashing begins.

“Hey. Hey,” I say, tapping the float. “Not over here. I don’t want to ruin my book. It’s made of paper.” I haven’t managed to read one page of Never Got Over You because I’ve been doing research on my phone while sunbathing. I still shake the paperback for emphasis, but I think most of my nieces and nephews are too little to understand.

Loch’s wife, Tuesday, rallies the kids to the opposite corner of the pool at my parents’ house. I’m usually the fun aunt, but I let her hold the title today, needing a few more minutes to search Cash Ryatt online.

I caved and broke the rule.

It started when I stopped receiving messages from him. He gave up on me so easily. I was looking for the grand gesture, and he just wanted me to make him feel better by replying.

One article led to another puff piece and then onto a feature spread, and I was deep into the rabbit hole. I’ve learned a lot. I had no idea his mom lived in the same building as him. He bought her the apartment three years ago to keep her close to him and Cullen. And it’s only mentioned in a small indie press, but he also paid off the homes of the two men who paid his karting dues. As an eighteen-year-old who had just signed his first major contract, that’s how he chose to spend the payout.

My heart beats a little quicker thinking about Cash.

This is the stuff that’s never mentioned. They focus on how he and Terpidy wreaked havoc on his career with the drinking and smoking. I’ve barely seen him drink a beer, and he must have given up smoking along with that relationship because I’ve never seen him do it. The bad boy of racing was under a bad influence back then. That’s not who he is, but the title stuck. Catchy headlines always do.

Like the heiress and the injured. I’m surprised they don’t call me the black widow for destroying so many innocent men’s lives. I roll my eyes.

The headlines blew over like I was told they would. My new agent might have had a hand in it. She’s out of New York and a huge advocate for Broadway, so she doesn’t play those Hollywood games. I’m so glad to have found someone who asks my opinions and offers guidance instead of falling back on tired tactics.

Once I gave up Hollywood, they came calling. It’s ironic.

That’s the key—holding the upper hand.

It’s great money, though, so now I’ll try to balance a film here and there into my career.

Moving my sunglasses from my head to protect my eyes, I try to embrace the newfound fame of my movie star era to practice for my cover of Style Magazine I just booked earlier in the week. I’m bored after one selfie. Leaving my book and phone behind, I jump into the deep end and swim to the other side of the pool.

Tuesday holds one kiddo in a floatie and the other on her hip. Harbor jumps in to play with his wildlings, and Noah’s sitting under a canopy on a blanket with Liv and their kids taking a nap. It’s been a long day of fun. A nap is tempting.

Leaving my dad to man the barbecue pit, Loch comes to sit on the edge, plucking his baby daughter off Tuesday’s hip. Bouncing her on his legs, she giggles. Tuesday says, “So sweet.” She then lifts their eldest out of the water to set her next to her dad to take a break and hang out with me. “I’ve been thinking about you. How’s the play going?”

“Well, but I wish we had another week. Our soft opening is next Thursday for critics and bigwigs, and I’m nervous.”

“I saw the clip you sent. You were really great. I can’t wait to see it. We have tickets for Saturday because Friday sold out too fast.”

“I could have left tickets for you at the box office, you know?”

“It’s good to support the arts, but even better to support family.” Bending down to smile at her baby, she coos and touches her head gently, pushing her baby-fine hair back from her face. All ten strands of it. But then she turns back to me and asks, “How’s your social life?”

“Nonexistent.”

“And that’s . . .?” she asks, picking up on my tone.

Shrugging, I move to the side of the pool to lean against the edge. “I don’t know. It is what it is. I didn’t respond, so he stopped trying. What does that say about us?”

---