Page 99 of When I Had You

I didn’t realize I said that out loud. It’s easy to get lost in the memories of her. “It’s become a new passion of mine.”

Staring at me, I have a feeling he knows why. He doesn’t say anything, which is a first. I’ll take the win while I’m ahead. “Thanks for the ticket.”

“Will we see you there?”

“I’ll be there.”

“Great. Have a good night, and get some rest. We leave on Sunday.”

Taking the ticket, I tap it against my hand a few times, then dash up the nine flights of stairs to my apartment. Out of breath, I shoulder the door open and rush to the gallery display on the side of my fridge. I see it at the bottom. It’s not really legible unless you know what you’re looking for.

How did I not know? Did Cullen ever sign Ryatt as his name? Or has he always written Warren? He doesn’t want a legacy of race car driving or a TV personality. He wants a father.

He’s my proudest accomplishment, and I’ll happily trade ten world champion titles for the one where I’m called Cullen’s Dad.

Good fucking day.

Tomorrow is going to be even better. I’ve not only been given an olive branch from the Westcott Brothers but the second chance I’ve been waiting for. It’s Marina though, so I know it won’t come without an argument.

That’s okay. I’ll fight for her.

30

Cash

I was damned to hell of my own making until I kissed her lips and tasted heaven.

Nothing has changed.

I’m in hell without her. My heaven on the stage before me brings back the same emotions, while hers runs the gamut in three acts. It’s when she sings softly that I see a new side I didn’t know existed. Her talent extends further than the stage, and I’ve only scratched the beautiful surface.

“Are you Cash Ryatt?” a fan asks, pulling me from the daydream I had disappeared into with Marina. “I didn’t want to ask during the performance.”

A man, mid-forties maybe with what looks to be his wife standing behind him, holds out a playbill to sign. “What did you think of the play?”

She says, “Really good. We’re here to review it for Bloomington News back home in Indiana. Did you like it?”

“Brilliant.” I take the pen that’s appeared out of nowhere and flip over the playbill. It doesn’t feel right to sign the front where the actors’ names appear. I sign over an advertisement for a local deli and hand it back. “Take care.”

I try to slip out during the standing ovation before the masses exit. There’s no plan in place. I won’t bother her backstage, but I want to see her, so I’ll wait as long as it takes in the alley with the other fans.

A few of the actors have caused a stir when they walk out, and the crowd has thinned when the male lead makes a fast getaway.

Two hours is longer than I expected to wait, but the weather’s nice, and the crowd is in a jovial mood. I don’t blend in, but I’ve managed to get away with only a few people recognizing me along with one paparazzi. More photos to deal with. I’m not sure if she’ll appreciate it, but it’s all I got. This one shot.

So I stay, waiting my turn to see her again.

The door opens, and the stars align, shining in this dingy alley on my soul and universe. Her hair falls over her shoulders, lighter than a few months back, and the heavy stage makeup has been replaced with her natural beauty shining through. But the clarity of her eyes and the happiness residing inside have me questioning if she’s better off without me.

She works her way into the alley, signing playbills as she moves through the crowd toward an opening at the other end from where I stand. Shifting directions, she keeps her eyes down as she signs everything handed to her. “Thank you for being here tonight.”

When she gets closer, I do what comes naturally. I hand her my playbill as well. “Thank you for being—” The words catch in her throat when those bright blue eyes that frequent my dreams lock on me. Her hand stills. A slow exhale. A lingering blink. “Cash.” For so long, I’ve wanted to hear her say it again. I knew it wouldn’t be final if I could hear it once more, but this time feels like an ending with no question involved.

She finishes signing and hands it back to me before fixing her expression and the shock she was wearing to smile for the fans. “Thank you,” she says, waving and then dashing in the opposite direction.

I’m five steps behind and call, “Marina?”

Just beyond the crowd, she reaches a car with the headlights on, but stops with her hand on the hood as if she needs the support.

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