Page 21 of Unspoken Tides

She was referring to her divorce, of course. Max seemed to get it. He nodded and reached to refill their glasses of wine.

“I got pretty depressed after that,” he said. “I took refuge in films. Many Isabella Helin movies, of course. And all the classics. Rear Window is a favorite. Casablanca.”

Hilary’s heart thudded. She’d gotten through her sorrows with film, too. And books. And long, aimless walks across Nantucket.

Suddenly, Hilary said, “You seem so different.”

Max’s eyes widened with surprise. Hilary was flustered. Why had she said that?

“What do you mean?” Max asked.

“I mean, you don’t seem so Hollywood to me. Not as jaded. More honest. I don’t know.” Hilary laughed at herself. “Maybe it’s because you called yourself a nobody. Nobody, and I mean nobody I’ve ever known in Hollywood, would call themselves that. Everyone is constantly posturing and trying to prove themselves.”

“That’s the reason I almost left the business after film school,” Max agreed. “It devastated me to learn I would have to play some kind of ‘game’ to get involved with better films.”

“Did you play the game?”

“Not really. I got lucky. A good producer saw a film I’d worked on and hooked me up with some nice people. I kept getting calls.”

“A Cinderella story.”

“These days, yes,” Max agreed.

The air between them sizzled with electricity. Night had fallen, and the only light came from the base of the boat and the stars and moon above them. This far from shore, the stars were incredibly dense, pouring over one another in their fall toward the earth. Hilary had a strange instinct to lay across the floor of the yacht and fall asleep beneath the sky.

Softly, Max said, “You were married to the writer of the script. The producer. Weren’t you?”

“A long time ago,” she said. “It feels like another lifetime.”

It felt so easy to speak to Max, as though a script had already been written for them. As though they were always meant to be out on this boat beneath the sprawling stars.

“He must have written the film for you,” Max offered.

Hilary shook her head. “No. Rodrick only does things for himself,” she answered before she’d fully thought it through. And then, a moment later, she realized how true it was.

Max allowed another moment to pass before he stood to grab some snacks—nuts, cheese, bread, olive oil—from the kitchenette. He set up a little snack tray in front of Hilary, then asked tentatively if he could sit next to her for easy access. As he took the space beside her, Hilary felt swaddled in his heat. Something was happening. She felt the edges of her life coming undone, like the seams of an actor’s trousers.

But nothing happened, not physically. Max was nothing but a gentleman. They ate and told stories from the past—nothing too devastating and nothing about Isabella Helin. Max’s eyes danced as he spoke, and he ate ravenously, as though he’d never lost his teenage appetite. Hilary ate much more than she would have normally in front of a new man. She wasn’t as nervous around him, though. She felt she could be her full self.

Nearly two hours later, Max pulled back into the harbor to drop Hilary off and prepare the boat for sleep. As Hilary hovered on the dock with the moonlight in her hair, she couldn’t stop herself from rising on her tiptoes and kissing Max with her eyes closed. It was her first kiss in eons, and it lifted her soul from her body. It floated over the harbor and into the night sky.

“Good night, Hilary,” Max said quietly after their kiss broke. “I enjoyed tonight very much.”

Hilary couldn’t breathe. “Me too. See you soon.”

It wasn’t until she was in the back of a cab that she remembered her mother. After her divorce from Larry, Isabella had hopped from man to man with a frantic agenda, as though she wanted to prove to herself that she was still wanted. She’d so needed attention. She’d so needed hundreds of eyes upon her.

Hilary shivered with fear. On Monday, she’d gone to Rodrick’s, buzzing with nostalgic love. And today, Friday, she’d kissed a stranger on a yacht. Was she out of control? Was she looking for attention, like her mother?

The questions kept her awake till dawn.

Chapter Eight

June 2004 - Los Angeles, California

The night Quinn called Hilary about her mother, Rodrick convinced her to stay home. “She’s just trying to get a rise out of you. She’s using you. Again.” This did little to calm Hilary’s nerves. Throughout the rest of Good Will Hunting, she stared into space and chewed her thumbnail, imagining her mother in the throes of her mental illness, drinking herself to death, wondering where her daughter was. “I need my baby! Where is she!” The nightmares made her toss and turn all night.

The following morning, Hilary woke before Rodrick, pulled herself up, and watched him sleep. He looked peaceful and handsome, his hair tousled across the pillow and a crinkle across his cheek. A swell of love came over her.

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