Page 14 of Sparks Still Fly

“Hi Maeve. You look...You, uh—how are you?”

Sweet baby Jesus, save me. What the fuck am I doing?

“Fine, thanks. I assume the same is true for you based on what Bon’s told me.” I stand there, just taking her in. She’s so fucking pretty still. Prettier, even. And everything about the way she’s looking at me tells me she probably wants to be anywhere but here.

“I’m sorry, Maeve.” It just slips out. I don’t mean to say it, but I mean the sentiment.

“Excuse me?” She cocks her head to the side, confusion splattered across her face.

“I’m sorry about how things were left between us. I can tell that you really hate me, and I don’t want that. I want you to know how sorry I am. I want you to know everything, and if you give me the chance I can expl–”

“No, thank you.” She uncrosses her arms and sets them at her sides, elbows locked, hands in tight fists for a moment before she relaxes them again. “I don’t need your apology or your explanations. And I don’t hate you. I don’t feel anything when it comes to you, Owen. You’re my best friend’s brother. We were... friends? I don’t know. We talked occasionally while you were deployed, and we shagged once. It’s done. It was a long time ago. I don’t have any feelings about any of it, so please keep yours to yourself.”

Fuck, this is so much worse than I thought. I’d rather have her hate me than be indifferent to me. She feels nothing?

We stand there for a while, just looking at one another.

“We obviously can’t avoid one another any longer, seeing as how you’ve made amends with Bon. So, let’s just be…civil. Cordial.” She looks so different and yet exactly the same. This coldness in her eyes is new, though. There was always at least a little warmth hidden behind the wall of ice she used to protect herself, but now? There’s nothing warm about the way she’s looking at me. “I have no interest in being your friend, but your sister is important to us both. We can act like adults about this, can’t we?”

I think I nod.

She clearly doesn’t want to be here and doesn’t want to be near me, and this realization has me questioning every decision I’ve made to get here. To get to her.

“Your place is across the hall. Adam will show you when he’s back.” She turns away, walking toward the living room. “The guys should be here soon. I don’t think you need me here for your debrief, so I’m going to work out and get out of your way. Goodbye.” She scurries off like the place is on fire, and I’m left staring at the door.

She doesn’t hate me. She feels nothing for me.

Her words hit me all over again, like ice being dumped over my head and I have to remind myself to breathe through it.

I sit on the couch, waiting for the other two guys to arrive, and contemplate every second of my interaction with Maeve. She definitely doesn’t want me here. I know we haven’t spoken to one another for years, but she’s gonna have to hear me out at some point. She needs to know how I feel and everything I’ve done to get here. Even if, in the end, she still doesn’t want me, I have to give this my best shot. Somehow.

8/

dig, dig, dig.

maeve

january, 15 months ago

It’s not until I’ve reached the gym that I clue in to the fact that I don’t have my runners or a sports bra on, so I settle for a bra-less yoga session and meditate on just how much distance I’m going to keep from Owen James.

When he touched me, my skin was on fire. My heart stopped beating at the way he said sunshine. I don’t want to be this affected by him. I want exactly what I told him. To feel nothing. To be indifferent.

It’s mostly working. In the last few weeks, we’ve had the occasional ‘family dinner’ together with all of our friends, but I keep away, making sure to say hello and ask how he is before promptly moving along to talk to someone—anyone—else.

I can always feel his eyes on me though, and I hate it. Every time he uses a nickname for me, I have to take a deep breath to calm myself down. But it’s not like it used to be. This isn’t me having a teenage crush on my best friend’s brother. This is me despising every last fiber of Owen James for what he did to me. For taking a part of me and then making it mean nothing. For how he made me feel when he left then forgot all about me. For how worried I was for him. For all the times I sat staring at the computer waiting for a call to come through.

Now I resent that he’s here, breathing my air and making it feel like there’s none left for me whenever he’s in the same room.

december 31, 4 months ago

It’s been eleven months, six days, and roughly nine hours since Owen walked into my flat in London. I’ve kept up my cool, calm, collected exterior. I’ve avoided being alone with him at all costs. I even nearly convinced myself that being around him could feel normal and not at all painful. Nearly convinced myself that what happened between us wasn’t a big deal. Nearly.

There was one thing that made the facade slightly easier to maintain, and that was Lincoln, but I couldn’t keep up that charade anymore. He wasn’t even sad when I broke things off. He was angry at the way this would look right before he started promoting his next film, and he’s been angry since. Dating fellow actors has its pros and cons. Pros: they get your insane schedule, need for privacy, and general lifestyle. Cons: they can take everything personally or, worse, take it as something that can affect their own careers. Lincoln did both.

Thoughts of Owen kept slipping into my head, competing for space among all the other chaos — Mum’s latest man drama, the extra therapy, meetings with my agent about the kinds of roles I’m being booked for, trying to keep up with an unreasonable schedule, and Lincoln. I’ve at least eliminated one of those things for now. It had to be Linc, since Owen doesn’t seem to be going back to the East Coast. Nor does he seem to be leaving my brain space anytime soon.

Lincoln will get over it. He’ll find someone who cares about how expensive his latest sports car is and who likes listening to voicemails, because that person certainly isn’t me. I know he knows it, too. We were never quite right. But the paps loved us. We look great together, I’ll admit it, but that’s not enough. Not nearly enough. Not when he’s not a broody, 6’4” former Marine with green eyes and a dimpled sideways smile that lives rent-free in my thoughts.

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