Page 2 of Never Forever

“As a lifelong fan of Christmas movies, I’m excited to be a part of one that is so clever and charming, and of course, to be filming in my hometown is just the star on the tree,” I said. My practiced response written by my publicist, who also thought this was a step down for me. But I had my reasons.

One last smile. One last wave and I was heading for the elevators again.

“Carrie.”

I stopped short at the sound of my name. I knew that voice. I would never forget that voice.

I closed my eyes and sent a quick prayer to the patron saint of reunions with the man who shattered your heart into a million pieces and then drove over them with his truck.

Give me strength.

Announcing the movie, coming back to Calico Cove, dealing with Mom and Gran… none of that was the hard part.

This was the hard part.

Seeing him again.

But I’d practiced this moment in my head a million times.

Keep it cool. Keep it impersonal. I am a famous Hollywood actress and not someone who is still hung up on her high school boyfriend.

But some frantic teenage voice in my head was shrieking:

Why is he here? Don’t turn around! Ignore him and walk away!

I turned around and lifted my chin.

“Yes?”

It was always a blow when I saw Matt. Even after all these years. I couldn’t help that. I couldn’t control my reaction to him. The shortness of my breath. The leap of my heart. Even my hands got sweaty. It was pathetic.

As much as I wanted to lie to myself and believe that the good-looking boy I’d known had grown into a Frankenstein of a man, it wasn’t true.

Matt Sullivan was a straight up looker. Tall, dark caramel hair with natural highlights from the sun, a gift from being out on the water almost every day.

He was standing there in his baby-poop green uniform, an employee of the town that captained the ferry and oversaw the bird sanctuary on Piedmont Island.

He should have looked ridiculous in that color, instead it took everything I had to control my breathing around him.

Remember what he did to you.

Every actor has a trick they use to get emotional. A slice of life they relive to access grief or rage.

Whenever I needed to cry on set, I went back tothatmoment. When I needed to feel righteous outrage, I went back tothatmoment. When I needed to look broken, shattered, I went back tothatmoment.

When Matthew Sullivan reached into my chest, tore out my heart and crushed it in his fist. Just because he could.

“Are you really…?” his voice trailed off as he looked around the busy lobby of the Dumont. My teenage fans or theater kids were subtly, not so subtly, pointing their phones in our direction.

“Smile, you’re on camera,” I told him. I waved at the kids who immediately looked embarrassed and turned away.

“Can we talk somewhere private?” Matt asked. The low register of his voice sending extremely unwanted chills up and down my spine.

“Why?”

Matt grunted. It was disgusting that I still spoke the language of Matt Sullivan. That I could decipher his grunts, growls, and snarls. This one meant not to push him.

“Fine,” I said. “There’s an empty conference room over there.” I walked out of the busy lobby, down a small hallway toward the rooms we’d used for hair and makeup.

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