Page 27 of Fierce Love
“Been a few years since you were out here chopping wood,” Cal says.
“Still feels good.”Mostly. Tomorrow I might not make the same claim. We’ve been chopping wood for hours, and I’m slowing down. But I’ve been grateful for the mindless routine of the swing and slice. Cal still does this regularly, and he’s faster and stronger than me. He hasn’t complained about my silence or slower pace.
“You want to talk about her yet?” he asks before resting his ax against the stump and putting his hands on his hips. We both ditched our shirts during the heat of the afternoon, and while he looks comfortable with the glistening sweat drying on his skin, I’m worried that the sinking sun signals an impending chill.
“I don’t know what to say.” I lift my hat, push back my hair, and flip it around so the brim shields my face again. “I care. All these years, and I still care. I care too much, and it pisses me off.”
“What do you think she feels?”
“I wouldn’t even want to guess.” Though I’ve spent a lot of timetryingto read into what happened between us at The Drunk Raccoon the other night. Made me wish I had fewer drinks so my judgment wasn’t in the toilet.
After Posey texted me about Hollyn’s tense relationship with her younger sister and then sent me her resume, I couldn’t help wondering if I was being selfish to keep Hollyn from the cohosting job. Hearing her confess her problems with her sister to me at the bar determined my course of action.
The next morning, I told Felipe and the other producer to give Hollyn any financial clauses she wanted, whatever she needed to be able to say yes. I’ve got the money to pay her what she’s worth, and Hollyn always used to undervalue herself. She was nevergoing to ask for more than we could afford. Or rather, whatIcould afford. At least, not in terms of money.
“Are you going to ask her what happened that summer? Now that she’s staying?”
“No point,” I say. “She left. We both moved on. Looking back doesn’t do either of us any good. I’ve arranged it so we can avoid each other, even while working on this project.”
“Working directly with the families is what got you excited about this project. You’re not going to be the hands-on one anymore?”
“No.” I shake my head and then readjust my ball cap again, pushing my sweaty hair off my forehead. “Strictly the money guy. Might review a few early cuts of episodes and give my opinion, but I’d honestly rather not.” I can’t watch her in person or on screen and pretend to be indifferent, impartial. We slipped so easily into what we once had the other night that I’ve felt rattled, not quite stable, since.
“Who’s the hands-on producer now?” Cal asks, having heard me talk enough about my newest career avenue to be curious.
“Stewart Laidlaw,” I say, and I anticipate Cal’s reaction. “He was the one willing to step in.”
“Stew?” Cal questions with a huff. “You’re not going to be happy with that.”
“I won’t be there. And I’m confident Hollyn can handle herself.” Hollyn used to be good at pushing back against men—maybe because her own father was the weaker figure in her parents’ relationship.
Cal looks at me like I’ve lost track of reality, but he doesn’t call me on my bullshit.
I set down my ax, and I roll my shoulders again. They’re starting to tighten up. After this, I’m going back to the apartment to sink into my hot tub that’s perched on the spacious balcony overlooking the city and let the aches of the day work themselvesout. “I’m not micromanaging this project.” Even I don’t believe myself.
“Fuck off,” Cal says with a laugh. “Onehintthat he’s being a dick to her, and you’ll micromanage the shit out of everyone. You step in to help people in Bellerive you don’t even know very well. I’m surprised you even agreed to do this project with him.”
Stewart was a late addition after Heather Sommer dropped out, and since I was going to be the hands-on producer, his involvement didn’t bother me. But with me reluctant to keep that role—not just for my sake, but for Hollyn’s too—that left the job to Felipe or Stewart. Felipe has his hands in several projects in America, so he didn’t want to commit himself too heavily here.
“He knows my reputation,” I say, picking up another piece of wood, setting it on the stump and swinging hard, cracking through it like slicing soft butter.
“You think that’ll keep him in check?”
“He knows what’s at stake. He was at her screen and chemistry test. He’s a hotheaded asshole, but I’ve never heard anything beyond that.” Or at least nothing physical with anyone—male or female. He prides himself on “telling it like it is,” which is just code for not caring about other people’s feelings. “What have you heard?”
“He’s an abrasive prick. Whether he tries to lay an unwanted hand on Hollyn or he simply hurts her feelings, we both know you’re not going to stand back and let it happen more than once.”
“She’s survived fourteen years in New York, so I’m sure she can handle one dickhead producer.” I set up another piece of wood, and I crack it in two. “My role in this TV production is clear, and it has nothing to do with her.”
“Right,” Cal says with a laugh. “You keep telling yourself that.”
We have enough money that my mother could pay for almost anyone on the island to take her to her treatment appointments, but she’s decided that these appointments will be shared equally among her children. While she’s not in danger of dying anytime soon, this health scare seems to have made her reevaluate her relationship with her adult children. One can hope it’ll make her more productively involved in her granddaughter’s life too. Though I’m not sure how much of my mother’s brand of help Gage and Ember would want in raising Nova.
In the past, Celia hasn’t wanted much to do with any of her children unless the interaction benefitted her in some way. If we’re making her and the family look good, we’re on a pedestal, and if we’re not, well, she’ll claim we’ve been put on this earth to test her resolve. Resolve over what, I’ve never been sure. Social climbing? Maintaining power and influence on the island? Nothing any of us has ever done has put either of those things in serious jeopardy, despite the claims my mother has made.
“How’s your TV thing coming along?” my mother asks, peering at me from the passenger seat after we’ve just been sitting together for over an hour, mostly in silence, while she receives the newest treatment meant to shock her kidneys back into working properly.
“Fine,” I say, shifting in my seat, not at all eager to get into the details, for once.
