Page 84 of Take 2
He pushes me off the boat, and we play fight when I get out. A not-quite smoothed-out transition moves the video to my head on his shoulder as the sun rises in Villefranche. Another of me with a dreamy look in my eyes in the mountains. The two of us laughing near a beach. Every set we were at has some clip ofus.
“It would make a good story.”
“Is that the whole point? Are you creating a good story?”
“That’s what we do.”
It was all too movie-perfect. I didn’t think any of this was real, but seeing it like this proves it. We make for a great trailer of a romance, but anything can be romantic in such a beautiful setting. The montage doesn’t include the depth it takes to really make a relationship work—a depth that can be crushing.
My chest heaves as my heart tries to beat me to death from the inside. I push away from the desk with shaky arms. The screen blurs. I might be crying, I don’t know. Apparently, I didn’tfullybelieve this whole thing with Preston was fantasy.
I get my laptop, and my feet manage to carry me to my room. The click of the lock on the connecting door sends a shudder through me. A familiar lightness washes over my head. Goddamnit, I need a sex cookie.
A cup of coffee with a few sugars will have to do. I get one brewing and rub my temples. How could I have been so stupid? I know better than to think the fallout with Preston would be survivable. Seven years may have grown me as a professional, but I’m still a disaster who never really recovered from the first heartbreak. Did I really think a few quick casual relationships changed that? Did I think Preston could be one of those?
Maybe my marriage didn’t fail because I was young and stupid. Maybe it was just becauseI am stupidand save up all my cavalier tendencies for my love life. I’m overly cautious with everything else, then toss my heart to the wind like leaves in autumn.
I need to go home.
I take a few sips of the coffee while it’s a little too hot. It won’t help my heart rate, but it should keep me conscious. I pack my things quickly, though not as fast as it would be if James hadn’t gotten involved in my packing. I dump my shoes in, right onto my crumpled clothes, and close the suitcase. My laptop bag is looped over the handle of my suitcase, and my purse is on my shoulder. A glance in the mirror confirms my suspicion that I look like hell, so I slide my sunglasses on and make my escape.
Or a step of it, anyway. Preston almost falls into my room when I open the door, as if he was about to knock on it. His hair is wet, and his green eyes look panicked. “Mira, that’s not—”
“I don’t really care whatthatis.” I try to push past him, but his hands cover both of my shoulders as he holds me in front of him.
“It was only for our eyes. It was for me—forus.”
“There is no us.”
“Like hell, there isn’t!”
“I don’t even know you!” My voice is at soap opera screechiness now. “You probably eat kale and everything!”
“You definitely eat kale.”
“But I hate it!”
“You putoat milkin your coffee,” he says. Because this has devolved into a fight over how LA we are.
“I do not! You got faulty intelligence from an assistant I didn’t trust with my dairy preferences!” I look up at him with my jaw clenched. “None of this was real. It was a scripted story version of what you wanted us to be. That’s why we had to come halfway around the world to make it happen. We make a great montage, but real life doesn’t suit us. Well, I need to get back to real life. I never wanted to be one of the characters in a story.”
“Everything is a story. That’s not exclusive to fantasy. Our story being great doesn’t make it any less real.”
“It’s not the story I wanted!” My chin drops to my chest. “I had a story I loved, and I shredded it for stories I could script instead. Nothing I ever write will make me feel like the story I lost did, and I don’t even know why I gave it up anymore.”
He lifts my face and takes my sunglasses off. “I love you, Mira.”
My heart knots so fast I recoil. Is James the only person who’s said such a thing? Because everyone else who loves me calls me by another name.
“I can’t do this.” I can’t accept that declaration, and I sure as hell couldn’t utter the wordsI love you, Preston,even if he hadn’t sent me spiraling now. I take my sunglasses and swallow back nausea while I put them on. There’s no force behind it, but when I push him, he backs away. “I’m going home.”
A sound that’s either his fist or forehead hitting the wall sounds behind me as I walk away. Through the thirty-minute ride to Nice I book flights and a hotel by the airport for the night. Once I’m in my hotel, I get a group text to Cece, Morgan, Stephen, and James.
Me: I’m getting into Madison tomorrow around 2 p.m. Need drinks. Morgan and James, FaceTime in.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Preston - Five Years Ago
