Rugged (25 page)

I head up, quiet as I slip inside, and prepare to lay down some serious intimidation tactics. Or mildly serious, depending on how big the person is.

“Okay, freeze. Don’t make any sudden moves,” I say, whipping around into the living room.

Instead of a local yokel in overalls or a couple of young hooligans with spray paint or toilet paper in their hands, I find a woman standing there, looking bewildered as the morning sunlight peeks in through the window. My dramatic entrance is foiled as I nearly trip over myself in surprise. She looks startled. She’s tall, rocking some nice looking stiletto heels, a gray pencil skirt, and a cream blouse, her jacket flung over her arm. Her dark hair’s drawn back in a bun, and she looks at me with big blue eyes.

“Um, hey. Not to be rude, but who are you and what the hell are you doing on my set?” I say, trying to sound large and in charge. Really, it just sounds like a squeak.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t know it was off limits. Charlotte Hemmings.” She holds out her hand. I take it, but immediately freeze. Charlotte? Like…
Charlotte
Charlotte?

“Laurel Young. Producer. Do you, uh, know anyone from the production?” I say, as not-casually as possible. She nods.

“Flint McKay. His sister Jessa emailed me, said he was building this house.” She looks around, baffled. “She said something about how knowing the foundation had been laid would be good for my wounded soul.” Yeah. Definitely Jessa. She turns in a circle. “I just can’t believe he finally built it.”

“Finally?” I say. My voice has a sharp, instant edge to it. I can’t believe this is Charlotte. I pictured her as a leggy blonde with sexy librarian glasses and a huge rack, but it’s worse than that. She has pale, delicate skin, a long neck, rich brown hair, blue eyes.

She’s me.

That is, she’s a taller, prettier, more collected, better-groomed version of me. Suddenly, standing here, I feel invisible eyes sizing me up through a half-lidded gaze. Comparing me. Settling for me. I imagine Flint in this room right now, glancing between the two of us, deciding I look enough like her to be worth a couple good fucks.

And then it dawns on me, right before she says it.

“Flint designed this place for
me
.”

I plaster a fake grin on my face. “Well now, isn’t that just—”

“As an engagement present.”

As a
whatthefuck
?

Ground control, we have lost transmission.

There are no words for the five finger death punch that has completely knocked the wind out of me. I can’t move. I can’t think. I can’t breathe.

“I can’t believe it’s finished!” Charlotte goes on, shaking her head. “It’s…it’s beautiful. It’s just perfect.” She’s in awe. Meanwhile, I’m trying not to hurl over here.

“Oh my gosh!” Charlotte heads toward the fireplace, crouches down, and gasps. “Just look at that,” she says. I might as well not even be here right now. She reaches out and touches the little carved sunflower. “The matching pair,” she says, sounding amazed. She looks at the other one across the room. “I can’t believe he remembered.” She smiles, disbelieving. “That’d be just like him. Flint never forgets.” It’s like she’s speaking only to herself, and her voice is soft with regret. I think her eyes are actually filling with tears.

So are mine.

I’m such a fucking idiot.

Flint designed this house for
Charlotte
. As an engagement present. A symbol of their all-enduring love and their glorious future together. He built it for her, finished it for her, even carved their sunflower thingie, whatever it is, as a reminder. Of Charlotte.

And now she’s followed his call home.

Flint didn’t want to build this house originally. I talked him into it, for all intents and purposes basically forced him into it. He didn’t want to build it because it was too personal. Because it meant too much. Because it hurt too much.

He didn’t want to build a house for the future he’d lost, the love he’d lost, the woman he’d lost—the woman he was still obviously in love with.

“Is Flint going to be here today?” Charlotte asks, breathless as she stands up. She’s really crying now, wiping delicately at her smudged mascara with a Kleenex. It’s touching, really. I am touched. “I need to see him. We have to talk about this.”

She’s full of pain and regret and hope. I’ve never seen anyone look so overwhelmed. So in love.

I mumble an excuse, find and grab my camera, and leave. Driving back, I almost ram the car right off the road. My chest feels so tight I can hardly take a breath. Charlotte needs to see Flint today. She’s full of sadness, full of longing. And what will he do, when he sees the woman he’s pined for, standing in the house he built as a tribute to their love?

I pull up to Flint’s place and stagger out of the car, going fast up the steps. My head’s buzzing, my throat’s dry and feels swollen. Okay, no tears. No crying. There’s no crying in baseball, or reality television. Unless the script tells you to cry, dammit.

When I open the door, Flint’s standing there with a cup of coffee in his hand. He smiles. “Heard you pull up. You must’ve left at the crack of dawn.” He leans down for a kiss, but I dodge out of his way and head upstairs. Tears are burning in my eyes. I hear him coming up after me. “Laurel. What’s wrong?”

Inside the bedroom, I grab my bags and turn for the door. Thank God I packed before I jumped in the car. Flint blocks my exit from the bedroom, looking increasingly bewildered. “Why are you leaving like this? Talk to me. What the hell did I do?”

“Nothing. I’ve got meetings all this morning and early afternoon. I’m leaving in a few hours anyway,” I lie. I was supposed to fly out in a couple days, thought I’d spend a little more time with Flint, but I’ll get the airline to change my flight, or go on standby at the airport if they can’t. “So I need to get back to the inn. Look over some last minute tapes, check in with a few people. Then I head home.” I nod, trying to keep a neutral expression on my face. “Like I planned. This isn’t news.”

“I understand that, but you don’t have to rush out of here like this,” he says, still confused. He moves aside as I storm through the door and down the stairs.

“I think I do, actually. I don’t want us to get the wrong idea about where this is all headed.” I look up at Flint, who’s stopped dead on the stairs. His face is impossible to read from this angle; I can’t tell what he’s feeling. “We’re adults, remember?”

Even from down here I catch the jaw muscle flex that Flint does when something’s gone foul. “Laurel, I need you to explain to me what the hell just happened,” he says, his voice gone deadly calm and dangerous now.

But I don’t explain anything. All I can think of is sweet Charlotte, in her prim little bun, waiting for him back at their perfect little fairy tale dream house. They deserve each other. I hope they’ll be happy, or at least as happy as they can be after Flint falls off a cliff and dies. Okay, not dies. Maybe cracks his tailbone.

Stop it, Laurel. This was never going to last. You should hope to God they agree to have their wedding on camera next season. What a ratings boost
that’ll
be.

“I’ll call you once I land,” I say briskly. “We’ll talk schedules.” I nod, roll my bags outside, and shut the door behind me. After that I jump into my car fast, before I break down, and start backing down the driveway. Flint is standing on the porch, watching me drive away. I can see him gesturing, calling my name, though I can’t hear him. I’ve turned the music up loud; I never like to hear myself cry.

That’s it. He can have Charlotte and their Barbie dream house, and I can have my soulless Hollywood career and never come back here again. Everyone gets what they deserve. That’s all, folks.

In more ways than one, the show’s over now.

25

When most people break up, the one mercy is that they don’t have to see their ex’s face every day. I’m not even that lucky.

“Laurel. What do you think?” Flint says, turning around with a devil-may-care glint in his eye. Irresistible as always. Painful as always.

Granted, Flint McKay and I aren’t in the same room at this particular moment. Unlike most wrecked relationships, I can fast forward past him if I feel like it. Seeing his gorgeous, infuriating face is part of the daily torture of editing Season One of
Rustic Renovations
. I’d love to take a powder on this one, but being the producer and the creator of this whole enterprise, I’m a little stuck. So I stand here, right behind Juan, and mumble places to cut while I stare at a man I can’t have.

Every night when I go home, get into my PJs, and watch trashy television to turn off my brain, I tell myself that tomorrow it’s going to be fine. Tomorrow I won’t feel anything. Tomorrow is another day, said with conviction as I picture myself silhouetted against an old Hollywood backdrop while dramatic music swells. And when that tomorrow fails to deliver, I have to go home depressed and tell myself it’ll be the
next
tomorrow.

“Can we cut right here?” Suze asks, knocking me out of my dreary headspace and returning me to the cramped editing room that smells like Carl’s Jr. and B.O.

Juan, the mohawked USC Film School grad who’s in charge of both stitching this show together
and
the oppressive smell, groans in frustration and rubs his bloodshot eyes as Suze points to Flint, bending down to pick something up. “If we go straight from this into the part where he’s helping lift the wall, we get the sense of effort without the whole sweaty, grunting mess.”

Sweaty. Grunting. Thank you, Suze, for making me think of Flint-related sex. I take a sip of sullen coffee and try not to remember the bed-shaking athleticism of our past encounters. Knock it off, Laurel. She’s stepped in because she knows you need help focusing. She doesn’t have to be co-editing this right now. It’s a favor. Be grateful.

“Laurel, what do you think?” Suze asks, looking at me with interest. Juan swivels around in his chair, scratching his little chin beard.

“Yeah, you tell me. We making art or just trying to show this guy’s deltoids?” he asks, chugging from the hugest can of Red Bull I’ve ever seen. Ick. Then again, maybe I need one of those.

“Both. Maybe,” I say, sighing and crouching down. “But I’m with Suze on this one. Let’s make the illusion as graceful as we can.”

Juan shrugs. “Your call. It’ll be hilarious when all the housewives of America think it’s this easy. See them tottering around in their overpriced heels, trying to drywall with the best of them.” He grunts and hits a few keys on his keyboard.

“You’ve been working in reality TV too long, Juan,” I snap, tossing my empty coffee cup in the trashcan. “Most housewives would kill for a pair of overpriced heels. Like actual shoe-murder.”

Nobody laughs at my joke. Probably because my stress and heartache is turning me into bitchy-Laurel instead of funny, overworked, slightly-crazed-yet-also-fun Laurel.

“Sorry,” I mutter. The room’s still uncomfortably quiet.

“Want to step outside a minute?” Suze asks me. Her pursed lips have that
je ne sais quois
quality that says ‘Do it or I’ll drag you.’ We duck into the hallway, closing the door so Juan can work in peace. “So. How’ve you been?” Suze doesn’t ask what the hell is wrong with me, or why I’m ranting about housewives killing people, both of which she’s entitled to do. Instead she eyes me carefully, smiling gently, being a good, conscientious friend. Which is lovely. Except that good, conscientious people are kind of my kryptonite right now. Kindness makes my throat swell up, like shellfish.

“Well, Valentine’s Day has come and gone, and I didn’t implode or go on a chainsaw rampage or adopt twenty-seven cats,” I say, crossing my arms.

“Always a plus.” Suze sighs. “Look, what happened just now…”

“I’m not at my best,” I mutter, cheeks heating up. She nods.

“I’d have to agree with that statement.” Trust Suze to be blunt. It’s what I love about her. “Look, if there’s anything we can do—”

“My best was a few months ago,” I interrupt harshly. God, it’s almost the beginning of March. Three months have passed since I last saw Flint. Since I found out our entire relationship had existed for the sole purpose of keeping his bed warm until Charlotte, my doppelganger and his ex-girlfriend—wait, no, his ex-fiancée, how on Earth could I forget that tasty little detail—came back into his life. Until she responded to the siren song of the gorgeous house he’d designed and built just for her, which he’d used my show to get done.

Used
me
to get done.

Maybe twenty-seven cats isn’t a terrible idea after all.

“Laurel? Come back to me,” Suze says, snapping her fingers in my face, making me blink. “See, this is what worries me.” She sighs. “I say something, you look off into the middle distance and think, and then I have to wait in this awkward silence. This time I think you were even mumbling to yourself.”

Was I? Okay, that’s not good. No need to go full Hollywood crazy before I’ve reached the executive pay grade. I sigh and push my hair out of my face.

“Anything you’re burning to know?” I ask as I lean my shoulder against the wall and itch the back of my thigh with my stiletto heel. I think I’m getting a blister, too. Maybe I should just call it a year and go home.

“Have you talked to Flint? Since…” Suze trails off, waiting for me to fill in the blank. Oh, I can fill it. I can fill it with a lot of curse words and kicking the shit out of the walls, but I don’t think that’s what she wants right now.

“Since I got my bags and made it out of his house in Olympic record time? Like, faster than a Jamaican short sprinter record?” What is it with my sports metaphors today? “No, Suze. I have not. And he hasn’t reached out to me, either. I think he’s been pretty busy.” Probably busy with Charlotte, picking the first wildflowers of Spring and calling each other ‘darling’ and having hot sex on a bearskin rug, or whatever it is you do year round on the east coast. I keep remembering Charlotte, standing in that house in the early morning light. Her face was so open and amazed. He’d built this for
her
, she’d said. He’d even carved their two lovey-dovey bullshit matching sunflowers in the corners of the house, some history-laden backstory that I’d never understand.