Before Him

“Get out.” I can’t deal with this. I have nothing left to give. I am all out of fucks. “Just go. You need to face facts, Mom. You’re never ever getting your hands on the house or the business.”

“Well now, I don’t think that’s true.” Her eyes slip to my laptop and my stomach sinks. “I guess it depends on how much you want to keep your man.”

* * *

My stomach churns as I rap my knuckles on the door to the pixie house. Maybe he’ll ignore me. I deserve it because I’ve been doing the same to him following the first time he’d called after our break up conversation. He’d expected to see Wilder, of course, and I’d realised what I’d done made me a double bitch. Not only had I’d insisted our breakup was his fault but I’d also forgotten that Wilder was no longer solely my responsibility. My stomach had churned as I’d broken the news that his son wasn’t home and wouldn’t be for a few days as Roman’s expression morphed through disappointment, betrayal, and anger. Yet he’d swallowed it all down and kept his tone civil. If only I could tell him he’s better off without me and that I don’t deserve him. But that would take more guts than I have.

I spring back to myself as the door swings open, and I open my mouth, preparing to apologise, but that’s as far as I get.

“Have you come to your senses yet?” asks the Adonis gruffly and without a T-shirt. He presses his forearm to the doorframe, barring my entrance, like I’d dare to push my way in a second time as the muscles in his torso and arm pop and flex like nobody’s business. Least of all mine.

“I’m sorry?” I drag my gaze to his face and silently vow to keep it there. I have no idea what he thinks he’s doing, but I guarantee he wouldn’t be considering whatever this is if he’d heard my mother this morning.

“Hollywood, Kennedy. You know what that means? The man has money.”

“You’re mistaken and so is she.” I’d pointed at my laptop, not wanting to remind her of Chelsea’s name, but my mother already had her phone out.

“It is—it is him!” She’d flashed me the screen of her phone, the same images and articles as I’d found in my search earlier this week. “You’ve got yourself a gold mine!” My mother had never sounded prouder.

“I’m not—we aren’t. We’re over. It’s done.”

“So?” She’d flicked her shoulder in an aggressive motion. “He’s not gonna want this news coming out. Hollywood likes their actors squeaky clean.”

“What’s dirty about this?” I found myself hissing as I’d leaned across the table. “Wilder is no one’s dirty secret, least of all his.”

“Everyone loves a secret love child,” she’d muttered defensively. “People eat that shit up.”

“He’s your grandson. Your own flesh and blood.”

“We don’t have to involve him.” But I knew she would. My mother lacks whatever it takes to maintain bonds or feel empathy. “I read those messages. We can go another route. He’s hot in his clothes,” she’d recounted. “But we both know he looks even better out of them. Did he cheat on you?” Her eyes had glittered as they’d flicked over me with something that looked like vanity. “Or maybe you and this girl tag teamed him.”

“We’re done here.” I’d pressed my hands to the tabletop as I stood because I wanted to lunge across the table and wringing her neck. But apparently, we weren’t done. Not until we’d agreed on a figure. A figure I’m supposed to extort from the man in front of me, or his “movie people”. The man who seems to have an aversion to T-shirts.

I’m obviously not going to do it. I’ll just let her think I will for a little while.

“Are you?”

“What?” My head jerks upwards as I realise I’ve been standing here, navel gazing. Literally.

“Are you here to apologise? To admit you’re wrong, at least.”

“Kind of.” My shoulders rise uncomfortably. I have done so much wrong, but none of it is for his ears.

“Either you are, or you aren’t. Which is it?”

“I am sorry for not telling you Wilder was going away with Annie this week.” In response, he blows out an angry breath, his jaw tightening. “Co-parenting is new to me,” I add, the words coming quickly. “I just didn’t think, didn’t consider your rights and how you might feel about him not being here.”

“You’re unbelievable.” The muscles in his jaw clamp tight as though to prevent himself from saying more. He should say more—he should shout and scream and make it easy for me. Why can’t be more like my piece of work mother because then my heart wouldn’t hurt, and I’d know how to deal with these feelings?

“I-I said I was sorry.” I am so sorry. Sorry I can’t tell him the truth. Sorrier still I can’t have him.