Sidecar Crush

My phone buzzed with a text, so I got it out to check.

Jameson: You sure you’re ok?

Me: Yeah, promise. But thanks for checking.

Jameson: Anytime.

Kelvin didn’t say anything else on the short drive to the cabin. Neither did I. When we got back, the asshole had the nerve to think he could get me naked. I told him I was taking a bath—alone—and locked myself in the bathroom. He could grumble about it all he wanted. He’d ruined my night out, and the last thing I was going to do was sleep with him.

Lying in the warm bathwater, I let my mind wander. I wished I could have stayed at the Lookout. Maybe danced to a few songs. Not that Kelvin would have danced with me, but I bet the girls would have. And Jameson had come, right when we’d been leaving. I could have talked to him for a while, if we’d stayed.

But we hadn’t, and we were leaving town tomorrow. I was going over to see my dad one last time, and then we’d have to drive back to Pittsburgh so we could catch an early flight on Saturday morning back to L.A. To a home I’d never seen in a neighborhood I didn’t know. To an uncertain future.

I stayed up late, long after Kelvin had gone to bed, feeling lost and wondering what exactly I was doing with my life.

8

LEAH MAE

I pulled up outside my dad’s house, a brown paper sack with our breakfast sitting on the passenger’s seat. I’d left Kelvin back at the cabin. I was still mad at him about last night. Plus, things were tense between him and my dad. I’d hoped once my dad got to know Kelvin, he’d warm up to him. Now I figured keeping them apart was better. Dad didn’t seem to hate him, but he wasn’t all that impressed either. And I wanted my last visit with my dad to be a good one.

Truthfully, I wasn’t sure how I felt about Kelvin right now. Maybe it was just because we were fighting, and I was still annoyed about last night. We’d had arguments before, but this one felt different. Like it was breaking something open inside me. I was a little bit afraid of the feeling—afraid to face what it might mean.

I owed a lot to Kelvin. We’d met when I was twenty and in need of a new agent. I’d signed with his agency, and he’d been instrumental in nurturing my career. Nothing romantic had happened between us until about two years ago. But our relationship had grown naturally, mostly due to the amount of time we spent together.

I traveled so much, moving from place to place, there were few constants in my life. Especially when it came to people. I’d had a long string of model roommates, lived in temporary rentals, always surrounded by a sea of changing faces.

Kelvin had been a constant. He’d been the one meeting me at the airport. Helping me plan everything from itineraries to my next career moves. When I was exhausted or frustrated with my schedule—when the not-so-glamorous side of being a model was too much—he’d been the one I called. The one who understood. He lived the business just like I did. It was hard to find things in common with people who didn’t share the same lifestyle, and the world of modeling had provided a connection.

But how much of our relationship was based on my success? If my career went away tomorrow—if no acting gigs ever came through and I faded away into obscurity—would Kelvin still care about me? He’d always made me feel like I had someone to take care of me. But I’d also been making him a lot of money. What would happen if the money dried up? If I was no longer his star client? Would he still want me then?

And what did it say about our relationship that I didn’t know the answer to that question?

I got out of the car, grabbing our breakfast. The sun was warm on my skin, and birds chirped in the trees out back. Dad’s house wasn’t far from town, but a soft quiet was settled over his house. My ring glinted in the sunlight, and I paused, looking down at my hand.

When I’d agreed to marry Kelvin, it had seemed like an easy decision. He hadn’t really proposed, in the traditional sense. He’d brought up the idea, and we’d talked about how it made sense. Back in Los Angeles, having just returned from New York and getting ready to fly out to Wyoming to film Roughing It, getting married had seemed like the obvious next step. I hadn’t been starry eyed and squealing over my engagement ring. The ring itself had been an afterthought, picked up while we were out shopping for other things a few days later. But it had seemed sensible to get married.