But we’d never really talked about it outright. And I’d been going on the assumption that nothing had happened, and Leah Mae’s distress was because the entire thing had been faked.
But what if it hadn’t been? What if something had happened between them, and she was upset and ashamed because they’d been caught?
I felt bad for thinking it, but at the same time, how would I know? Turned out, she was an excellent actress. She hadn’t seemed like herself since the moment we’d arrived. I could see her doing it—playing a role. She was playing Leah Larkin, and it made me wonder who she’d been playing when she was filming the show. How deep had she gone?
It was deeply uncomfortable to feel like there was suddenly a whole lot I didn’t know about Leah Mae Larkin. About what had really gone on behind the scenes when she was filming that show. What had she been willing to do for that career she’d wanted so badly?
She hadn’t ever denied the affair. Not to me. Not to the media. Why not? What else did she have to lose, now that the show was over? She’d had reporters asking her questions out there. Why hadn’t she told the truth?
It didn’t make any sense. Unless there were parts of the truth she wanted to avoid telling.
I kept up my role for a little longer while Leah Mae took little sips of her drink, smiled that fake smile. Talked to some more people who looked right past me. Thankfully, she decided we could leave before they served dinner. The thought of eating a meal among these people turned my stomach sour. I reckoned there were decent folk around, but I was damn tired of feeling like a ghost, or a bodyguard. Someone who just took up a bit of space, but wasn’t worth talking to.
We went back to the hotel and ordered room service. Leah Mae suggested a bath together, but I told her I was tired. Truth be told, I had a lot swirling through my mind. Wasn’t sure what to do with all of it. I needed some space to think, so I turned in early.
31
JAMESON
I was almost out of time.
The shipping crew was going to be here in the morning. I walked around my piece, eying her for what felt like the millionth time. The forge was hot, my tools laid out, ready for me. My t-shirt was damp with sweat, and my leather apron hung from my neck. I had everything I needed.
I’d tried to convince myself she was done. That no one else would think she wasn’t right. That didn’t satisfy me. I’d smoothed her out. Adjusted the tiniest details. Made sure every last bit of her, from the feathers on her wings to the tiny eyelashes brushing against her cheeks, were perfect.
But she wasn’t finished, and I knew it.
It didn’t help that my mind was full of turmoil. Our trip to L.A. hadn’t been the good-for-our-relationship experience Scarlett had assured me it would be. I’d come back feeling unsettled. Frustrated. I was having a hard time reconciling the Leah Mae I thought I knew with the girl I’d taken to that studio party.
The unanswered questions between us weighed on me. I needed to get the hell out of my own head and focus.
I closed my eyes and took a few deep breaths. Thought about why I’d made this sculpture in the first place. I’d been inspired by Leah Mae—by the vision of her in a cage, being made to perform.
The angel fit my vision perfectly. She was forlorn. Sad. Almost weeping. Looking at her aroused a deep sense of melancholy.
And maybe that was the problem. She was locked inside, her wings faltering. Her spirit diminished, without any hope of escape.
My eyes flew open, the realization hitting me in a rush. Hope. That was what she needed. She needed a way out.
I went over to a shelf and rifled through the contents of my bins. I had it, now. I could see it. It wasn’t going to be easy to finish on time, but now I knew what she needed.
THE SHIPPING CREW was going to mangle my sculpture and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it.
They’d arrived late, and now that we were finally getting her on the truck, they seemed hell bent on fucking up months of hard work. As if her being made of metal meant she didn’t need to be handled with care.
The engine hoist jerked and my back tightened. She was wrapped for shipping, but scratches were still a possibility. I could buff them out when I got to Charlotte, but the less of that, the better. There were parts of her where the texture was more vulnerable than others. If these assholes ruined my piece before they even got her on the truck, I was going to lose my damn mind.