Scene 15

My apartment seemed smaller, older, more cramped than it ever had before. I didn't know what I was thinking, inviting her here. Asking her to stay here.

Or, well, I knew what I was thinking . We both knew what I was thinking. What we were thinking. This wasn't a one-sided agenda.

But now I was having second thoughts.

Not about that .

I mean, it still occasionally flitted across my mind, the question of what the hell I thought I was doing—what exactly I had going on here? But for the most part, on that note, my worries were a distant matter. I'd cross that bridge when I actually managed to get there.

My primary concern currently revolved around this apartment, which I had previously loved.

It suddenly no longer felt up to par.

I imagined Dillon's flat was on the upscale end of London. From what I'd seen in the background during the few occasions we'd FaceTimed, her home was organized, modern, with high-beamed ceilings and a private balcony overlooking the River Thames. It wasn't the 1920s, copper-plumbed, five hundred-square-foot, Art Deco one-bedroom I lived in. The one I was presently loathing.

She'd booked a chic hotel a block off the beach in Venice. I could have stayed with her there. Last night, that had been my intention. After leaving the pier, it had been safe to say, neither one of us planned on sleeping alone.

But then, of course, true to Murphy's Law—which often seemed to be the guiding statute of my life—there had been no parking. I'd circled the block three times—almost as distracted by the narrow one-way streets as I was about her hand casually resting on my thigh—but it had come to no avail. There wasn't a single parallel space I could pull into, legal or illegal. I'd have gladly taken the risk of getting towed for squeezing into a loading zone , but it appeared I wasn't the first desperate driver willing to roll the dice on a Saturday night over the holiday weekend.

Heading into my fourth rotation of the surrounding blocks, it occurred to me I could invite her back to my place. But at the same time, it also dawned on me I'd neglected to finish washing my dishes, and it would have been nice to change my sheets, and there was a possibility all my clean towels were still wrinkled in my hamper.

So instead of making a rational decision, like realizing she probably wouldn't care if I had cups on the sink, or if my towels weren't folded in the linen closet, I panicked in my growing agitation, and stopped double-parked in front of her hotel, throwing on my flashers.

"Well," I blurted, "tonight was fun. See you in the morning?"

Even in the moment, I knew I'd caught her off guard, but she was too considerate to question the change in our unspoken plans, no doubt assuming I'd lost my nerve.

"Uh, yeah," she'd given my knee a conciliatory squeeze, and then, before I could rectify my blunder, unfolded herself out of the car. "See ya tomorrow." Waving, she then trotted barefoot to the double-glass doors, disappearing into the foyer.

I'd been so pissed at myself, I almost accidentally pulled out in front of an Escalade doing twenty over the speed limit.

By the time I crossed under the 405, I'd overanalyzed the situation so many ways, I couldn't drive another mile. I turned into a McDonald's parking lot and pulled out my phone, typing out a text and hitting send before I could second guess it.

Is there any chance you'd want to stay with me the rest of the week? I could pick you up in the morning?

Sure had been the immediate response. And then I'm still looking forward to breakfast .

I'd breathed a sigh of relief, pulled back onto the highway, and then panicked all the way home.

Where I was still panicking this morning.

As I scrubbed the crumbling grout from the backsplash behind my 1960s stovetop, I allowed my mind to wander.

What would my morning have been like if I'd managed to find parking?

Would I be asleep right now, in her bed, instead of whirling around my apartment on my third round of cleaning?

No. I knew myself better than that. There's no way I'd be asleep. We'd have… well, done whatever we'd have done, and then I would have laid awake all night, overthinking every aspect of my life in microscopic detail. I'd have internally freaked out a bit—I wasn't so naive to think I wouldn't have self-doubts about what I was doing—but then I would have circled back around to the undeniable acceptance that, for the first time in my life, whatever this was simply felt genuine.

Which would have led to my questioning, for the hundredth time, why I'd never seen it coming?

It wasn't like there were slide shows of aha moments flashing back through my childhood.

Me, catching a crush on the girl in pigtails who I'd sat next to in the third grade.

Me, realizing I'd developed an obsession with my fourth-period gym instructor my sophomore year in high school.

Me, suddenly registering the concept that all the boys I'd dated—Carter included—had just never felt quite… right?

None of that was true. I'd hated that girl in pigtails. Mrs. Williams, my PE teacher, had been a bitch—we'd called her Mrs. Blueberry—and as far as teachers I'd had the hots for, it had actually been Mr. Simon in homeroom with whom I'd had an ardent infatuation.

And when it came to the boys I'd dated? I liked most of them. I hadn't dated them because it was what was expected of me, or because I'd been pressured into wanting to fit in with ‘normal' standards. I'd dated them because I wanted to. The same as it had been with Carter. Only him I'd actually loved—in my own way—off and on. He was thoughtful, smoking hot, and genuinely the kindest guy I knew.

Which led to the only aha moment that was true:

I'd loved Carter, but if I wanted to analyze it further, I hadn't been in love with Carter. I liked the sex, I usually liked his company, and when it was going well, I liked the idea of us. But it was only the idea. It wasn't the living, breathing reality. If it had been, we'd still be together. I wouldn't have dated half a dozen other guys in between. He wouldn't be On-Again-Off-Again-Carter. He wouldn't be my last resort whenever I got lonely.

Which meant I probably shouldn't have found any of this to be such a huge surprise. It was obvious I'd been searching for something— someone —different all along.

Insert—Dillon.

I didn't know where it was going. I knew where this week was going—I think we'd both made that pretty clear last night. But beyond that? Who knew? I don't think either of us cared. Which was just one more thing I liked about her. For as rigid as she was in her career, she appeared to have a pliant outlook on her personal life, taking things in stride.

My phone rang while I was balancing precariously on top of a pile of old textbooks I'd stacked on my dining room table, stretching to dust the blades of my noisy ceiling fan. Siri informed me it was Dani.

At 7:15 in the morning.

Which was not a good sign.

"Hey!" I called out to the speaker, carefully descending to the safety of the floor. "What's wrong?"

"You answered! Finally! Jesus, Kam. I've been trying to reach you for days."

She'd called yesterday afternoon. Once. No message.

"What's wrong?" I repeated, swooping up my phone, punching it off of speaker.

"Nothing's wrong ," she sounded annoyed, "I just needed you to call me back."

"I'm sorry. I've got this thing going, and—"

"Yeah, yeah, your mystery commercial. I get it. Whatever. But listen—I need you to be here tonight."

It was Christmas Eve. We'd spent Christmas Eve together at her parents' house for as many years as I could remember.

The Annual Hallwell Gathering.

When I was a kid, my parents would go. So it would be the three of us Kingsburys—Darlene Hallwell's charity case—and the rest of Silicon Valley's Tech Elite.

"I can't." I'd told her this a week ago. I'd made it very clear.

I was working .

And no, so I'd lied, and wasn't working—but I sure as shit wasn't going to tell her about Dillon.

And for the record, I did actually feel bad. We'd never broken tradition. But I'd hoped, as a newlywed, she'd have her mind on other things. Maybe even begin her own tradition in her miniature mansion three miles down from her parents. Anything to let me off easy this year.

Apparently, it had been wishful thinking.

"You have to, Kam. Your parents are coming. I promised them you'd be here."

What. The. Fuck .

I was silent. The words racing to the tip of my tongue weren't things I could say. Not if I still wanted a best friend.

"Look, I know I'm kind of springing this on you last minute, but, honestly, Kam—it's less than a six-hour drive. It's not the end of the world. You can't tell me whatever project you're working on can't do without you for a few hours on Christmas Eve. Besides, your mom—"

"I'm not coming." I didn't give a shit what she had to say. My mom . My mom hadn't talked to me in over two years.

There was never a blowout, a specific event that ended our communication, but after my decision to quit UCLA in order to pursue my acting career, we'd just—fallen off. More and more, until eventually, we'd both stopped calling altogether. She nor my dad were ever happy with what I had to say. Every conversation turned back toward school, to their disappointment—how I'd let them down. Even when it wasn't said, it was always implied.

The morning I'd first heard about Sand Seekers holding open auditions, I'd wanted to call my mom. They were books we'd read together, a passion that we'd shared. She loved everything Margaret Gilles had ever written, often entertaining me at bedtime by quoting long passages from my favorite chapters by heart.

But I hadn't called. Nor would I call her when the news was released I'd actually landed the role. Somehow I doubted she'd care. Margaret Gilles held a master's degree, after all.

"You're seriously selfish, Kam." There was an edge to Dani's tone, a weapon I'd heard her reserve for others, but one she'd never used toward me. It pricked, slipping beneath my skin. " You closed them out. You can blame it on whatever you want, but it takes two to tango. Dinner's at eight. You know how to get here." And she hung up on me. For the first time in nineteen years.

Two hours later, I sat at my dining room table while Dillon heated water in my dented stainless steel kettle on the three-burner stovetop. It wasn't the morning I'd anticipated, but at least it had convinced me to give up on my cleaning spree.

I'd picked her up, just as we had planned, but apparently Waylon MacArthur had validity in questioning my acting abilities because it took her less than thirty seconds to discern something was wrong. Despite promising myself not to dwell on Dani's phone call—she could take her unbalanced accusations and pound sand—I'd been unable to hide the hurt she'd stirred up revolving around the last five years of discord with my mom and dad. I don't know if it was because Dillon had respected my stated desire not to talk about it, or if it was the comforting hand she'd laid over the top of mine, or the weight of all of it combined, but we hadn't made it past Sepulveda before I burst into tears.

By the time we'd reached my apartment—thanks to the crawling drive through holiday traffic—I'd told Dillon about my parents, about UCLA, about Dani and her phone call, and Christmas Eve tradition at the Hallwells. Basically unloading the entirety of my pent-up frustrations in one long, run-on, red-eyed, blubbering mess.

Hot.

Not .

I'm sure a sobbing, emotional train wreck had been exactly what she'd had on her agenda for Christmas Eve morning.

But when I'd finished my lamenting—parked in front of my apartment—and offered to drive her back to her hotel, she'd laughed, pivoting in the passenger seat to stare at me.

"Don't be a clot, Kam-Kameryn," she said, reaching over to use the cuff of her sweatshirt to dry my dwindling tears. "I'll make us some tea." And then she'd let us into my apartment, complimented the hand-carved crown molding and black and white checkerboard tile, ignored the peeling paint, and sat me down at my own table, before making herself at home in my matchbox kitchen.

"You're not going to like what I have to say." She pushed a mug of tea in front of me and straddled the adjacent chair. "But I think you should go tonight—"

"No—"

"Hear me out before you make up your mind, alright?"

There was nothing I could argue about that.

She took a sip of her tea, cringing at the bitter-bagged brew, and then touched a finger to the Welsh dragon on her left wrist, exposed where her arm lay across my table. "You asked me about this one." She tapped the crisp design. "I got it for my dad—he died when I was nineteen."

"I'm sorry." I stared at the dragon, unsure what else to say.

"Yeah, me too, but it's beside the point." Folding her hands, she dropped her elbows onto the table. "I'd fallen out with him a few years earlier. He'd—," she paused, considering something before continuing, "he'd not seen eye-to-eye with a coach I'd had at the time. He felt I was pushing too hard—that I was being pushed too hard—to compete. To turn pro. And he'd worried I was losing my childhood in between. At the time, I didn't understand it. He'd always loved my sport, commending me on my dedication, encouraging me to follow my dreams. So it felt like a betrayal—him having hesitations. Proof, in my shortsighted mind, that he didn't believe in me." Her sculpted jaw worked side to side, her gaze turning distant into the cooling cup of tea. "In hindsight, his concerns had been well-founded, but I'd been so self-centered, I refused to believe he wanted the best for me. Instead, I cut him out. And, by default, my mam and sister, also. It was a decision I was encouraged to make. I was young and stupid—so focused on myself, I lost track of who to trust, and forgot the people who loved me."

She sighed, her thoughts heavy, before her eyes flicked back to the red outline of the dragon tattoo. I followed her gaze.

"When I made Team Great Britain, I'd just turned nineteen. The Olympics were two months away, and I was the youngest triathlete to qualify in history. It had been my lifelong obsession. A goal I'd shared with my dad since, well…" she shrugged, implying forever.

"I never even told him. We hadn't spoken in three years. My parents found out from the papers." Again, her jaw worked, the muscles of her neck tightening with tension. "He died two weeks before the Opening Ceremony. He'd been sick and I hadn't known." She brushed her thumb across the tattoo. "A lot happened over the next year—irrelevant to the moral of my story—but when I amended my relationship with my mam and sister, my sister—Seren—showed me a picture of this tattoo. My dad—a straight-laced, traditional, button-down kind of guy—had gotten it the day he learned I'd qualified. The only tattoo he ever had."

She laughed, but the sound was so full of hurt, it made my heart ache. I felt like I needed to look away, to give her space, but instead, she looked up and caught my eye. "Anyhow—it's not the same situation as yours, Kameryn. But if you'll consider a bit of unsolicited advice—go see your mam. Your dad. Make amends. You might be surprised. It's easy, while we're trying to prove ourselves—to find ourselves—to forget about the things that matter. Let them be disappointed in university. That's their right, as parents. They're allowed to have dreams for you, even if they don't align with your own. But don't hold it against them forever. Because most likely, what they want more than anything, is to see you happy. Even if they don't show it the way you'd like them to."

Raising her tea again, she touched the ceramic mug to her lips, and then knitted her brow in disgust. "I can't—you Americans simply have no taste buds." She rose and disappeared into my kitchen.

I stared at my checkered tile. She was right, it wasn't the same situation.

But I also understood what she was saying. If one of my parents were to die tomorrow, my heart would be shattered. As angry as I was at them, I loved them—I missed them. I longed for their Sunday morning phone calls. My mom's late-night texts. My dad's corny You Might Be a Redneck If… jokes from watching too much Jeff Foxworthy.

I wanted, so badly, to be able to call my mom when the cast was released for Sand Seekers . To send her a photo of me and Margaret Gilles. Maybe even invite her to the preview.

Maybe Dani hadn't been entirely wrong. It did take two to tango. It wouldn't kill me to give them a chance. I realized Dillon would probably have given anything to spend a Christmas Eve with her dad again. No matter what humble pie was served.

Even if it meant spending it with the Hallwells.

She returned through the archway separating the living room from my kitchen and resumed her seat with a can of LaCroix from my fridge. "Hope you don't mind." She tipped the can in my direction.

"Would you go with me?"

Her eyes snapped up from where she'd been popping the tab. There was no hiding the fact that I'd surprised her. "To your mate's Christmas Eve?"

"To dinner. Even the Hallwells don't own Christmas Eve."

She laughed. "Don't you think they'd wonder what you're doing with me?"

I shrugged. "Bringing a friend to dinner?" Rising, I stepped in front of her, stealing the sparkling water and taking a sip. "They don't need to know what I wanted to be doing with you," I said, pressing the can back into her hands.

"No?" One blonde eyebrow lifted along with the corner of her mouth. "You've not exactly got a first-rate poker face." Smiling, she discarded the water onto the table and slid her hands to my hips, hooking her thumbs through my belt loops. "You think you're going to fool them, Kam-Kameryn?"

"I'm an actress! Of course I can," I tsked, entirely uncertain that was true.

But of two things I was certain. One, I wasn't driving to Northern California without her. And two, if we didn't leave immediately, my interest was going to be turned in another direction, and we wouldn't be leaving at all.