Until he couldn’t anymore.
I rub my knuckles against my chest feeling like someone has slid a rusty pocketknife into my sternum. Maybe it’s loss or regret. Or maybe it’s because I don’t want to miss out. On Kennedy, Wilder. On a chance of love and family.
I have a son.
I inhale a deep breath, the emotion tingling in my chest.
“Come on, Ro. Spit it out, whatever you’ve done.”
“Why do I have to have done anything?” I find myself saying instead.
Answer: because I always fuck shit up.
“Hey, remember that chick you used to date after high school—the one mum said was too old for you. What was her name again?”
“Not this again,” I almost groan, tipping my head into my hand.
“Was it Sarah or Susie? The one that came for Sunday lunch and couldn’t keep her hands off you at the dinner table.”
“Her name was Sammy, and I was only seventeen,” I protest. My parents didn’t know where to look as she pawed at me, though my brothers thought it was the funniest shit they’d ever seen.
“She had a good ten years on you.”
“I know.” I also know it took me years to live it down. Hide your grannies, lads. Roman’s in town.
“We were just yanking your chain. She was your first girlfriend. We all knew you were pussy blind. Only Mum had an issue with it. She thought there was something off about her, the way she kept touching your face and saying you had such lovely skin,” he adds, affecting a girlish purr.
“She was an aesthetician somethin’,” he retorts. “Mum was convinced you and your lovely skin were gonna end up a lampshade in her bedroom.”
“And we’re talking about this, why?”
“Because the old girl has the same worried vibes. She reckons you’re in over your head and that you need our support. She just doesn’t know how or why.”
“You can tell her I’m fine.”
“You tell her. Call her yourself.”
“Fine. I will.” Sometime not now because Sally is part witch, I reckon. She’ll have the truth out of me in two minutes, and her ticket to Oregon booked about five minutes after that.
“Listen, in all seriousness, you can tell me if something is wrong.”
“I’m about to become a lampshade.”
“I know. You’re not bright enough. But seriously, Ro. Every year for the past five or six, you’ve disappeared off to the US, and you always come back, well, not quite yourself. A bit quieter. Subdued. I don’t fuckin’ know,” he grumbles. “But we’ve all said the same thing. Why go if the place makes you feel so shit? Why go this year when you’ve got this fantastic opportunity? Why not head straight to LA?”
I wondered when it would come to this. An amazing opportunity. A one in a million prospect. The chance to join the Hollywood elite.
“I don’t know,” Tee teases. “You cameo in one Tayla Sparks music video, and suddenly you’re hot stuff. I’m sure you’d fall in a bucket of shit and come up smelling of roses.”
“I live a charmed existence.” And I’m not even taking the piss. I won’t lie. Being spotted in a pop video, then offered a part in a potential blockbuster movie isn’t a small thing—look at what it did for Alex Skarsgard. But I couldn’t come back to the US without coming to Oregon one more time. Only, this time I found her. I’m still excited, just not about the same thing anymore. Work is work, and this is . . . everything.
“Byron said—”
Fuck that. “It sounds like this has been discussed,” I reply, my hackles rising. I love my family, but Jesus, they have way too many opinions.
“Of course you’ve been discussed. That’s the way family works.”
“Look,” I say, hurrying on, not wanting to be drawn into this any more than I have and really not giving a flying fuck about what Byron has to say. “Just tell Mum you’ve spoken to me and everything’s fine. That I’ll call her soon.”
“Right-io,” he replies. “So I guess you should expect the old girl on your doorstep in—” His pause implies he’s looking at his watch, except he’s just making a point. “Fifty hours, give or take an hour or two? Depends on how soon she can get onto the travel agent.”
“Tell her to bring Tim Tams.” And a kid-sized Blue’s jersey—God’s own country’s footy team. A stuffy kangaroo, koala, shark, platypus, a wombat, a bilby, and—
“You haven’t joined a cult, have you?” I don’t even dignify that with an answer. “That was Flynn’s guess.” I hear the grin in his words. “He thinks you’ve joined some kind of kinky Cali ashram. Says you need the help with the ladies because you’ve got a face like a half-sucked mango.”
“That must be why companies pay me the big dollars to advertise their stuff. Why I’ve gotten a part in one of the decade’s most anticipated movies.”