Hollywood Nights (22 page)

M
y life was a mess. Fucked up. Screwed up. Confirmed. No question. I’d done it this time.

I ripped my phone off its charger and unlocked it. Damn. No messages. No voice mails. No calls from her. Nothing. Silence. Roaring, deafening silence.

Brynn had ignored me for a week, and I had to admire her steadfast stubbornness. Once she bit down on something, she didn’t release it. Most women didn’t have much resolve when it came to me; I could usually break them by saying the right things.

But of course, Brynn wasn’t the average woman. Not at all.

I rolled over in bed and stared at the skylight. Sunlight streamed through, and it would be time to get up soon. A mix of eggs and sausage already wafted up the staircase from the kitchen, and I heard faint clattering. If I went downstairs I knew what I’d find: Lana in front of the toaster and Martha right next to her, as if they had always been there together.

I checked my phone again. 8:47 a.m. Sixteen hours and forty-five minutes since my last text message to Brynn, one that once more said how worried and concerned she made me. Too soon to text her again? I mulled this over and decided it wasn’t. Before I could rethink it, I fired off another text and locked the phone.

Someday, she’d crack, I told myself. I needed to keep trying.

Lana greeted me with a tomato, sausage, and egg-white sandwich when I arrived in the kitchen. She placed the plate in front of me and asked if I wanted coffee. I said yes, and then studied her as Martha brewed a large pot. God, this woman had a way about her. She knew how to get what she wanted, and how to muscle her way into an advantageous situation. If she wrote a book on pussy whipping, it would be a best seller.

“How are you this morning, Tanner?” Martha said.

“I’m fine.” I took a huge bite of the sandwich and prayed she’d buy the lie.

“So, I was wondering about something.” Lana turned to me. Good grief, she had pounds of makeup already on her face. Not that she’d ever let me see her without mascara and foundation at a minimum. “Would you like to come with me to the ultrasound appointment in about two hours? It’s the first time we’ll get to see the baby together.”

Martha coughed, and I gave her a sideways glance.

“Are the cameras from the show going to be there?” I swallowed another bite of sandwich.

Lana shook her head. “I don’t have anything scheduled. Besides, don’t you want to see our child?”

She had me there.

“I’ll go,” I said, more out of duty and curiosity than anything else. “Where is the appointment?”

“Dr. Morad’s.” Lana grinned. “And I’m so happy you’re coming, Tanner. This time, I’m going to get things right. We needed a new start, and this baby is going to give it to us. I’m not going to hurt you again. I promise. Just give me a few weeks. You’ll see.”

Martha, standing about five feet behind her, shook her head.

T
en days after I arrived home, I dragged myself out of bed, fired up the Corolla, and drove into downtown Griffin. No more crying. No more staring at the phone, reading over and over again his plaintive, desperate text messages. No more mindless TV to pass the long afternoon hours while I waited for Dad to come home. Most of all, no more sitting on the back porch, staring into the woods while wishing Tanner would walk out from the trees and tell me this whole thing had been a bad dream.

I needed a job. A real job.

I hadn’t been unemployed since sixteen, when I took my first job at Sonic as a carhop. From that moment onward, I’d worked. In California, I’d bounced around a few times, but I still made money—I still made something. Work gave me a sense of purpose. It gave me meaning.

At that moment, I could use a little bit of that.

Downtown never had many businesses or signs of life, and it had even less following the 2008 economic recession. Growing up, the central strip of stores rimming the county courthouse never had vacancies, but now five stores remained in business: a pharmacy, a small diner, a general store called Malone’s, an electronics repair shop, and a dry cleaner. I parked the car, surveyed them, and chose Malone’s.

“How can I help you?” Howard Malone, Dad’s longtime friend, walked out from the back office of the store, wiping his hands on his pants. When he saw me, his expression changed, and his grin widened. “Brynn Price. Surprised to see you here. What brings you to town?”

“Been a long time.”

“You in the city for a few days? Back for a visit?”

“No.” I cleared my throat and glanced at the Corolla through the store’s grimy front windows. “Actually, I’m back for a while. Indefinitely.”

“Well, fancy that.” Howard put down his towel and lumbered around the cash wrap toward a display of neutral-colored ties. “Heard you’ve been dating one of those Hollywood actors. Maybe you’d like to pick something out for him as a gift?”

I should have expected this. Howard’s expression alone gave him away; he knew more about my love life than he wanted to say. News about Lana and Tanner had made it to the blogs, Facebook, and the tabloids. Since returning to Ohio, I’d stayed away from the stuff.

“Actually, I’m here to ask if you need any help,” I said. “As in, employment.”

Howard cocked his head. “Don’t get much traffic around here these days, Brynn. If you haven’t noticed, things have changed in Griffin, and not for the better.”

“I know, I know. But I’ll take anything. Clerical. Customer service. I’ll be the janitor.” My voice strained. “Anything.”

“You aren’t going back to LA, are you?”

“No. I can’t go back there. Not the way I left things.”

He sucked in a deep breath and leaned against the table of ties. “Okay. I’ll hire you. It won’t be much, but I can pay minimum wage. Want to start tomorrow?”

“Yes.” I extended my hand as a wave of relief washed over me. “Thank you so much. Really, I mean that.”

“Store opens at nine.” He shook my extended hand twice. “So be here no later than eight forty-five.”

When I got back to the car, I placed the other phone call I’d been dreading. Andrea hadn’t been satisfied with my explanation on the road; she had insisted I take a few days to think about what I wanted, even though I’d told her over and over again I didn’t plan on coming back to LA and wouldn’t need representation anymore.

“That’s a shame,” she said when I told her about my final decision, as I pulled the car out of the parking space. “Not at all what I thought I’d hear.”

“It’s better this way. I don’t have the stomach to stay there. It’s not in my heart.”

“They’re not going to be happy when they hear about this over at
Hawthorne’s Landing.
I got the sense they were excited to cast you. Could have been a permanent thing.”

“I don’t care. Hollywood’s not for me. Not anymore.

She tsked. “Just when your career was about to take off, kiddo.”

“It was all a lie,” I said. “And I’m damn tired of lying all of the time.”

“B
rynn, please sort these shirts.” Howard Malone pointed to the large cardboard rectangle on the floor behind the register. “I’d do it, but my back’s acting up.”

“Sure thing.”

I broke open the package with a box cutter from the table’s drawer. We’d been at this for three weeks, but I already knew how things worked at Malone’s so well that I could have done most of the work without Howard. The store had four or five regulars in town plus the occasional browser, and did about $200 in sales a week. The rest came from online orders, which Howard had done a decent job creating through a crisp website he’d designed in WordPress. It all totaled about $500 in sales each week, and under $2,000 a month. Howard often referred to the store as his pet project. It had to be. Didn’t make enough profit for much else.

Four shirts came out of the box and onto the shelf attached to one of the sidewalls of the store.

“Listen, I was thinking we could use these to make a display.” I gestured to the front window. “Would be a great place for it, and if we added a few of those hats the display would brighten up the store.”

The front door jangled and I spun around, still clutching one shirt.

Rick Stevens, Griffin’s lone postman, strode through the front door with a large stash of mail in his hands. “Good afternoon, you two.”

“Good to see you,” I said, and Howard echoed me.

Rick had a kind smile for me, but he paused for a beat, and frowned when our gazes locked. He and his wife also knew my dad rather well, and Rick sometimes played poker with him at the Elks Lodge. As a kid, he’d reminded me of Santa Claus, always ruddy-faced and flushed from his route.

“Gonna need to come in here for a few things next week.” Rick patted his robust stomach. “Wife says the pants are getting a little tight. Need a new size.”

He and Howard laughed.

Rick then placed the mail next to the cash register and said a few things to Howard. When he turned around and walked away, I knew exactly why he’d given me such a concerned look.

There, on top of all the rest of the mail, lay the latest copy of
Chatter
magazine. A photo of Lana and Tanner graced the center of the cover. Lana smiled, posing for an arranged photo shoot. Tanner smiled, too, but his face didn’t have glee written all over it like hers did.

My heart fell into my ankles. My stomach lifted. For a moment, I thought I would faint.

Hollywood’s Golden Couple: Together Again, and Expecting a BABY GIRL!
The headline streaked across the center of the cover. A few smaller headlines promised readers a first-look at Lana and Tanner’s renewed relationship, the inside scoop on how they planned to make their home “baby-ready,” and all of the details on how the new arrival had brought them “closer together than ever.”

I’d read
Chatter
enough times to know how the inside of the magazine would appear. Lots of sugary, staged photos of them, a few anonymous sources close to the couple providing “insider details about their baby’s nursery” and tips on how to get Lana’s radiant pregnancy style. All of it was staged for maximum exposure.

“Brynn? Brynn? Are you okay? Brynn?”

I tore my gaze away from the cover and turned to Howard, who also frowned at me. “What? Did you say something?”

“I’ve been—what are you—” He grabbed the magazine from the counter and flipped it over. An ad for expensive face cream decorated the back page. “Are you okay? I’ve asked you about fifteen times.”

I swallowed, but the nausea didn’t subside. Instead, it grew and twisted my tender stomach. “Can you give me a second?”

I rushed into the bathroom next to the stockroom and threw up. Not a lot came, but enough. Then, with an empty stomach, I hovered over the toilet and threw up nothing but bile. It was as if I purged my entire life in Los Angeles and all of the collateral damage that had come with it. God, my time out in California had run deep.

Howard knocked on the door after my vomiting subsided. “Brynn, are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” I said as I wiped my mouth and turned on the faucet. The mirror showed me a woman who’d lost about ten pounds since I left Hollywood, who had bloodshot eyes and a haggard face. But it also showed a woman who didn’t care anymore. “I’ve never been better.”