Lucky Star: A Hollywood Love Story (13 page)

Silence hung heavy. He was enraged, his body strung tight with suppressed violence, but I wasn’t sure if that rage was directed at me for having read his private communications or at the indelicacy of those texts

“I didn’t mean to.” My voice cracked with emotion and more words tumbled from my lips in a jumble. “I grabbed your and I noticed it hadn’t gone into locked screen mode, and that’s when I saw Jake’s response. And then I couldn’t seem to help myself. I read the others. I shouldn’t have. I know that. They were private, meant for your eyes only. Not mine.” I was babbling, trying to explain away my behavior in the face of the massive insult I had been dealt at the hand of people I had considered my friends.

“Jake’s an asshole,” Cameron responded dismissively, not addressing the rest of them.

“It’s not just him, Cameron.” It probably wasn’t fair of me, but I wished desperately that instead of acting like it was almost expected of Jake, he’d condemn the rest of his friends’ (and brother’s) unguarded thoughts about me.

He clasped my hand and squeezed reassuringly. “I wish you wouldn’t have looked at my phone,” his words held a gentle reproach, “but you shouldn’t have had to see that. I
wish
you hadn’t seen it.”

I laughed bitterly. “Yeah, me neither.” And then, “How am I ever going to look those guys in the face again?”

“You’re going to pretend you never saw this,” he said, holding up the cracked phone. Then he looked away, his mouth set in a grim line. “I’ll talk with them about it later today.”

“What can you say? It’s not like you can change their minds. They already think we’re a bad idea. That
I’m
a bad idea.” I tried to ward off tears that threatened to tumble down my cheeks. “I was worried about this, you know? We haven’t had a chance to talk about it yet”— I laughed, spiritlessly, because that was on him, not me— “but your life has changed in a massive way. You’re not just some actor anymore. You’re Cameron Scott, Movie Star, and whether you like it or not I’m not good for that image.”

He twisted away from me but before he could mask it, I saw the pain of my words reflected in his eyes. “Don’t say that.”

“You know it’s true. I love you so, so much and I know that you love me … but what’s the world going to say when they find out about us? It’s not going to be kind.”

He stepped to me and pulled me into his chest. I breathed in the natural, woodsy scent of his cologne deep into my lungs, the comforting, intoxicating mixture of amber and something else.

“I don’t care what the world is going to say. I choose you.”

Cameron’s simple declaration should have loosened the pain constricting my heart, but despite those words of assurance, I knew those texts were just the tip of the iceberg. If people I considered my friends – people Cameron considered his
closest
friends – could be that harsh about me, what would complete strangers say when hiding behind the anonymity of the Internet?

“You know it’s not going to be easy, right?”

I hated what I’d seen, but I hoped something good could come of it, that maybe this could be the catalyst the conversation that had weighed heavy on my mind. That we could finally discuss the difficult path ahead, where our love for one another would be only a fraction of what defined our life together. The moment Cameron Scott became Xander St. John everything had changed; his life was not his own anymore and that meant
our
lives, our future together, would be dictated by forces beyond either of our control.

“What’s the saying … nothing worth anything in life ever came easy?” he asked, making light of the difficulty we faced.

“Please be serious for a second, please. We need to talk about this. All of it.”

“I know,” he sighed, weariness visible in every line of his body. “Obviously I’ve been avoiding it.” He stepped away from our embrace and shoved his hands back through his hair before linking his fingers behind his head and pacing the room. With his long open stride, he crossed the room in four steps, and then turned back and repeated the loop. 

“How come every time I bring it up you change the subject.”

“I talked to …” He stopped – both speaking and walking – and instinctually I knew what he said next was going to hurt. A lot. That it would be way worse than anything I’d seen on his phone. Those comments had come from people I could pretend were idiots who didn’t know what the fuck they were talking about. But he’d spent all day Friday before he came to see me with his agent and lawyers signing paperwork and discussing his career. Now that he was on the brink of becoming one of the world’s hottest stars they would weigh in on how his private life impacted his public persona.

“There’s no easy way to say it, so I’m just going to come right out with it.” He wouldn’t meet my eyes.

I’d been wrong. This wasn’t just going to hurt. Whatever he said next was going to obliterate me.

“In no uncertain terms, I’ve been told it’s a very bad idea for me to have a girlfriend right now. That if I was seeing anyone, I needed to break it off.”

I knew too much about the industry to argue that he’d been given bad advice. The studio wanted a heartthrob, a man who women would wantonly throw themselves at. They needed those women to see the movie three, four, or even five times during its opening weekend. They needed fans to buy all of the associated merchandise, including the books that would be re-released with stills from the movie as the new cover. They needed fans and gossipmongers to blog about him, tweet about the cast, and basically go overboard in their love for the character and the actor who played him. Someone without an established fan base – an actor like Cameron – needed to be able to play to the desires of the fandom and if he had a girlfriend marring their ability to picture themselves as the object of his desire, that could be problematic. A wife was an even bigger obstacle.

“Cameron…,” I breathed out, realization dawning. “You asked me to marry you after that meeting. You proposed to me knowing full well what people will say?”

Guiltily, his eyes held mine and his shoulders slumped.

“Well, I hate to break it to you,” I spat, “or your agent and lawyers or anyone else who tries to pull that shit, but we’re way past the point of glibly breaking it off.” My breath hitched. “I’m your fucking fiancé and they’ll just have to deal with it.”

“I told Julie my love life was complicated at the moment” — I gasped.
Complicated
, is that how he described what we had? — “and she told me I needed to un-complicate it. Julie sees things in black and white so I didn’t bother trying to explain us to her. Besides, on Friday I didn’t know whether or not you’d take me back.”

“Take you back? At that point I’d never had you in the first place.”

“You know what I mean Sarah.”

He was right, I did. Still, when my back was up against the wall I often became irascible and prone to fits of irrationality. And right now my back was pressed so far into the wall I thought I’d crash through it.

“Maybe this was a bad idea,” I huffed out as I shot him daggers.

“What does that mean?” he asked, his voice cold as ice.

Now my shoulders slumped. “It’s not too late to back out,” I croaked, dropping my eyes. “We can pretend this never happened.”

“That’s not going to happen Sarah.” His tone was unflinching. “I asked you to marry me and you said yes. The time to change your mind was in those minutes before you answered. You said yes; you made a promise to me and I intend to make you keep it.” In two long strides he stood in front of me. “You can’t change your mind,” he whispered, the words laced with fear and desperation. “I need you. I need us.” He pulled me roughly against his chest and wrapped his arms around me in a vice-like grip.

I needed him too but I was worried –
so, so worried
– about what the coming months would bring, how I would manage to weather the media storm that lurked just over the horizon. Cameron would shine under the spotlight – he was made for this – but I didn’t know how I’d fare up under the scrutiny. I’d never wanted to be a celebrity, never for one minute considered what fame would do to my life. Up until now there was no reason to have done.

“You told me you loved me. Please don’t take it back.” He stepped back an arm’s length and I felt bereft at the lack of his warmth against my body. Sliding his large, hot hands up my arms, he rested them on my shoulders as he scanned my face. “Please say you still want to marry me.”

Reaching up, I covered his hands with my own. “You know I love you. It seems like there’s never been a time when I
didn’t
love you. Of course I won’t take it back. I’m with you Cameron, through thick and thin, in sickness and in health, to death do us part. I’m not going anywhere. But this is going to be hard. I don’t think you understand that yet.”

He slid his hands out from under mine and framed my face with his palms before capturing my mouth in a hungry kiss. Angling my head, he took the kiss deeper. His lips enveloped me, his soul encased me, and as our tongues danced I knew no matter what transpired, no matter what unpleasantness I would be forced to endure, I would do it a thousand times over because Cameron was my heart’s other half. I would weather anything Hollywood could throw my way simply for the chance to spend my life loving him.

Cameron had already left
the bed. The sheets on his side having long gone cold, I padded out of the room, expecting to find him in the kitchen doing final prep work for the party but the house was silent and still. At first my mind fought against that emptiness, anxious that after the revelations of this morning he’d fled but I pushed that worry aside. I couldn’t go on like that, always waiting for the other shoe to drop. He’d had his chance to undo us, but instead he’d begged me to stay by his side, to never leave him. I combed through my sleepy memories and recalled seeing him sniff the armpit of his shirt in distaste and then kiss me goodbye. Ah, that was it. He’d run back to his place to grab clean clothes for the rest of the week because there was no way we were camping out at his place.

Cameron lived in a tiny bachelor pad across town while I owned my house, which was fine for us for now, but at some point we’d have to re-evaluate our living arrangements. A two bedroom, one-and-a-half bath cottage built in the 1920s, it was the perfect home for a single woman but at only 1000 square feet it was undeniably small for a couple and a dog to share with any level of comfort. Especially if one half of said couple was six foot, five inches tall with the wingspan of a California condor. The only reason I was able to entertain as often as I did was because my backyard was large for the neighborhood and its landscaping – a major investment by the previous owner – provided a lush and private space that extended the square footage, operating as an outdoor dining room several months of the year.

When my parents and I went halfsies on it five years ago I hadn’t considered whether the house could accommodate anyone else, let alone a future husband or his possessions. Low on closet space to begin with, during the past three years I’d added four vintage bureaus, two wardrobes from Ikea that took up an entire wall in the second bedroom, and as much other storage as I could creatively maneuver. 

It wasn’t that I was a pack rat or anything, but being an artist I had a lot of supplies: paint, canvases, and other tools that required proper storage. When you added in the beat down but well loved mid-century modern desk that took up the middle of the second bedroom room, there was simply no space leftover to hold much else. Obviously, I’d need to find space for Cameron’s belongings, but as I ventured from room to room, evaluating the floor plan and which possessions I could live without, I had trouble figuring out where it would come from. In my small bedroom (which, at just 10x10 was the larger of the two) I already had an over-stuffed armoire that was packed-to-bursting and my tall, highboy dresser barely closed as it was. There just wasn’t any more room for additional storage. I’d definitely have to purge.

With the knowledge that I’d have to donate more than I kept, I added our living arrangements to the expanding list of things I’d have to address later, including what to do about his asshole friends. My body tensed just thinking about them. I couldn’t imagine coming face-to-face with any of them later this afternoon, assuming they had the audacity to show up. Following my nap, I’d felt better about the whole fiasco, but that didn’t mean I’d welcome them with open arms if they landed on my doorstep.

I meandered into the kitchen to brew a pot of coffee but saw Cameron had already taken care of it. Propped against the pot, he’d left a note written in haphazard penmanship that rivaled a doctor’s, telling me to enjoy my coffee and he’d be back soon. Taking a sip of the brew, I laughed, remembering that we had vastly differing opinions on what constituted a good cup of coffee. One of the many things we’d need to figure out about our living arrangements was to manage our differing opinions on coffee. For me, the darker and richer the better, while Cameron liked lighter, fruitier blends whose caffeine levels were too much for me. Noting that he’d brewed the pot from
his
favorite beans, I reminded myself to set the automatic timer tonight before bed so coffee the way I liked it would be the first pot of the morning. And no, you didn’t miss that. Cameron already had a stash of his favorite beans tucked away in my freezer which he replenished frequently over the past year. I snickered. Again, how had I missed all the signs? The guy kept coffee at my house, for fuck’s sake.

Opting for a glass of orange juice instead of Cameron’s high-octane java, I strolled into the living room where Duke happily snored in his corner. Curling up on the couch, I tucked my feet up under my robe. I normally spent my weekend mornings painting or getting caught up on my backlog of magazines, but neither activity tickled my fancy today. I didn’t know how long Cameron would be gone, but it wouldn’t be too much longer. Noting the time on the clock, I gave myself thirty more minutes of relaxation before I’d start to get ready for the party myself.

Calling to Duke, he obligingly trotted over and settled on the couch next to me to resume his snooze. Tucked up against my legs, I rhythmically swept my hand back and forth along his fur. As Duke rolled onto his back and presented his belly to me for some prime rubbing, I heard the sound of Cameron’s truck pull into my driveway. I’d given him a key when the first time he’d dog sat for me I wasn’t surprised to hear it rattle in the lock.

He walked in, carrying three very large duffle bags, on his back like a Sherpa while rolling a sat, beaten down suitcase behind him. I didn’t think the contents of those four bags was everything he owned, but having been to his apartment many times before, it probably came damn close.

“Oh good, you’re up,” he observed, as he lugged the heaping mass in the direction of my –
our
– bedroom. “Just give me a couple of minutes,” he hollered from the other room and I heard him opening and closing several drawers and doors, looking for somewhere to put everything he’d brought with him.

I laughed into my glass.
Best of luck with that, buddy.

Hearing Cameron rooting around in my armoire, Duke hopped off the couch and scampered into the bedroom to join him. “That’s a good boy,” I heard Cameron say in that silly voice everyone uses when speaking to dogs, and I pictured him crouched down on his haunches in front of Duke, giving the dog’s head a nice hard rub. I probably should have been jealous that Cameron had supplanted me in Duke’s affections, but they were honestly too damn cute together for me to begrudge their mutual adoration.

A couple of minutes later Cameron emerged from the bedroom and after pouring himself a mug of coffee, joined me on the couch.

“So umm … I moved in.”

I smirked and raised my eyebrow at him. “I can see that.”

“Should I have asked first?” His obvious uncertainty caused a twinge of unease in my belly.

This was new territory for us and while our living arrangements were something we probably should have discussed before he’d made an arbitrary decision without consulting me, the question of whether or not he was going to move in was moot. Of
course
he was moving in here because I sure as shit wasn’t moving in to his studio. Petulantly, I thought he could have at least said something to me first.

“It’s not a matter of asking,” I began, not wanting to say the wrong thing or give him the wrong impression. “But it’s definitely something we should have discussed, don’t you think?”

“I know,” he admitted, blowing out a long breath. “The second I turned down your street I got the feeling I hadn’t gone about this the right way. I should have said something, talked to you before showing up with all of my clothes and other worldly possessions.”

“Obviously you would be moving in here so I shouldn’t be bothered by it. I just wish you’d given me some warning or something.”

“Yeah, damn. I’m really bad at this.”

I laughed. “I wouldn’t say you’re bad at it, but you might be a tad impulsive.”

He winced and I rushed to continue. “It’s okay though. I’m not bothered by it, if that’s what you’re worried about. I just don’t know where we’ll put everything.” I dragged my eyes around my living room and small dining area. Nope, no room in here for additional storage either.

“I don’t need a lot of room.”

The way said it was so sad; he sounded like a little orphan boy begging a family to take him in.
Can I stay? Pretty, pretty please?
I shook my head to dislodge the unease his statement left in my heart. How terrible was I if he felt like he had to beg me to stay? And if those four bags were the entirety of what he brought with him, I felt bad about that too. Surely he had
some
personal mementos or bric-a-brac he’d want to have with him so the house felt like ours, not just mine.

“What about décor or furniture?”

His head jutted back and his eyebrows raised as if I’d asked him when he was bringing over his pony. That is to say, he looked at me like I’d lost my damn mine. “You
have
seen my furniture, haven’t you? And do you really want what passes for art in that place coming within a fifty-foot radius of your home?”

He had a point. With the exception of a very beautiful leather chesterfield sofa he’d picked up an estate sale last year, most of his stuff had come with the apartment, had been picked up at yard sales, or were hand-me-downs from friends who’d gotten married and weren’t allowed to bring their bachelor-era digs with them to their new lives. And because his lease stipulated he wasn’t allowed to hang anything on the walls, he’d never actually invested in any art. I’d tried giving him a painting once as a birthday present but he’d shook his head glumly and told me I’d have to keep it safe for him. I’d ended up hanging it on the wall of my dining nook so he could see it whenever he stopped by. “How’s my painting doing?” he’d often ask when he walked in. In the meantime, he’d had to live with the “art” his landlord had installed before Cameron moved in. He wasn’t lying when he told people he had a five-foot-wide velvet portrait of dogs playing poker hanging over his sofa.

“The chesterfield should come; we’ll find room for it somewhere.”

“Done,” he said, obviously happy I was okay with it coming with him. I knew he loved the sofa and while it wasn’t necessarily my style, I secretly loved how comfortable it was.

“I’ll also empty out a dresser so you can put your things away, and I
think
I can make room in the armoire for more of your stuff. How many pairs of shoes do you have?”

He paused before answering and I noted he looked sheepish. “Twenty.”

“You have twenty pairs of shoes?!”

He nodded, completely serious. “Yes.” I waited for him to explain, but none was forthcoming.

“Cameron,
I
don’t have twenty pairs of shoes.”

“That’s because you live in flip-flops, navy blue Converse, and black flats.”

I couldn’t tell you the first thing about Cameron’s shoes – probably because whenever I looked at him his feet were the last thing on my mind – but he could tell you exactly what I wore on mine nearly every single day?

“Wait, you don’t have a foot fetish do you?” I joked. I didn’t
think
he had any hidden kinks, but I was still discovery things about him so maybe he did and I’d never known it.

His eyes went wide and he started laughing. “No,” he answered and then his eyes went dark as he scanned them up my body. “Not that.”

Hmm, I’d have to explore what
that
look meant some other time.