A Brand New Ending (Page 41)

What had Ophelia gone through while he was flush with success, getting everything he’d always wanted? What was she thinking and feeling after moving to California, getting married, and struggling to make sense of everything alone?

She’d followed him and taken his dreams on as hers. Had he ever seen the truth of what she really wanted?

No. Because he’d been selfish and so caught up in chasing success, he hadn’t taken the time to really listen.

Maybe it was finally time to try and understand her side.

He sipped his coffee and thought for a long time.

She watched him, head bent over the keyboard, golden hair shining under the low light. His jaw clenched and his gaze was fierce as he stared at the page—his new lover and mistress that demanded all of his time.

God, she was a bitch. How could she be so happy and proud of him yet feel so lost at the same time? She couldn’t tell him what had really happened at the audition. He didn’t need her to bring him down at this critical point when his screenplay was almost done. It was easier to slough the episodes off, but deep inside her soul was beginning to wither.

She began cooking dinner, focusing on the steady chopping of the knife flying over the onions and tomatoes, adding fresh herbs to the sauce. Her expectations of how their life would unfold were fraying rapidly. She didn’t like the people Kyle hung out with. Fancy parties where conversations occurred only if favors or connections were being bestowed. Fake tans and bright smiles and empty promises of “I’ll call you” or “You’d be perfect for this job” and friends who weren’t really friends. The social atmosphere confused her, but her husband had begun to thrive, learning to play the ruthless games with a smile that was slowly turning a touch fake.

She sizzled garlic in the pan and stirred it with a wooden spoon. The audition today had been completely humiliating. The small part on the television show that was supposed to be a reinvented Glee had been perfect for her, and her singing was top-notch.

Just not her looks.

They hated her hair and her freckles and said she needed to lose weight. They advised her to change her outfit and smile bigger, adjust her face when she belted out the high notes because she looked “a bit weird.”

Her confidence was annihilated. She’d left embarrassed and feeling stupid, beginning to believe television and studios weren’t her calling. But even the local jobs of singing at restaurants and clubs were hard to get into. They’d asked her to perform songs in the style of Britney Spears or Pink, but she was more of an Adele or Alicia Keys singer. That didn’t seem to be as popular.

But it wasn’t even the consistent rejections that were slowly eroding her joy.

It was her husband.

She dumped the pasta in the boiling water and began to slice a loaf of Italian bread. Yes, he was busy and had much less time to be with her, but it was bigger than that. He wasn’t present when they were together. His once-focused gaze had drifted off, as if he were waiting for someone more important to walk by or call. He chattered about the producers he met, and his new hot agent, and how they’d be able to get a bigger, fancier apartment once the script was done.

He used to make love to her every night.

Now, he worked. When he did reach for her, he still kissed her with hunger and passion, but there was something lacking. Something she hadn’t been able to name until it came to her in the dark of the night, lying alone in the sheets, staring at the full moon while she listened to the furiously clacking keyboard.

Tenderness.

She shook off the clingy melancholy and forced a smile to her face. “Babe, dinner’s ready. Take a quick break.”

He nodded, worked for another five minutes, then got up from the chair. “Damn, that was a good scene. Hero jumped from a moving car with the briefcase, rolled under a semi truck, and arrived on the other side to confront the bad guy. Rob’s gonna love it.”

Her nose wrinkled at Rob’s name. She didn’t like his agent. He had a smarmy-type personality that exuded no loyalty, but she kept her silence. “Exciting. Do you like writing those kinds of scenes now?”

He sat down and dove into his pasta. “What do you mean?”

She shrugged and joined him at the table. “I don’t know. You always spoke about writing a literary-type novel for the screen—not action stuff.”

“I’m lucky to get this shot. Besides, it’s fun.” His gaze narrowed. “Why? Do you think I sold out or something?”

“No, I’m just asking. If you’re happy, I’m happy.”

“Sure doesn’t seem that way,” he muttered.

She jerked and stared at him. “What?”

“I mean, I get it. Things are hard out there, and the auditions aren’t going well, but something will break soon. Robbie told me about this new reality show they’re casting. It’s called Future Pop Star. You’d be perfect for it.”

Her stomach clenched. She poked at her pasta. “I don’t think I’m pop star material,” she said. “I don’t like all that image stuff. I just want to sing.”

“Yeah, but first you need to show them you’re marketable, or they won’t even give you a chance to do what you really want. Things work differently out here, Ophelia. You keep acting like everyone’s a sellout.”

“No I don’t.”

He tightened his lips. “Will you please audition for it? Just be more open-minded if they talk to you about image—don’t take it personally. Your voice is gold. Once they hear it, they’re going to want to make you a star.”

The dream. To be a star. Once, she’d believed he wanted fame as much as he wanted her.

Now she realized she’d been wrong. She loved singing, but she loved Kyle more. She just wanted her husband the way he used to be—not this new, shinier version she didn’t know how to relate to. What if she told him she didn’t want the same things he did? Would he still want her?

The questions whirled in her head, but she nodded, enjoying the smile that lit up his beautiful face. God, how she loved him. God, how she wanted to be what he needed.

“Okay, Kyle. If that’s what you want, I’ll try out.”

“Thanks, baby. You’ll be great. I’ll call Rob after dinner. Did I tell you they’re trying to attach Woody Harrelson to the part of the police officer? Wouldn’t that be fucking awesome?”

She nodded and smiled as he spoke—and willed the sick feeling in her gut away.

The phone rang, jolting him out of the scene. Trying to clear his head, he clicked the button and tried not to sound as irritated as he felt. “Yeah?”

“It’s Rob. I’m still pissed, you know. We may never get another chance at Jenkins.”

Kyle understood, but he was damn glad he’d stayed. Every second with Ophelia was precious. Flying back out to Hollywood would have only given her more doubts about his declaration that he’d changed.

“Yeah, I figured. What’d you tell him?”

“Made up some crap, so if this next thing falls through, we can save face and see if Jenkins still wants help. Speaking of which—when will you have the screenplay ready? I’ve got a lot of people excited to see this new side of Kyle Kimpton. People got some grabby hands here to read it first.”

Satisfaction curled through him. Once they read it, he knew it would be an easy sell. Though Fifty Shades of Grey bombed by certain Hollywood standards, it had made a ton of money from audiences made up of loyal readers of the book, so Kyle knew the market was ripe for a decent love story besides the ones penned by Nicholas Sparks. Personally, he’d enjoyed both the Sparks and Fifty Shades books and thought the fans supported the films well. Then again, he liked reading romance novels and hated how the industry looked down on them. Kind of like action movies. Everyone wanted to compartmentalize them into a box and call it trashy, shallow fiction. Always pissed him off.