A Brand New Ending (Page 54)

The video of her singing was grainy, with flashing lights, but her voice rang true and clear; her red hair was like a beacon on the stage. In disbelief, she saw the number of views had reached 500,000. Comments rolled under it endlessly.

Who is this chick?

F—ng amazing. Why isn’t she on iTunes?!

Listened to it a dozen times already. I can’t find her anywhere. Who is she?

She should audition for The Voice! She’d def get picked.

With trembling hands, she pushed the phone away. Emotion choked her throat. Strong hands enclosed her shoulders, and she was suddenly surrounded by Kyle’s arms. She lay against his hard chest, let his warm breath rush past her ear.

“Baby, I know this is a lot. Just think about it. It doesn’t have to be a repeat of the past. This time, you can have it all.”

We can have it all.

The words ripped agonizing pain through her. Slowly, she pushed him away, fighting the tears stinging her eyes. She had to get away.

“I’ll think about it,” she forced out. “Thanks—I have to go to the bathroom.”

She left him in the kitchen, shut the door, and dropped her face into her hands.

It might have been almost ten years later, but she was falling in love with him all over again, just as strong as the first time. And seeing herself plastered on the internet brought back the memories that still ached. It had been the final break in their relationship that neither had been able to recover from.

Is that why she’d shut herself away from singing?

Was she still running away from something she loved, believing she could never have both?

And the biggest question of all: Did any of it really matter when Kyle was eventually leaving?

She splashed some cold water on her face and stared into the mirror.

They still had some time to figure things out. She wasn’t going to ruin it by dwelling on the past.

The future was enough to handle.

She sat on the couch, knees curled up, and stared unseeingly at the droning television. Past midnight. Again. She’d texted him earlier asking him to come home, saying that she had to talk to him about something important. He’d promised.

His promises were becoming more like scattered offerings with no follow-through.

The door clicked.

She swiveled her head around, noting the too-happy grin lingering on his face, the high sheen in his green eyes. Not drunk—he was always careful about his alcohol intake—but running high on adrenaline. Work parties blurred into ridiculous social functions that had no meaning except to see who could jump naked in the pool, who could bang who, who could cast who. Yet he seemed to not only embrace this new lifestyle but also enjoy it. She used to think the shallowness of such a world would be something they’d never truly have to deal with, because they were different. They weren’t like the others, who needed attention and fame and contacts to fill the emptiness inside. They had each other. Had never needed anyone else.

Not anymore.

She swallowed back the anguish, not wanting to get into another fight, and hoped he was grounded enough to talk. God, how she needed him to listen to her.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said. His words held a touch of defensiveness. “Got talking to Robbie about the new movie. Listen, I know we haven’t had much time together lately, but I’m going to be MIA again next week. Have to be on a location set shoot and available for rewrites.”

“You can’t do it from home?” she asked, knowing many of the screenwriters didn’t travel with the cast.

“I want to go. I want them to know when they hire me, I give my all. They deserve that.”

“What about your wife? Does she deserve the same?”

She cursed herself the moment the words escaped. Dammit, she couldn’t take another round of fighting. It was beginning to drain them both.

Kyle shrugged off his jacket, his features twisted with frustration. “We went over this. I’m the youngest screenwriter to be working with such bigwigs, and I need them to know I can handle it. Anyway, what’s the problem? You’ll be working nonstop on the Popstar reality show, doing plenty of auditions and partying. I heard the network wants you to do a lot of press. So proud of you, baby.”

She caught the deflection and wondered when he’d gotten so good at spinning an excuse, or even a lie. But she didn’t say anything, just waited while he got a glass of water and slid next to her. His hand rubbed her thigh, but for the first time in forever, she didn’t melt under his touch. Lately, even their physical connection was suffering—she felt as if she were watching them from a distance.

“Kyle, I made a decision about something. I really need your support on it.”

“Of course. I’ll back you up on anything—you know that.”

She took a deep breath. “I quit.”

He stared at her, head cocked, as if he didn’t understand what she said. “What do you mean? Quit what?”

“The show. Popstar. I gave them my decision today, and they weren’t happy about it. And since the cast got leaked and I’ve already done promo, the backlash may be a bit nasty.”

He rubbed his head, blinking furiously, as if she’d hit him. “Wait a minute. I’m confused. You quit the show that was your big break? The one that was going to make you a star? You’re fucking with me, right?”

She pressed her lips together and moved away from him, not wanting contact. “No. I’ve been telling you for a while now that I wasn’t happy. It’s not about the singing. It’s everything else—the image makeover and social media followers and political bullshit and other contestants being so competitive and mean, it takes my breath away. It’s a world I despise. I couldn’t take any more, so I quit.”

He jumped up from the couch, choppy waves of fury radiating from him. She sucked in her breath as he jabbed a finger in the air, his voice gritty with emotion. “What the hell is going on with you, Ophelia? Are you that terrified of success you’re going to quit the one show that will change your life because it’s hard? I used to know you, but lately, you’ve turned into someone I don’t even recognize!”

She stood up, fists clenched, and faced him down. “I could say the same about you. Kissing ass to anyone who has a decent contact, writing what they want rather than what you want, telling yourself it’s all perfect because you’re the man? You’ve changed.”

“You don’t want me to be successful. I’ve sensed it for a long time. The looks you give me when I go to work functions or come home late or lock myself in a room to write all night. But you knew this wasn’t going to be easy. Chasing dreams isn’t supposed to be, and if you’re not willing to compromise, you’ll never get an opportunity to share your true vision.”

He took a step toward her, hands out. “I get it, baby. I do. You feel like they’re trying to change you, and it’s freaking you out. But all you have to do is go with it for the show. Get your name out there and get a following. Then you can do anything you want.”

She wanted to scream and stomp her feet and shake him so he would finally listen to her. “You’re not understanding me. If I do what they say and let them turn me into some puppet, the audience will never know the real me anyway! I’ll be trapped—singing their god-awful pop shit, dressed in tight leather pants and a crop top, bouncing my head and smiling like some kind of ventriloquist dummy with no soul! That’s not me.”