Below Unforgiven (28 page)

I delivered my lines with fluidity, my even gaze never breaking once from his.

He considered my words, his eyes moving back to the letter and the check once before turning back to me.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, he took a deep, careful breath. “I’m sorry that I yelled at you.”

I exhaled, trying not to appear too relieved.

He believes me. I’m a liar. I’m a manipulative, scheming, fucking liar.

I’m an actress.

“
I’m sorry,
” I replied, and suddenly, I was in his arms.

Forgiven.

Staring at the movie case in the grass, I focused on Clint Eastwood’s profile in the sunlight.

And I went home with Matthew that afternoon.

All of my meager belongings fit into the back of his Jeep, and I held Gram on the front porch, crying into her shoulder and thanking her for all that she’d done for me.

“I’m always here, Vivie. If you change your mind, just come home.”

I smiled at the word
home
.

The drive to Ohio took three and a half hours, and I talked to Matthew on and off during the ride, mostly about our families.

“My parents wanted to know if we’d come over for dinner tonight. I told them it might be too soon…,”

“Thank you. I really just want to… spend the evening alone, okay? Just us.”

“Absolutely.”

“Have you seen my mom or dad?” I asked, and he nodded.

“Sometimes. At the store, around town.”

“Do they look okay?”

“Yeah,” he sighed, setting the cruise control. “Your dad looks tired. He worries about you.”

I turned to look out the window, and he reached for my hand. I let him hold it between us.

“We’ll just take things slow, okay? I’m not going to push you. Take as much time as you need.”

I gave him a thankful smile, forcing my cheeks to rise and fall before turning back to the window.

Our bungalow was exactly as I’d left it. Framed pictures of me and Matthew lined the book shelves, but I did notice that the ones of when I was pregnant had been put away. I was thankful; I couldn’t have handled seeing them at that moment.

“I’m going to be honest with you,” Matthew began, settling my suitcases to the floor next to the door. “I went through a hard time after you left. I tore the… the nursery apart… and eventually turned it into an office. I’m sorry that I didn’t ask you first.”

“Matthew. I
left
. I had no right to an opinion on that. And I understand,” I added, encouraging him to go on. I tried to imagine him tearing
any
thing apart. Very rarely had I ever gotten a glimpse of his temper, and I felt a deep stab of guilt in my heart.

“There is a futon couch in there, and I’ll sleep there. Until you’re ready.”

“No.” I crossed the living room to him, reaching for his hands. “No, you stay in the bed. I’ll sleep in that room. It’s not fair for you to give up your bed. You didn’t run. I did.”

“I refuse to let you sleep on that futon. It’s hard as a rock and you’ll feel like ass in the morning.”

I giggled at his words, comforted by the familiarity of his expressions that I’d missed for so long. “Well, I don’t want you to feel like ass, either.”

He adjusted his glasses before wrapping his arms around me. “Listen. If you lay next to me, like you did last night, I will respect your boundaries, Vivian. I won’t push you. And to be honest, I would really like for you to be close to me. All night. Again,” he added, his deep voice coaxing a natural stir deep in my stomach.

“Okay,” I agreed with a whisper.

“And I need you to tell me when it’s okay to kiss you. I’ve been waiting for so long, and since I’m not pushing you, I just need a sign. Okay?”

I lifted my face, my eyes swimming with tears. “Kiss me now, Matthew.”

He whispered my name, no hesitation in his movements as he grabbed my upper arms and lifted me to him.

His mouth-our mouths-remembered, reacted, and the combination was comforting, familiar, and so very
warm
.

His tongue parted my lips, and I tasted him, wrapping my arms around his neck. After a moment, I could feel him back off slightly, slowing our kiss.

And then he stopped.

His long sigh against my forehead became breathy, tortured words. “I hate that you slept with him.”

I opened my eyes, and as his hands fell away, I took a step backward.

“Matthew?”

“I’m sorry. I do. I loved that I was the only man who had ever touched you. I don’t know what to say. I know it sounds primal and-and irrational-but I
hate
knowing his mouth was all over you.”

I winced, remembering Keaton’s letter.

“I… understand,” I managed, turning for the stairs before I broke into tears. He let me go, and when I opened the door to the nursery, I was met with white walls, an old, oak desk, and the futon couch.

Gone were the airplanes, the crib, and the teddy bear that Gram had made for my son. Gone were the tiny onesies that said “Daddy’s Little Slugger,” and the changing table filled with Pampers. I wrenched open the closet, finding nothing but empty hangers and an old printer, several boxes labeled BILLS, and Matthew’s baseball equipment.

“I put it all in storage. It’s not gone.”

“I can’t believe it’s over.”

“We can go to the cemetery whenever you’re ready, Vivian.”

“I’ll never be ready.”

“Yes, you will. You’ll be ready. You’ll talk to counselors, who will help you learn how to grieve, and cope. I’ll go with you. I’m going to help you get through this. Life has to go on, Vivian. We’re not alone. It helped me to talk to other couples who have been through this.”

I stared blankly at the wall that used to say RORY in big, block letters.

“Please… Matthew, just leave me alone.”

He replied with silence, and I heard the soft clasp of the door.

Lowering to the futon, I curled into a ball and closed my eyes.

28 Days Later

The show must go on.

… Or some shit like that.

The funding for the movie was approved. I had to thank the Round-Up Killer at large for creating the giant media frenzy that only fed into the movie hype. We were going to film in Utah, at an amusement park near the mountains.

I ended up turning down Idlewild Park for the filming location. I never wanted to go back to that park again, not for as long as I lived.

Round-Up
was going to be the film of my career, the one that launched me into the kind of celebrity status that I’d been waiting for. I had actors and actresses already vying for the parts, willing to negotiate their contracts for pay that was well below their average.

“…the lead. Great slasher film actresses are traditionally hot with big tits, and I don’t think we should stray from the norm on this one,” Frank was saying, earning a chuckled approval from the new casting director, Max Lander.

“Yeah, but do we want a newbie with talent, or some washed-up Disney star looking to finally show some skin?”

“My money’s on the Disney princess.”

“Keaton? What do you think?” Max urged.

I stared out over the Los Angeles skyline, the view from my posh new office distracting me from whatever the hell Frank was chortling about. “About?”

“The actress. Fresh face, or Disney-girl-gone-bad?”

Vivian’s eyes. That was the color of the line between the skyscrapers. Blue, the kind of blue that darkened and lightened depending on how the world was turning.

Depending on how she turned my world.

“Fresh face. I want blue eyes, innocent. Wide. Dark hair, not blonde, not this time. Thin, not too tall. Inner wisdom. Like… Snow White.”

“Inner wisdom? Snow White? What the hell are you smoking, man?” Frank laughed, shaking his head and pushing to his feet. Max followed suit, accepting his handshake. “Okay, you heard the boss. Inner-fucking-wisdom. Think Velma from Scooby-Doo.”

“Velma was hot,” Max agreed with a grin, reaching for my handshake. “It’s not like we’re looking for Oscar material here. It’s a
horror
film. Scream queens don’t walk the red carpet, kid.”

I lifted my cool gaze to his, expressionless.

“Ingrid Bergman. 1944. Best Actress,
Gaslight
. Ruth Gordon. 1968. Best Supporting Actress,
Rosemary’s Baby.
Kathy Bates. 1990. Best Actress,
Misery
.”

Max’s face turned beet red.

“That shit
does
fucking happen. And I’m your fucking boss. You call me kid again, and you’ll be casting dog food commercials.”

Max halted in his tracks, backpedaling so fast that I could almost hear his apologies before they poured from his mouth. “Yes, sir. Hey, I’m sorry, you’re right. We’re setting the bar high on this one. Thank you for this opportunity.”

I ignored him until he left, turning back to the window in my office.

Vivian
.

It’d been nearly a month since I’d left her standing on her Gram’s porch, and after my first day back in LA, I woke up in a drunken daze, realizing that I’d never called Robin.

And I’d never stopped Vivian from reading that letter.

I’d left that movie case, such a
dick
move, I knew it. When Luke called me a week later, I knew exactly why.

“Dude. You fucked up, Keaton.”

“I know. How was your honeymoon?”

“Fuck my honeymoon. You hurt her. Robin said she cried her heart out in our front yard, and her boyfriend read the letter and almost came after you.”

“Almost, huh?”

“Vivian begged him not to. She went back with him to Ohio.”

Shit
. I already suspected as much, but it felt like a knife was twisting in my back. I pressed my finger to my temple, closing my eyes.

“I don’t want to talk about it, Luke.”

And I didn’t. Three blissful weeks had passed without me having to speak to my family at all, and I’d almost convinced myself that the weekend with Vivian had been a figment of my very drunk imagination.

Until today, when a text came through on my phone that morning.

From Vivian.

Please call me.

That was it. Three words.

Three words that meant everything and nothing. I waited until Frank had left, locking my office door and staring at her number.

For too long.

Growling, I finally dialed.

And I waited.

She picked up on the first ring.

“Keaton?”

I forced myself to sound nonchalant. “Hey, V.”

Her slow exhale was my undoing.

What had happened to me in the course of those three days? Did I really fall that hard for her? Was it that she was so far removed from the crazy world that I lived in that she represented… peace? The kind of life that I’d always wanted with Kelsey and realized that I’d never have?

“Thank you for calling me,” she began, her voice shaking so badly that I could barely understand her. I pictured her chest breaking out in hives, and her fingers twisting her ponytail.

And I was hard.

Christ, I miss her.
I’d missed her voice, and her smile, and the way she entertained the hell out of me with just a simple story. I missed the way she turned her whole body into mine, flattening her palm against my chest as we kissed.

“What can I do for you?” I managed to sound busy, focusing on the documents on my desk.

“
I think I’m pregnant,
” she exhaled, all in one broken breath.

My hand froze over the desk, and I slowed.

Filter. Filter.

Filter.

“Congratulations,” I managed, barely audible.

“Keaton… it’s yours,” she replied, and I could hear her struggling with her tears.

Leaning back in the executive chair, I ran my hand through my hair, my fingers resting at my neck.

Mine?

We were together-once.

She told me that she was protected.

“I mixed up-the
months
- that I got the shot, it was due, and I missed it…,”

I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees and running my hand down the back of my neck.

“Vivian, it’s okay. Calm down. Don’t cry.”

My words were like a herald to release the floodgates. She proceeded to cry for at least five minutes, and while I listened to her tearful sobs, I struggled to piece together my own thoughts.

She’s pregnant.

With my child?

“Please don’t be offended by my question, but are you sure that it’s mine?”

She held her breath in an attempt to steady her words. “Yes. I haven’t been with anyone but you.”

She wasn’t sleeping him. She wasn’t sleeping with him? What did that mean? Did she really still love him, or did she feel obligated to go home to him?

“And I’m not asking for anything from you. I just thought that you should know.”

“Hey. Wait,” I lifted my eyes to the evening sky, staring out the window. “You don’t have to
ask
for anything from me. If you’re pregnant with my child, I’m going to take care of you. And my child. Vivian,” I softened my tone, “why do you think you are pregnant? Have you taken a test?”

“I took five,” she whispered.

“And they were all positive?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, kiddo. Then you are.”

“Keaton. I’m so sorry. For
everything
.”

“Shh. Wait. Just wait.”

A long minute of silence passed, and she sniffed.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m filtering.”

She fell into silence, and I finally took a cautious breath.

“I’m sorry for that letter. I was so drunk when I wrote it, and it was horrible. None of it was true, and I hate myself for writing it. I know that it hurt. I didn’t mean it.”

“Don’t,” she begged softly, a fresh wave of tears threatening her voice.

“And I meant everything that I said to you that weekend. Everything. I want you. I want a life with you. I want every part of you, even your demons, and your inability to make a fucking decision, and your empty promises. And I want our baby, Vivian.
Our
baby.”