Total Trainwreck (27 page)

Chapter Thirty-Four

Devon wanted tacos, so we’re going to get tacos. In Mexico.

Cruising south from L.A., three stories above the Pacific on Spence’s yacht, we’re taking advantage of a filming break to get away. We’d never be allowed this level of privacy on land. On open water we’re as free as we are on the island. God bless Spence for offering his boat. He’s no fool. He knows how hard this insane media circus has been on me.

We anchored off Catalina last night. Dinner was brought aboard and we were close enough to hear live music from an outdoor concert. Devon held me close while we danced on the bow, in the darkness, under the stars. Just us. It was everything.

Now I’m in my bikini lounging on the stern, watching the engine kick up white water as we motor over to San Nicolas, then on to San Clemente tonight before ending our voyage on San Martin. The island is known more for sport fishing than celebrity sightings. Devon swears it has one of the best beachside taco shops in the world.

I’m officially a size zero again. Something both the mirror and my Rio-cut thong tell me. Unfortunately, I’ve also lost the size D knockers. I was really hoping to keep those. The first week on set was brutal. I was in rare form, forced to fake normalcy while subsisting on lemon water and lettuce to lose the remaining bloat. Not to mention the roaring hormones that did nothing for my outlook on life. In retrospect, I’m glad I had the distraction to get through those first days after my situation stopped being a situation. I don’t like to wallow. I’m definitely a deal with the shit and move on kinda girl.

By some miracle of Hollywood magic, studio filming is ahead of schedule. As a reward we took the weekend off. Devon jumped on the chance to take me away. We both need this.

“Carly?” He’s in the chaise longue beside me, sunglasses raised, looking at me with a mix of worry and hesitation. His eyes move slowly over me. I follow them, surprised to find my hand stroking where my distended belly used to bulge. I sigh and look at him, no explanation needed.

“I can’t feel it anymore,” I say. He pulls my hand away from the ghost of my bump, takes it in his, raises it to his lips for a kiss and then places it over his chest, stroking my inner arm. Saying nothing and everything, he closes his eyes behind his aviators and turns back to the sun. I roll onto my side to get closer, savoring his touch. We haven’t talked about it. I guess he heals through silence.

Me, I go back and forth between anger, grief and guilt, though none are as strong as they initially were. It’s bearable now. I realize that even though Devon saw a reasonable way out of the situation, the risk would’ve always been there. There are moments that still prick my heart. Every time I set an alarm on my phone a wave of guilt swells in my belly, reminding me I was hours away from killing the baby myself when
she
did it for me. Seeing a mother and child bring on the grief of wondering what our relationship would’ve been. Could I have overcome the neglect of my own childhood to make hers better? And then there’s Heather. Picturing her raging crazy the night she... No, I can’t even go there.

“What would you have named her?” Devon asks, startling me from my thoughts. He doesn’t look at me but strokes the back of my hand still splayed over his chest.

“How do you know it was a girl?” I ask, surprised he had the same intuition as me.

“It just seemed liked it was,” he answers, sitting up and turning into me. He tucks our hands against his sun-warmed chest. I nod and make a small noise of both contentment and agreement.

“Phoebe,” I say without hesitation, even though I’ve never burned one brain cell on the topic. It just comes to me from the dark recesses of who-knows-where like it’s always been there.

“Phoebe.” He says the name aloud, letting it linger on his tongue. “I like that. Why Phoebe?”

“It was Pigtails’s real name. I’ve always loved it.”

“Phoebe Hayes,” he says aloud. When he gives her his last name it gives me goose bumps that make the back of my eyeballs sting.

“What would you have named her?” I ask, forcing a growing tightness from my throat.

“Hmm...” His head rolls back to the sun while he thinks. “Phoebe Grace Hayes,” he finally says. “That has a nice ring to it.” Beside him sits a tall glass of something. He leans up to drink it and settles himself back on his side so we’re eye to eye.

“Grace is good. Kind of symbolic for the circumstances, I guess.” I nod my approval. He lifts his sunglasses atop his head so I can see his gorgeous blue eyes.

“It was Dylan’s middle name.” He reaches over and strokes my cheek, the residual perspiration from his cup leaving a cooling line where he touches me. Strangely, naming our child after his ex doesn’t upset me. A year ago it would have totally set me off. Now that I’m a (sort of) reasonable human being, I know I wouldn’t have him if it weren’t for her.

I nod again and bite my inner lip. “I think Phoebe Grace is a beautiful name.”

“Carly...” His voice goes serious. So serious, I lean up to get a smoke. He pulls me back so I can’t avoid whatever this somber tone is about to spill all over me, because that’s how well he knows me. Shit.

With begrudged obedience, I retake my place facing him.

“It’s time we let go of all this pain we’re carrying around,” he says gently. “We can’t change anything in our past, and holding onto it only affects our future. I want a clean break. A fresh start for us without anything getting in the way.”

I pull my glasses down my nose to get a better look at him, trying to read between the lines. He cannot be pussing-out on me now. Forget what she’s done? Meh. Forgive her and move on? Hell no. Not until she’s burned to a crisp in the ashes of her sins.

“I want a fresh start, too. But, I refuse to forget everything she’s done to us.”

“I’m not talking about Heather. We’ll get closure where she’s concerned, I promise.” His temples pulse, reaffirming his devotion to ruining her. Satisfied, I push my sunglasses back into place. “This is about us. The things we’ve lost—your childhood, my years of guilt...and our baby. I like the idea that we purge all our past pain together and then build a new foundation together. Does that sound stupid?”

Hesitation and hope swirl in his blue depths, telling me he’s found his peace with all the secrets we’ve kept from each other and the world, and is begging me to do the same. It’s a tall order, but I’m quickly learning there is little I can refuse this man. I also can’t deny that it’s past time to cleanse the bitterness from our life. Our losses are exactly that—pieces of ourselves that were stolen from us through no fault of our own. It’s dangerous holding onto something so toxic. In letting go and loving each other, however, those gaping holes can finally mend. It’s time to let go. It’s time to find closure and start building our future. Together.

“It’s not crazy at all. It’s exactly what we need. Let the ghosts from our past go and focus on our future.”

Devon takes a deep breath and relaxes like he was worried how I’d take this request. “Phoebe Grace Hayes,” he says, forcing a small smile to his lips.

“She would’ve had blond hair and navy blue eyes,” I add.

“She would’ve lit up a room like her mom.”

“She would’ve stolen my heart like her father.”

It’s now that Devon’s façade slips. A tear rolls over his cheek. Seconds later, one skitters over mine. In a quick motion, he moves onto my chair and takes me in his arms, holding me so close it hurts.

“We’ll never forget her. And we’ll try again. She’ll have sisters and brothers and every time we look in their eyes we’ll remember her.”

A monsoon of tears swells inside, but I’m so over crying about this. The moment feels right in so many ways, but I don’t want it devolving into despair. That’s not an emotion I deal with well. “Devon, stop.” I lay a hand on his chest. He pulls away. “Of course, I want all that. With you. But thinking about that. Right now. I can’t...”

He pushes my sunglass back, searching my face, trying to read my clumsy emotions. I move my hand to his cheek and place a soft kiss on his lips. He exhales against me. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I just don’t want this to become a wedge between us.”

I shake my head and lay it on his chest. Guilt comes sailing in out of nowhere and punches me square in the gut. I have to tell him. If we’re truly going to heal from this and get past everything, he has to know.

Acting like an adult sucks balls. I squeeze my eyes shut, braced for whatever is coming my way. “I didn’t want her. I was going to the doctor, but not for the reason you think. I was going to abort her and lie to you about it.” I’m babbling, my face turned into his chest to muffle the words so they don’t sound so awful. Please. They’re fucking appalling. Even to my ears. The damned tears are unstoppable, burning my cheeks and making my jaw quiver.

“Shh...” he coos into my ear, stroking my hair. “I know.”

His two words burst into my brain. “What?” I pull away, looking at him and wondering which one of us is insane. He puts a hand on my head and pulls it back to his chest.

“I knew you didn’t want her. I’m not stupid.” His hand leaves my head and falls to my back. “Every day you wanted to do it and didn’t do it, actually made me love you more.”

“Why?”

“Because I knew your love for me was what stopped you.”

His words make me want to break. How can I deserve such tender love? How can he forgive me for something like that? “And if I had gone through with it? What then?”

He makes a small noise, thinking long and hard, softly rubbing my back. “I honestly don’t know. Our relationship would’ve been built on a lie. In a way, I’m glad it happened like it did.”

My chest caves under the weight of his answer. A wave of guilt worse than the one before it crashes over me. The idea that he would rather lose our baby than lose me is a curveball I certainly wasn’t expecting. And I damn sure don’t deserve it after how selfish I was prepared to be. This is the selfless kind of love reserved for Hollywood big screens, not for real life.

“You aren’t mad at me?”

“You’re entitled to your own feelings, Carly. I wish you would’ve talked to me about it, but I wasn’t angry.” I pull away from my hiding spot against his chest, venturing a glance into his eyes.

“That night at our house, when you found out—you’d never looked at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“You looked at me like you thought I was the waste of human space everyone else always has. I couldn’t take it. Not from you. I would’ve done anything to keep you from looking at me like that. Even...” I break off because I can’t say it again. In fact, I can’t even sit here anymore. I pull out of his arms and reach for a smoke. This time, he doesn’t stop me. Instead, he slides over to his chair and grabs his glass.

“I’m sorry I overreacted. I was so excited and when you weren’t it made me question your commitment.” He watches me fire up a smoke, moving away from the thick white cloud it blows over us.

“Never question my commitment.” I pull an ashtray close and take a deep drag. It is everything I need after exchanging such weighty words. “I was trying to protect us.”

“I realize that, but not at the expense of life. We would’ve found a way.” He wrinkles his nose and takes the cigarette from my hand, laying it on the ashtray’s rim. I don’t object because I know how much he hates my smoking. “I will always find a way for us.” He pulls me into his lap and lays a kiss on my forehead, the protective kind that tells me I am his only concern in life. I wrap my arms around his torso, hanging my head over his shoulder and snuggling into his neck. I remember why I don’t like to talk about shit. It’s absolutely exhausting.

“Moretti is joining us on the boat for dinner tonight,” Devon says after several minutes of silence. I sit up, taking a moment to smooth my hair into place and change mental gears. This is why I need to smoke. I relight the cigarette and take another drag, carefully exhaling away from him.

“Is this what I think it is?” I ask tentatively.

He nods once, pulls his sunglasses back over his eyes and looks out to sea.

Chapter Thirty-Five

I’m freshly showered and dressed in a sea-worthy white maxi for dinner. An afternoon in the sun talking things through with Devon was exactly what I needed. It’s taken the edge off enough to make me almost normal. When I cruise into the second-floor dining room and find Devon talking over drinks with a strange man, I stop cold, knowing the next hour of my life will be a million miles from normal.

I throw my shoulders back and slap on a smile like this is just another day, because that’s what I think I should do in a situation where I’m about to sic a fixer on my worst enemy. This is a good thing, right? Every time I imagined it in my mind, it’s been delightful. The reality of actually doing it sets my nerves on edge.

“Mr. Moretti?” I make an educated guess, offering my hand as I approach him and Devon. He turns to me without a smile, takes my hand and gives me a quick appraisal.

“Miss Klein,” he says with a nod, but offers nothing more. He’s older than I thought—salty and sturdy in a sea captain kind of way. A high and tight haircut screams ex-military. Straight-as-a-board posture, overly wrought muscles and a commanding presence suggests Special Forces. I’d put him somewhere north of fifty. His handshake is firm and rigid and could easily crush every bone south of my wrist if he wanted to. Ray Donovan sexy, he is not. Intimidating as hell, he damn sure is.

“I’m so glad you’re joining us for dinner,” I say, accepting a glass of sparkling water with lime from Devon. He leans in, places a kiss on my cheek and pulls me to him. Moretti takes note of my mocktail and our embrace in a mental notebook. His scrutiny does nothing for my nerves.

“No dinner.” He gestures with his glass. “We’ll do our business over a drink.” Devon and I exchange glances. We are so out of our element here. My only reassurance is knowing we’re in this together. “The less we know about each other the better. Trust me,” Moretti explains.

“That’s reasonable.” Devon reaches for a single malt scotch and refills their glasses. “Let’s get down to it. My...” Devon pauses searching for what to call Heather. “Heather Troy has caused some real problems for us. We need her to go away.”

“For good,” I add like my balls would be made of steel if I had some.

“You want her dead?” he asks, tossing a stuffed olive into the air. It lands in his mouth with calculated precision. His brevity is a little icy, even for me and my steel balls.

“God, no,” I say immediately, looking to Devon, wondering if his direction has changed. He shakes his head in answer. “Just permanently banished from Hollywood.”

“Okay. I’ve got a lot of info on her from my previous research. Let’s see which screw you want to turn.” With a wily half smile, he produces a thick file folder bound with a rubber band from his briefcase. It slaps against the bar and he begins to flip through it.

Devon places a hand over the documents to stop his flipping. I totally expect him to draw back a nub for daring to touch Moretti’s stuff. All he gets is a scowl. “We don’t need to go over that. What’s your recommendation?”

“Permanent disfigurement.” Moretti closes the folder and raises his glass casually to his lips. “Vanity is the only thing powerful enough to stop someone like her.”

My palms slick with sweat. I set my glass on the bar and have a gut-check moment of ice-water reality. For all my balls and bravado, this is suddenly way too real for me. Images of Heather with an acid-burned face and Black Dahlia scars turn my stomach. I loathe the bitch, but I hate to think I’m capable of such brutality.

“Are you okay?” Devon asks, brushing the backs of his fingers softly over my cheek.

“I need some air,” I say with a weak smile, and nod toward the door. “You guys go on without me.”

“Of course. We’ll have dinner shortly.” Devon escorts me to a sliding door that leads onto the boat’s promenade. I kiss his cheek then walk to the railing, gripping it tightly and taking a deep breath of fresh air.

Devon rejoins Moretti, but leaves the door ajar.

“Sorry about that.” His voice drifts through the opening.

“No worries. Women always think they’re tough enough for conversations like this. They never are.”

“Not that one,” Devon says. “She’s hard as a rock. But these past few weeks have been awful.”

“She was Pigtails, right?” Moretti asks. “I loved that show.” There’s a pause. Ice cubes jingle against glass.

“In another life,” Devon finally answers.

That’s all I care to listen to. I walk to the front of the ship, breathing deeply and wondering why I’m being such a pussy all of a sudden. The old Carly would’ve danced on Heather’s grave before the dirt dried. Zero fucks given about the bitch. The old Carly never thought about consequences, never bothered to follow her actions farther down the road to imagine the reactions they may cause. Life was only about me. Now I’m sober and keenly aware of how brutal life can be when it wants to. My edge is gone. My guard is down. For the first time ever, I feel safe and loved. And that’s enough to knock the ice out of anybody’s veins. Even mine.

No, it’s best if Devon does this dirty work. After all, he deserves this justice much more than I do. He’ll make the decision that’s right for us. I trust him.

I’m sitting on a deck chair, arms hugged at my middle to block the cool evening breeze when Devon, Moretti and Tiny emerge from the boat’s interior. Their mood is solemn. Moretti nods his goodbye. Devon helps me to my feet and snakes an arm around my waist, pulling me close and rubbing away the goose bumps. Tiny ushers Moretti to the speedboat tethered at the stern that will carry them back to shore.

“Tiny brought fresh lobster from San Clemente,” Devon says. The chef will have dinner up in fifteen minutes.”

“What’s he going to do?” I ask, nodding toward Moretti’s disappearing back.

“The less details, the better, Sunshine. You don’t really want to know.”

“But this is it?” I check to make sure my weakness hasn’t let the opportunity slip past me. “By this time next week she’ll be gone?”

He nods his head. “It’ll look like an accident. No one will ever know or suspect it’s anything other than bad karma that’s come her way.”

“It’s about time she had some of that. I feel like my life has been nothing but bad luck since she came into it.”

“It’s not all bad, is it?” Devon takes my chin in his thumb and forefinger, pulling me in for a gentle kiss.

“Not all bad, at all.” I extend the kiss, melting into him. The breeze whips my hair through the air, covering us in blond waves.

“Wait here. I’ve got something for you,” he says, breaking the kiss and disappearing inside. He returns almost immediately with a blanket he places over my shoulders and a large paper bag. It looks suspiciously like the bag Tiny was carrying when he arrived.

“What’s that?”

“You’ll see.” He takes my hand and leads me down one level and to the back of the boat. In the distance, the bow and stern lights of Tiny’s motorboat disappear. I’m staring out into the darkening evening light when a loud cork pop startles me. I turn to find Devon pouring two glasses of champagne. My eyes nearly cross with anger. Is he for real? Has he forgotten how hard I’m working to stay sober? For us?

“Calm down.” He holds his hands up defensively. “It’s sparkling grape juice.” His sideways smile breaks over his face. My anger melts into a poor loser’s grin. Okay, he got me.

“What’s the occasion?”

“A toast, to us.” He raises his glass and clinks it with mine. “To forgetting the past and working toward our future. Together.” He kisses me, softly, sweetly, and pulls away. Sparkling bubbles tickle my nose, a sad reminder of how much I love them. Still, I love Devon more.

“To us,” I repeat, drinking again. “You said ‘work.’” I grimace at the word. “What’s India’s plan?” He opens his mouth to answer when I cut him off. “You know I’m never going to trust her, right?” He closes his mouth, impatiently waiting to see if I have more to say. I’m done.

“I know that. But you trust me, right?” I shrug and nod so he’ll continue. “India doesn’t think it will take long for the world to forget Heather once she’s out of the public eye. Her fame was always tied to mine. When we wrap
Mighty
, I’ll embark on an insane goodwill tour—UNICEF, Wounded Warriors, Make-A-Wish—those kinds of organizations.” He swirls his glass and takes another sip. “This stuff isn’t half bad.”

“You can say that because you have an option.” I side-eye him playfully.

He chuckles and continues. “Speculation about my love life will be rampant. Be prepared for that.” He fixes me with a serious look like he fears this will be difficult for me. Of course it will, but I’ll manage. I’ll have to. Basic bitches don’t get to fuck the Sexiest Man Alive. “Some stories, India will feed to reporters off record for various reasons. Most will be press pool fabrications. Either way, those are the headlines people want to read. I suggest you stay off your websites and away from magazines if you want to stay sane.”

“And us?”

“We’ll make it work. There are ways to sneak around in this town. But, I don’t want to lie to you. In the beginning, it’ll probably be weekly visits at best. But later, when we’re both filming, that’ll be our reality anyway. We might as well get used to it now.”

I nod and roll the cool glass rim over my lips. “Does India have a PR plan for me?”

“If you’ll listen to her advice, she’ll guide you to the top of the A-list.” His answer is beyond confident.

“And exactly how painful will that process be?”

He laughs because he knows I’m right. Acting is the easy part. Playing the fame game breaks a hundred people stronger than me before breakfast. “Some of it’s simple. She wants press stories of you adopting shelter pets, to make you seem nurturing.” I laugh in my sparkling grape juice. Me? Nurturing? Next. “She wants you photographed hiking Runyon Canyon with your trainer to seem outdoorsy and hardworking. She wants you on the red carpet at every fabulous event this year—fashion week pictures backstage with designers, glamorous snaps from Cannes, après-ski parties at Sundance, bikini shots in the Hamptons.”

“Sounds exhausting. And boring as hell sober.” I inwardly gag at the thought of having to stomach a bunch of drunken idiots without being one myself. That’s going to be way worse than anorexia-inducing designer gowns and killer heels. “But if it gets me closer to us, of course.” I twist our cuff around my wrist.

“There’s one other thing.” He turns away, worrying a hand over his glass. “This isn’t her idea. She knows nothing. It’s mine.”

“What?” I’m nervous now, sensing his growing discomfort over a question that has yet to be asked.

“I want you to tell your story,” he finally says.

“Isn’t that exactly what we’re trying to cover up with Moretti?”

“Not our story.
Your
story.” He puts the emphasis on
your
with his eyebrows. I bite my lip, knowing exactly what story he means.

I shake my head. “I’m not there yet.” I stand from a lounge chair and walk to the railing, wishing I hadn’t left my smokes in the room. The boat rocks softly in unseen waves. In the distance, San Clemente is in full swing, a mountain of lights against black.

“It doesn’t have to be now. But you need to share what’s happened to you. He can’t get away with what he’s done.” There’s no need to use names here. We both know exactly who he’s talking about. I shake my head again.

“Sharing that will ruin everything we’ve been working for.”

“No it won’t. People want justice for a victim. If they knew what you’ve been through, it would completely reset your life in the public eye. No one would blame you for those wasted years. And who knows how many people would be inspired by your story. Girls who have lived through the same horrors as you may find enough strength in your confession to make their own. Just think about it. That’s all I’m asking.”

“That’s a damn big ask, Devon. Designer dresses and high heels are one thing. Reliving all that—I can’t.” He doesn’t push the topic any further. I run my hands over my face and take a deep breath, hating how much control the topic still has over my emotions.

He lets it drop. Relief washes over me. Of course, he’s right. He’s always right about stuff like this. But a step this big has to be on my own terms and in my own time. After refilling our glasses, his mysterious paper bag rustles. “Here.” Devon places a wrapped box in my hands.

“What’s this?” I eye him with a smile, forgetting my anxiety and wondering what he’s up to.

He shrugs in a sneaky way. I tear the paper away, open the box and find a beautiful hand-painted wooden sailboat nestled in tissue paper. I lift it out, careful of the delicate sails rising from its hull. Devon turns it in my hand so I can read the letters along the bowline.

“Phoebe Grace,” I say aloud, recognizing the name immediately. Devon produces a slim white candle and a lighter from his pocket.

“I thought we should set her free.” He waves a hand toward the ocean. “Give her an opportunity to find her way through this world.”

The silence that claims our moment is deafening. I stare blankly at him in the darkness. From out of nowhere emotion floods me. My face cracks, my eyes water, my throat closes. I hide the tears behind a hand then realize what a bitterly sweet moment he’s made for us. What could be more fitting than standing beside the man I love saying goodbye to our individual pasts and embracing our shared future?

“I think that’s perfect.” I hold the boat out so he can attach the candle to its deck. We walk to the edge of the boat, peering out over the waves. This man is a genius. Water is pure. Water is rebirth. Water is the opportunity to cleanse yourself and start anew. He takes the mini ship from my hand, replacing it with a lighter.

“You do the honors.”

I accept with a nod and strike the flame. My heart is heavy in that full kind of way you get when your emotions have yet to firmly decide which way they will fall. It’s a moment full of sadness and hope, as tender as it is brutal. “I would’ve found a way to love you, little girl. I know I would have.” Tears stream over my cheeks unchecked. The blanket slides from my shoulders, exposing them to cool night air. A shiver runs through me. But it’s not from the cold. It’s the lingering grief that’s been gnawing at my soul. Melted by the flame, it breaks and releases its hold.