He tried to push that harsh voice out of his brain, but it wouldn’t go away. It wouldn’t go away because it was right. Maggie was right. The problem here wasn’t whether he could get the press to leave her alone, it was that he’d placed her in the spotlight to begin with. His celebrity was costing her so damn much.
If Ben Barrett hadn’t been the Ben Barrett, but just a normal man with a normal life, Maggie wouldn’t be suffering right now.
“Gloria asked me not to come back to the center.”
Her soft voice sliced through his disconcerting thoughts. “Because of the press?” he sighed.
“Yep.” She paused. “Look, I can find another waitressing job easily, but I can’t be a counselor if I’m being followed by reporters. It’s not fair to the kids I work with.”
“Maybe you can put social work on hold for a while? Just until this all dies down.” He almost cringed at the desperation in his tone.
“On hold?” She cast a withering look in his direction. “It’s taken me seven years to earn this degree. Attending classes part-time so I could work to pay my tuition. I’ve sacrificed friendships and relationships in order to keep up my schedule. I don’t have a goddamn life because of it, and now you’re telling me to put it on hold? That would be like saying all those years of hard work meant absolutely nothing.”
“I know.”
“I won’t throw it all away.”
“I know.”
His throat tightened to the point where swallowing actually hurt. He knew she was right. He just didn’t want her to be right.
“I don’t fit into your life, Ben. You said so yourself—you live in a plastic world.” She rose to her feet and eliminated the distance between them. “I can’t live in a plastic world. I need my life to mean something. Especially since I felt so meaningless growing up.”
She reached up and stroked his stubble-covered cheek. He hadn’t shaved since they’d returned from the Bahamas and the feel of her fingertips scraping over his two-day-old beard was torture.
“You need to leave,” she said again.
How perfectly ironic. He’d starred in dozens of movies where he always played the savior and always got the girl, yet in real life it was the exact opposite. He wouldn’t get the girl this time. And instead of saving her, he’d turned her entire world off-kilter.
“If you want me to go, I’ll go.” He choked on the bittersweet lump in his throat. “But I want to thank you first.”
“For what?”
“For being so damn real.”
Her bottom lip trembled. She blinked a couple times as if fighting back tears. Somehow this made him feel slightly better, knowing that saying goodbye was as hard for her as it was for him. With a small smile, he traced the seam of her lips with his thumb, then lowered his head to kiss the trembling away. It was the slowest kiss they’d ever shared, the softest one, and something inside him shattered when he finally pulled his lips away.
The thought of walking into Maggie’s bedroom and gathering the items of clothing he’d brought over was too damn distressing, so he simply took a step back toward the door. He glanced at her over his shoulder, shot her his best Ben Barrett grin, and hoped she couldn’t hear the sound of his heart cracking open in his chest.
“Ben?”
He stopped. “Yeah?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I’m the one who should be sorry.” He gripped the door knob with one unsteady hand. “Goodbye, Red.”
“The prodigal son returns!” Miranda Barrett chirped as Ben trudged into the front hallway of his childhood home.
It was nearly one in the morning, but somehow Ben wasn’t surprised to see his mother up and about. She was the ultimate night owl, and Ben couldn’t even count how many times he’d slithered into the house at three in the morning thinking he’d orchestrated a successful sneak-out, only to find his mother baking cookies in the kitchen.
In fact, as he kicked off his shoes and walked toward her, the scent of baked goods floated into his nostrils. His mom’s long red apron and the white flour sticking to her gray-streaked hair confirmed that she’d been baking up a storm prior to his arrival.
“You should have told me you were coming to visit,” Miranda chided with a shake of her head. “I would’ve baked another batch.”
As a half-smile reached his lips, Ben removed his leather jacket and tossed it aside, then stepped forward to embrace his mother. He kissed the top of her head, and then linked his arm through hers and they strolled through the oak swivel door leading into the kitchen. After receiving his very first million-dollar paycheck, he’d offered to buy his mother a new house, but she’d refused. She loved the small bungalow she’d raised Ben in, and he had to admit he liked it too. It represented a warmth and coziness his life lacked these days.
“I know I should have called,” he said as he rounded the counter and flopped onto one of the tall white stools. “Coming here was sort of last-minute decision.”