She squints at me. “But Ms. Inez is coming today.”
I only smile back at her, walking toward the closet. “What about this?” I ask, pulling out a sundress. “You want to wear this one?”
“For what?”
“We’re going on a little field trip.”
At the studio, we hurry down an alley between two sound stages. So far, Andrea hasn’t figured my surprise out—or if she has, she’s keeping quiet. She holds my hand dutifully, the yellow ribbon I used to tie her hair in a ponytail flapping in the breeze as she works to keep pace with my long strides. I’m walking fast because the AD told me to be on the set no later than 8:30, and we’ve only got five minutes to make that deadline.
We duck between another set of buildings, and then just ahead the giant placard for Evermore looms, huge—at least half the height of the building. Andrea squeals when she spots it, hopping beside me. “You got me a pass! Didn’t you? You got me a pass!”
I shove my hands into the pockets of my jeans, feeling peculiarly shy with my own child. “Yeah, sure did.”
She flings her arms around my waist, holding tight. “Michael, that’s so cool. So, so cool!”
“You know, it’s kinda hard to get on that list,” I explain—not exactly apologizing for that day last spring, but at least clarifying the situation. “I had to put in for these passes over a month ago.”
“I am so, so, so excited!” she cries, lifting up onto the balls of her feet and doing a ballerina pirouette. And then she stops, smiling up at me, her voice becoming serious. “Thank you, Michael.”
She suddenly seems at least seventeen, and in her eyes I glimpse the woman she will one day become. A lump comes into my throat. “Happy birthday, sweetie. Early birthday.”
“Can we see Rebecca after? Maybe?”
I anticipated this question, but it still makes my stomach tighten with nervous anxiety.
I scratch my eyebrow, searching for a solid excuse to explain the improbability of such an event. “Andie, she’s working, you know.”
“But couldn’t I go say hi?” she asks, gazing up at me hopefully. “Just for a minute?”
She probably doesn’t want to see me, I ache to tell her, but from somewhere else I hear, “Sure, I’ll give her a call.”
While Andie sits on the set happily watching them film her favorite show—a scene involving her most favorite character, Gabriel—I sneak away. When the buzzer sounds, signaling that cameras are no longer rolling, I step out onto the bright street behind the sound stage. Nearby, there’s the rumbling motor of a honey wagon, and I poke a finger in my ear so I can hear as I dial the phone.
Trevor answers, his distinctive British accent immediately recognizable. For a moment, I think I’ll simply hang up. As much as I love Rebecca, my heart tells me she’s still not ready for this—and that she’s especially not ready to see my daughter. But I mumble something into the phone, identifying myself and asking if Becca’s there. Trevor’s voice brightens, becomes much more upbeat. He’s pleased I’m phoning her; I can hear it in his tone.
Although he promises that she’ll be right with me, I wait a long damned time out here on the street. Finally, the buzzer sounds again, warning that the cameras are rolling once more and that it’s no longer safe to enter the stage.
I’m about to give up when she comes on the line, greeting me in her sexy, southern-accented voice. She sounds familiar, yet formal, but just the sound of her voice makes my chest clinch.
“Hey, Becca,” I say, feeling unexpectedly quiet. “How are you?”
“I’m doing great, Michael. Really great, thanks.” She’s talking down to me—talking to me from the end of a great tunnel. She’s talking to me like she would Jake. Damn it, I ain’t Jake, and something about her talking to me that way kind of pisses me off. So I get pretty direct and forceful, sidestepping the need for delicate formality. “I need to see you,” I tell her simply.
She hesitates. “Michael, we’re not a couple any more.”
“I need to see you, Rebecca,” I repeat, wondering if I could leave Andrea in the capable hands of the AD while I jog over to Rebecca’s offices. “Andie’s here today, and she’s asking about you, and I thought maybe we could all go to lunch later”
“That’s not you needing to see me,” she answers softly. “That’s Andrea needing to see me, and you needing to provide some kind of resolution for that.”
“I need you too,” I half-whisper into the phone, aching for her. “You’ve known that for a long time.”
“Michael, I love Andrea. She is so incredibly precious to me, but—”
“Please, Rebecca,” I beg. “It’s been tough on her, you coming into her life then vanishing like this.”