My fingernails bite into my palms. The urge to wrap my hands around his throat hasn’t lessened over the months.
“What are you doing here?” I whisper so that I don’t scream. If I’m lucky, I’ll get him to leave without anyone being the wiser.
“Really, Colly?” The nickname I used to love makes my skin crawl coming out of his mouth. “Don’t be like that.”
My throat burns as I swallow the poison I want to throw at him.
“Don’t be like what? Like a person still pissed that you stole my fucking work, sold it as your own, and instead of admitting what you did, doubled down to get me blacklisted from the only career I ever wanted?” Any hold I had on my temper slips away as the memories and feelings I’ve been suppressing since I stepped onto that Delta flight months ago resurface. “And then you show up at my parents’ house and expect me to be what? Happy to see you? Are you fucking insane?!”
Just like I knew would happen, footsteps echo through the house as everyone inside rushes to see what’s wrong.
“Well now, this is quite the development,” my mom says over my shoulder. Her calm and steady presence takes some of the edge off . . .
Until Ruby rounds the corner and sees what’s happening.
“You’ve got to be shitting me!” She comes barreling out of the front door and I barely manage to grab her by the arm and pull her backward. It doesn’t do much. Her long reach stretches in front of her as she jabs her finger into his chest. “You have some goddamn nerve to show your face here.”
“Ruby.” Peter quickly masks the surprise of seeing her behind his condescending smile. “You’re as pleasant as ever. Can’t say I’m thrilled to see you again.”
“Can’t say any of us are thrilled to see you.” I throw his words back at him as my hold on Ruby loosens. “Hurry up and tell me what you’re doing here so you can leave.”
During all the years we were together, I can count on one hand the times he let his guard down and was really vulnerable. I was so used to the persona he was playing, I had no clue it was all an act. But standing in front of me with Ruby about two seconds away from inflicting physical harm, I watch as he deflates.
“Can we talk . . .” He looks at the small crowd that has gathered around me. “Alone?”
The ever-present ego melts away along with his always superb posture. I notice the dark circles beneath his eyes and the lines on his face that weren’t there a few months ago. Gray streaks his thick brown hair, which is longer than I’ve ever seen it. He’s a mess.
A better person would feel bad for him.
“Why? They all know how you stole my script and then lied to make me seem like some unhinged ex-girlfriend.” I let go of Ruby when I’m sure she won’t attack and fold my arms in front of my chest. “Anything you have to say to me, you can say in front of them.”
I stand firm, refusing to budge no matter how uncomfortable he is. He shifts from foot to foot as his gaze flickers to the faces I know are all shooting daggers at him. People are always so enamored with him, he doesn’t know how to handle open hostility. I know he’s going to turn and walk away.
But he doesn’t.
“I need you.”
He’s so quiet, I’m sure I misheard him.
“What?” I ask.
“I need you to come back to LA,” he says, louder this time, and my breath catches in my throat. “I need your help.”
“And why should she help you after what you did to her?” my mom asks with more venom in her voice than I’ve ever heard before.
“Because,” he says to my mom, but his light brown eyes peer into mine. “If she does this, she’ll not only get her script back, but she’ll have the career she always dreamt of.”
* * *
? ? ?
Ashleigh took Ruby back to her house and my parents are pretending not to listen from the other room. Peter is in front of me, my mom’s favorite Corinthians verse above his head as he sits awkwardly on my parents’ couch.
It’s his first time in our house. Almost a decade of dating, and the first time he came to my parents’ house is to ask for something.
Typical.
“Tell me what happened.”
I wish I was strong enough not to ask. I wish his words meant nothing to me and I was able to send him away without hearing him out. But I’m not. I can’t help the way the possibility of moving back to LA, spending my days writing in my favorite coffee shop, and resuming the career that was snatched away so carelessly sparks the flame that I thought was long extinguished.
“It’s your show.” He shrugs, resignation in every line of his strong body.
“Well, duh, Peter.” I slip my hands beneath my thighs to try to keep still. “It was always my show and that didn’t stop you from acting like it wasn’t. I want to know what changed. Why are you here? Why now?”
Even though I’ve grown to really enjoy being home, I can’t lie and pretend everything’s perfect here. I have my family, Ashleigh, and, of course, Nate, but I don’t have any job prospects, and even without rent, I’m running out of money. Writing is a huge part of who I am, and while I can write from anywhere in the world, my career is in Los Angeles.
“I know what you think, but I really did plan on having you in the writers’ room,” he says, and I feel my temper rise all over again.
“You said you would look at my résumé.” I remember it clear as day. “To work on the show . . . that I wrote.”
It sounds so insane hearing it out loud that it almost makes me question my memory. How could anyone think that’s okay?
“I couldn’t just staff you without interviewing you first. You didn’t have many credits behind your name and it would look like favoritism if I hired you without going about it the proper way. I didn’t think you’d want people to assume you got the job because you were my girlfriend.”
He says it with such sincerity that for a moment I wonder if he’s being reasonable and I’m the one overreacting. Then I remember that he stole my fucking script and sold it as his own.
“Do you hear the words that are coming out of your mouth?” If it was medically possible for my head to explode, I would yell for my parents to call an ambulance. “It was my show! You weren’t worried about favoritism. You were worried that someone would figure out that you were a thief.”
“I messed up. I get it.” His demeanor shifts as he becomes more defensive. “Is that what you wanted to hear?”
I mean, it doesn’t hurt.
I stay silent.
“I thought I could get us what we both wanted and it would be fine. You’d have a job you liked. I could finally be a showrunner.” He falls back into the couch and scrubs his hands across his face. “But every decision I’ve made has been wrong and the studio’s pissed. It’s a mess. I need you to come back. You can be supervising producer, lead the writers the way you want, anything.”
“Why should I help you?”
The truth of the matter is, I don’t care if he fails. Plus, the thought of sitting next to him in a writers’ room for hours at a time makes my skin crawl. I don’t know if I could manage to be civil long enough to create an entire television show.