“Let me guess . . . you finally got me a part in one of the Marvel films. You know I’m dying to play some badass superhero. Who do I get to be?” She eased herself over the side, dripping water and shivering. Hurriedly, she bundled into her robe and tried to one-handedly secure it.
“No.” JD snorted. “I’ll keep mentioning it, doll. Now stop the tart remarks. You’re ruining my intro here. You wouldn’t believe who showed up after you left yesterday. It was almost . . . karmic.”
Her heart stuttered for a brief second, but then she shrugged it off. “Yeah? You know I don’t believe in karma, right?”
“You should. After all, it was something you said that got him here. It was Sebastien, Marin. He read the script you left. He’s taking the part.”
“What?” The word came out in a hushed whisper.
Her head started to spin.
Her stomach, not wanting to be left out, joined in.
“You heard me. Sebastien’s coming back.”
Chapter Eleven
So maybe he would wait for her to call.
After he and JD wrapped things up and JD said he’d get in touch with Townsend, Sebastien mentioned he was going to head out and talk to Marin.
But JD had said he’d get in touch with her instead—Marin was unavailable for the next couple of weeks.
Sebastien had been tactful enough, he thought, when he asked if everything was okay. JD had assured him everything was fine; Marin was just off decompressing after a busy few months.
That had just made him feel worse, because he knew—or he should have known—how tired Marin must be. She’d finished filming one project right on the heels of wrapping up some major publicity, and other than a couple of weeks here and there over the past year, she hadn’t really had any time to unwind.
She always made time to come visit him.
She always made time to call when she couldn’t visit.
And now that he was ready to pick up—or try—the threads of his old life, he felt a lot more stable than he had in a while and he wanted to tell her . . . something. I’m sorry. Thanks.
But she wasn’t calling.
I could call her. It was an idea he tossed around in his head off and on, but in all honesty, he was afraid she’d hang up. Or worse, she’d talk to him out of obligation.
He didn’t want either, so he kept putting it off until he could see her.
And when he did talk to her, he had a shitload of things he planned on saying. Things like . . . I’m an asshole and I’m sorry.
Then he’d move on to You were right and I don’t know if I’m going to come back all the way, but I realized I’m not going out just because of what happened. One more project, then I’ll decide.
And he’d finish with the pièce de résistance—whatever the fuck that meant. He heard Zane use it all the time. Of course, Zane had studied two languages and picked up at least one or two more during his travels. Sebastien had barely managed to keep up with German, between juggling that, the part time job his parents insisted he get if he wanted a car, and all the parts he had constantly been auditioning for.
But he had an idea what pièce de résistance meant—something big.
He planned on letting Marin know where he’d driven as soon as he left JD’s that day.
Straight to San Francisco. He’d spent two weeks there, and then he’d gone to Tucson and spent a week with Zane and Zach. After that, he’d gone out to Virginia and spent a few days with Trey and Clayton—and his new sister-in-law.
If he could have pinned down Travis long enough, he would have visited his other brother as well, but that was like pinning Jell-O to a wall. It wasn’t happening.
He’d started mending fences.
And right now . . .
Hell. He really wished Marin would have called by this time, because he was doing the one thing he’d kept putting off hoping she’d call so he could apologize, so maybe they could get level . . .
So maybe he wouldn’t have to do this alone.
But she wasn’t here.
Sebastien had told himself he wasn’t going to keep putting it off, so as the sun started to sink toward the horizon, he made his way toward Monica’s marker. Her parents had erected a memorial stone at a cemetery, although she’d been cremated, her ashes scattered when they went on a trip to Yellowstone—it had been their favorite vacation spot. He could remember some of the stories she’d told him.
There were a few lines carved into the stone and he reached out, tracing them with his fingers.
Don’t cry for me . . .
He didn’t want to. Marin had been right—again—back all those months ago when she’d told him that Monica wouldn’t want this. Guilt wasn’t the only thing that had shut him down, but it was a huge part of it.
“I’m trying to let it go,” he said. His voice came out too low, too rough, and he had to clear his throat.
He’d hoped he’d find some echo of her here.
But there was nothing.
“I wish you would have come to me, said something. I would have helped you.”