Still nothing.
But he couldn’t base his need to say good-bye, to let go, on whether or not he thought she might hear him. Shit. What a joke that was. Tipping his head back, he stared off at the sky. The sun had mostly set now and the lights, strategically placed around the stately, elegant memorial garden were slowly coming to life. His gaze landed on the horizon and he found himself thinking about that dress Monica had worn.
So pretty, pale orange-gold. Caught right between those two colors. Like a sunset.
Almost the colors he was seeing now. But even that didn’t make him feel any closer to her.
He looked at the single flower he’d brought—a calla lily. She’d always loved them. Laying it down in front of the stone, he rose. “Good-bye, Monica.”
He almost said he was sorry, but he stopped himself.
He was sorry. He still choked on guilt most nights.
Maybe he’d say he was sorry one last time when the guilt didn’t threaten to swallow him whole.
Maybe it wasn’t his fault. Marin had told him that a hundred times. More. His parents had told him, his brothers—his mother was the one who’d suggested he come here when he saw her not too long ago.
So many people had tried to tell him and logically, he could get that, but he’d never let himself consider it.
But he was going to get there.
***
Another couple of days came and went.
Still no phone call—not from Marin, at least.
“Yes, Mom. I’m fine.” He would have rolled his eyes, but he thought she’d hear that somehow. It didn’t matter that it was a silent action. She was a mom—and more, she was his mom.
“How are things going for the movie?” she asked as he bent over the counter, studying the script with an absent eye.
She knew all too well that it wouldn’t matter to him that production wouldn’t start for months. He’d be gearing up for it already—and the fact that he’d been out of the game would make him that much more nervous.
“It’s going.”
“You’re awful talkative.”
“I’m still half-asleep,” he said. “I didn’t . . .” He stopped, not wanting to tell her about the nightmares.
She delicately changed the subject and he suspected he didn’t have to tell her about them. When he’d gone to visit, he’d stayed at their place. He’d almost wished he hadn’t after the first few nights, because his dad had come in to the home gym the third day after he’d been there, asked how he was sleeping.
Sebastien had lied through his teeth.
His father had let him.
Then he said, “Sometimes, it helps to talk, son.”
“I’m fine, Dad,” he lied.
And again, his father had let him.
He wasn’t fine . . . but he was getting there.
He talked with his mom a few more minutes. Then she hung up, claiming it was time to call and pester her grandson. He doubted that was the full truth—it seemed early for that yet, but Sebastien also knew her calls were mostly her way of checking on him. That didn’t bother him much, because he probably needed it.
No, he wasn’t fine, but he was getting there.
He felt more like himself than he had in a long while—better, really. He saw something more than the spotlight now and he understood what Marin had meant a year ago when she’d told him how lonely it could be, living there—right in the spotlight. Once it had been gone, Sebastien had been damn lonely.
He was going to find a new focus and once he did, he’d be better for it and he knew that.
He felt . . . decent. Good, really.
Except for one thing—those broken pieces between him and Marin.
He couldn’t help it. Every time he thought about her, that fight jumped up to bite him and he thought about her a lot.
Especially because of the dreams. He was sleeping better most nights now, but that was because the nightmares came less and less. The nightmares were slowly being replaced by something else—dreams of Marin.
Hot, torrid dreams where he had her body wrapped around his, or was under his and he learned every damn thing about those elegant, sleek curves. Dreams where he fisted his hand in that golden hair and explored that mouth in ways he’d never been able to do in front of a camera.
They were dreams he had no right having about a friend, and they were dreams he couldn’t stop thinking about.
That meant he thought about them a lot and when he thought about those dreams, he thought about her . . . and the fight, and the friendship he’d ruined.
He had to fix that.
So while he waited for her to call, he spent his time studying the script, committing lines to memory.
JD stayed in touch, let him know they were just about done casting and most of the preproduction work had been nailed down before the project was stalled the first time around when Townsend’s wife got sick.
But he liked feeling . . . useful. Liked feeling like himself again.
And he’d like it even more if the damn phone would ring. Calls from Mom, Dad, his brothers . . . calls from JD, even a couple from Abby.
But no Marin.