And still, I know it in the pit of my stomach, irrational, stubborn, and fierce—we can make it.
Her birthday was yesterday.
She got the flowers. Thirty rare blue poppies, one for every year of her beautiful, complicated life. I spent ten days tracking them down and flew them in. Paid sixteen hundred dollars. Worth every damn cent.
Because she sent me an email after.
Just a few words.
The flowers meant everything. I’m not whole yet, but I’m getting there. And the love? It never left.
I’ve read it ten times already. And I’ll probably read it ten more.
For the first time in weeks… I breathe. She’s still out there, still healing, and still loving me.
And I’m still doing the work, quietly, patiently, and, most of all,for me.
That’s why I’m now sitting in the aggressively bright yellow chair in the waiting room of my agency, waiting forLandon to be done with his meeting. I can’t even bitch about it—I showed up unannounced. And the news I’m about to drop on him? Might give him a full-blown aneurysm.
But I’ve made my choice.
I’m mid-pep talk when the frosted glass door to Miranda Stone’s office opens—and out walks Bob Nero.
Hollywood royalty.
Seventy years old and still a force. Six Oscars. Five Golden Globes. A career spanning five decades and not a single scandal to his name.
He’stheGOAT.
And more than that, he’s been married to the same woman for over forty years. A unicorn in this business.
I shoot to my feet, flustered as hell. I worked with him briefly, blink and you’d miss it, in his mafia film. I had maybe three lines before getting shot in the head. But he was kind to everyone, even the background guys. Always said no one’s above anyone else on set.
It’s a principle I’ve tried to live by.
And I hope it’s something people feel when they work with me.
He clocks me and smiles wide, friendly and warm. “How’re you doing, kiddo? Waiting on the agent?”
I nod, still trying to play it cool. “Yeah. Just dropping by.”
He chuckles and claps a hand on my shoulder like we’ve known each other for years. Nothing about him feels fake. There’s no ego. No veneer. Justreal.
And before I can stop myself, the question tumbles out.
“How did you manage to have it all?”
Helets out a low chuckle, caught somewhere between surprise and understanding. “Ah. Trouble in paradise?”
I wince. “Is it that obvious?”
“To an old timer like me? Probably.” He jerks his chin toward the obnoxiously bright sofa. “Come on. Let’s sit a minute.”
He turns to the receptionist, his voice soft and polite. “Think I could trouble you for an espresso?”
She practically beams and rushes off. He glances at me.
“Same,” I say quickly. Immediate regret. It’s too bitter, and I’m going to hate every sip.
