Rugged(65)

“Oh my gosh!” Charlotte heads toward the fireplace, crouches down, and gasps. “Just look at that,” she says. I might as well not even be here right now. She reaches out and touches the little carved sunflower. “The matching pair,” she says, sounding amazed. She looks at the other one across the room. “I can’t believe he remembered.” She smiles, disbelieving. “That’d be just like him. Flint never forgets.” It’s like she’s speaking only to herself, and her voice is soft with regret. I think her eyes are actually filling with tears.

So are mine.

I’m such a f*cking idiot.

Flint designed this house for Charlotte. As an engagement present. A symbol of their all-enduring love and their glorious future together. He built it for her, finished it for her, even carved their sunflower thingie, whatever it is, as a reminder. Of Charlotte.

And now she’s followed his call home.

Flint didn’t want to build this house originally. I talked him into it, for all intents and purposes basically forced him into it. He didn’t want to build it because it was too personal. Because it meant too much. Because it hurt too much.

He didn’t want to build a house for the future he’d lost, the love he’d lost, the woman he’d lost—the woman he was still obviously in love with.

“Is Flint going to be here today?” Charlotte asks, breathless as she stands up. She’s really crying now, wiping delicately at her smudged mascara with a Kleenex. It’s touching, really. I am touched. “I need to see him. We have to talk about this.”

She’s full of pain and regret and hope. I’ve never seen anyone look so overwhelmed. So in love.

I mumble an excuse, find and grab my camera, and leave. Driving back, I almost ram the car right off the road. My chest feels so tight I can hardly take a breath. Charlotte needs to see Flint today. She’s full of sadness, full of longing. And what will he do, when he sees the woman he’s pined for, standing in the house he built as a tribute to their love?

I pull up to Flint’s place and stagger out of the car, going fast up the steps. My head’s buzzing, my throat’s dry and feels swollen. Okay, no tears. No crying. There’s no crying in baseball, or reality television. Unless the script tells you to cry, dammit.

When I open the door, Flint’s standing there with a cup of coffee in his hand. He smiles. “Heard you pull up. You must’ve left at the crack of dawn.” He leans down for a kiss, but I dodge out of his way and head upstairs. Tears are burning in my eyes. I hear him coming up after me. “Laurel. What’s wrong?”

Inside the bedroom, I grab my bags and turn for the door. Thank God I packed before I jumped in the car. Flint blocks my exit from the bedroom, looking increasingly bewildered. “Why are you leaving like this? Talk to me. What the hell did I do?”

“Nothing. I’ve got meetings all this morning and early afternoon. I’m leaving in a few hours anyway,” I lie. I was supposed to fly out in a couple days, thought I’d spend a little more time with Flint, but I’ll get the airline to change my flight, or go on standby at the airport if they can’t. “So I need to get back to the inn. Look over some last minute tapes, check in with a few people. Then I head home.” I nod, trying to keep a neutral expression on my face. “Like I planned. This isn’t news.”

“I understand that, but you don’t have to rush out of here like this,” he says, still confused. He moves aside as I storm through the door and down the stairs.

“I think I do, actually. I don’t want us to get the wrong idea about where this is all headed.” I look up at Flint, who’s stopped dead on the stairs. His face is impossible to read from this angle; I can’t tell what he’s feeling. “We’re adults, remember?”

Even from down here I catch the jaw muscle flex that Flint does when something’s gone foul. “Laurel, I need you to explain to me what the hell just happened,” he says, his voice gone deadly calm and dangerous now.

But I don’t explain anything. All I can think of is sweet Charlotte, in her prim little bun, waiting for him back at their perfect little fairy tale dream house. They deserve each other. I hope they’ll be happy, or at least as happy as they can be after Flint falls off a cliff and dies. Okay, not dies. Maybe cracks his tailbone.

Stop it, Laurel. This was never going to last. You should hope to God they agree to have their wedding on camera next season. What a ratings boost that’ll be.

“I’ll call you once I land,” I say briskly. “We’ll talk schedules.” I nod, roll my bags outside, and shut the door behind me. After that I jump into my car fast, before I break down, and start backing down the driveway. Flint is standing on the porch, watching me drive away. I can see him gesturing, calling my name, though I can’t hear him. I’ve turned the music up loud; I never like to hear myself cry.

That’s it. He can have Charlotte and their Barbie dream house, and I can have my soulless Hollywood career and never come back here again. Everyone gets what they deserve. That’s all, folks.

In more ways than one, the show’s over now.





25


When most people break up, the one mercy is that they don’t have to see their ex’s face every day. I’m not even that lucky.

“Laurel. What do you think?” Flint says, turning around with a devil-may-care glint in his eye. Irresistible as always. Painful as always.