The Reunion by Kayla Olson(65)
Linking himself to me publicly is a good move for him any way you look at it.
I push down the memory of how deserted the lot was that morning, other than us. The perfect illusion of privacy.
“We just talked about keeping it quiet last night,” I say. “We both agreed it was best that way for now.”
Even as the words leave my mouth, I wonder—did we, though? I think back on his words, his actual words: You’re right. I wish you weren’t. And before that, People will have to find out eventually, right? He’s always been so much more comfortable with the press than I have. The press never caused his father to die in a fiery crash.
I rest my face in my hands, accidentally digging the heels of my palms so firmly into my eyelids that I see stars.
I can’t stop thinking about the thing I don’t want to think: this situation feels all too familiar.
“Tell me what’s in your head right now,” Bre says gently. “You’re going to get through this, I promise. Okay?”
I nod. “Remember how I told you there was some epic drama on set during our final season? And how Ransom had a girlfriend that year, and they broke up over me?”
I’ve never confided the details about what happened to anyone—I could never find the words.
“Her name was Zoe,” I begin before I can talk myself out of sharing. “She was a regular on set, new that season. She was territorial and possessive and didn’t like how much time he spent with me.”
“I dislike this already,” Bre says, a sour look on her face.
“She was pretty vocal about how much she disliked our friendship,” I go on, “and eventually demanded that Ransom cut me out of his life entirely.”
“Drastic, much?”
“Seriously. He didn’t, of course. It would have been impossible, anyway, since we weren’t finished shooting the season.”
“I’m sure she loved that.”
“She was furious.” I was, too. “So she tried to drive a wedge between us instead. She spilled private details about me to the press when she didn’t get her way—apparently he talked about me kind of a lot. More than he should have.”
And that, right there, is what feels familiar: I know he never meant for that information to become public news, because he’s always been fiercely protective over me and my privacy. But he trusted Zoe and wasn’t as careful around her as he could have been. Even today, he could have been more careful—anyone could have seen the lock screen on his phone, that photo of us together.
Anyone could have asked questions. Jumped to conclusions.
“Please tell me he dumped her immediately?” Bre says, making a face, pulling me out of my thoughts.
“Oh, yeah, he definitely did.”
“But he still suggested a step back anyway?”
“He did,” I say evenly.
If a girlfriend asks about you and me, it’s only fair that I’m honest about why we’re such close friends, I can still hear Ransom saying. Either that, or we need to not be such close friends in the first place. No one’s ever going to want to date either of us if they think we’re in love with each other.
I decided then and there that no one else would ever have to ask.
But things have taken an unexpected turn. Not even fourteen years of silence could keep us from falling back into step, on our way to being closer than ever before. Closeness comes with a risk, though: he had good intentions back then, but I still ended up hurt.
Good intentions aren’t always enough.
“Wow, okay, that’s a lot,” Bre says, when a few minutes have passed and I still haven’t found words. “Let’s set aside the question of who for now and think about the news itself. People knowing about you and Ransom doesn’t have to be a bad thing.”
I want to believe that, really—things would be so much easier if I didn’t care about people knowing. It’s too soon for this much pressure from all the fans, though, too soon for this much pressure from myself. We’re still learning what it means to be Liv and Ransom in a relationship and not Honor and Duke—and I was hoping to learn that in private, in our own time, without the added weight of anyone else being invested in it. I want the freedom to make mistakes if we have to without everyone expecting me to be the perfect girl I played on TV, the one who always knew exactly how to deal with every ditch in the road, every detour. That girl knew the endings ahead of time. Every line of every script.
I want this to work. I want us to work.
The memory of how distant Ransom was today—his words like a slap, the sting of being pushed away after finally allowing ourselves to get closer than ever before—it comes sharp and quick, and twists like the knife that it is. The idea that it might have been him who sold us out, after all our history—
The writer’s words burn like the space left behind when you’ve stared too long at the sun: Liv, if you’re out there, please don’t ruin this—I’ll have to throw away the friendship bracelet you sent back if you do. I only sent four friendship bracelets of my own back out into the world, and only to those who’d written letters that absolutely broke my heart.
“Liv,” Bre says, waving her chopsticks in front of my face. “Liv, hey. Whatever you’re thinking, stop, okay?”
I fight the urge to follow my thoughts as they spiral down, down, down.