Built to Last, page 4
The scene goes black and Lyle’s grin is shit-eating. “Am I wrong?”
I clear my throat. “You’re basing everything off an on-screen kiss?”
Shelby clears hers right after. “From a decade ago, no less.”
Lyle narrows his eyes shrewdly and crosses his arms. “First of all, fuck you if you think for one second that I didn’t know you were together during that. Sneaking off after shooting, all those meaningful staring contests.” He jerks his pointed chin at me. “I will hand you my net worth right now if you weren’t making out with her in the closet during lunch breaks.”
My heart thuds in my chest. For so long, everything was a secret. It’s been years, but I don’t feel like I can divulge anything yet. And especially not to Lyle. The fucker.
“Fine,” he says, after a long silence. “Don’t admit it. I don’t actually care. But that”—he points to the screen—“is exactly how I know you can pull this off.
“You two, regardless of what you were behind closed doors”—he raises his eyebrows suggestively—“were peas in a pod and about as wholesome as two child stars could be, since neither of you bothered sticking around Hollywood long enough to spiral.”
My skepticism is obvious. “Really? What would you call what happened to Shelby five years ago then?”
Lyle is unfazed. “We’re back on this? It was a messy breakup. We grew apart.”
“You fucking ruined her.”
Shelby makes a noise like an angry cat.
He waves a hand and focuses his gaze on Shelby. “You would’ve come out of it fine. Instead, you chose to walk away from everything. You were looking for the chance to escape. I just gave you a reason.”
“You let everyone shit on her!” I yell in a strangled voice. Lyle’s eyes flicker to the doorway and back to my face. I lower my tone, but I can’t seem to let this lie. “You didn’t even try to defend her, even though you were the one in the wrong.”
Lyle’s expression hardens and his eyes glint. “Looks like she didn’t need me, though. She had you. Just like she has you right now. So, tell me, Mr. Riggs, are you here for Shelby? Are you ready to prove you’re the better man, once and for all?”
Shelby cuts in. “Oh, for fuck’s sake. Quit it, Lyle. Cameron, don’t listen to him. He’s just bitter because he can’t grow facial hair like you to cover his acne scars.”
I know she’s right. He’s just goading me. Nothing has changed in the last decade when it comes to Lyle Jessup. He’s the same obnoxious attention hog he’s always been.
I let out a grunt, run my hands down my thighs, and clamp down on the words that are fighting to escape. I want throw it in his face that she called me, and I did come. That I took the first flight out of the motherfucking permafrost just to be there for her. That she kissed me and tried to make me stay, and instead of taking advantage of her, I left. That I would do it again in a heartbeat. I’ll always come running for this woman.
Not that she needs me. She’s not the same hurting Shelby who drunk-texted me five years ago. The Shelby sitting here is a far cry from that girl. This Shelby is fierce and endlessly patient and elegant in the face of Lyle’s bullshit. I fell hard for the old Shelby, but this new version will absolutely destroy me.
I exhale, long and slow. “I’ll do it. I have to confirm a leave of absence with Nat Geo and I want at least two weeks before the cameras arrive to shadow Daniel. But yeah. I’ll do the show.”
Like I even have a choice.
4
SHELBY
PIECES OF ME
“Fine. I’ll admit the built-in was worth the trouble.”
I stand back, hooking my thumbs in the tool belt slung at my waist, and take in my creation.
Well. My re-creation.
“And that’s without a finish, Dad. Imagine it polished up and glossy. This room is about to feel a million times cozier. That soft LED Jasmine dropped off is a game changer.”
My dad nods, his hands on his still-trim hips, and turns in place, taking in the entire space. This used to be a shallow living room with wood paneling and a rotting carpet that had questionable stains. My dad wanted to knock it all out and replace it with drywall, which is the simplest and least expensive option. Except for one problem.
The built-ins were in the way. I convinced him to give me those and I let him have free rein with the rest. He didn’t disappoint. He removed a dividing wall, rebricked the fireplace in the center—opening it up to two rooms—and replaced the paneling with white car siding from the floor to the ceiling rafters. It’s stunning. Everything is clean lines and natural surfaces and every bit of it points to the showstopper—my bookcases.
I’m giddy.
“You did good, kid,” he says, approval clear in his voice.
“Thanks, Pops. You, too.” I hold up a hand and his lips quirk under his salt-and-pepper mustache as he returns my high five.
“I’m gonna run. I told Jasmine I would keep healthier hours, whatever that means.”
I hide my smile at his gruff tone. That man is marshmallow over his girlfriend, real-estate agent Jasmine Rodriguez. They’ve worked together for a decade, dancing around their two divorces and raising their three kids (her two, his one). But now we’re all grown up and they’re finally making a go of it. It’s so cute, I could cry. (Surprise, surprise.)
“Sure. Thanks for the food.” I gesture to the paper bag of calories sitting on a sawhorse in the corner.
“Don’t let it get cold. It’s not any good cold.”
“I won’t,” I insist. “Now go.”
“You sure you don’t need me?”
I roll my eyes lightly. “Dad. It’s only varnish. All I need is time and an empty workspace without sawdust flying in the air.” I shoo him away with my hands. “Out. Give Jazz my love.”
He leaves, shutting the door behind him, and I let loose a heavy sigh. Finally. I wander over to my cheeseburger and pull it out, wrapping the bottom half in the foil, and take a bite as I slowly pace the room. My work boots creak on the stiff new hardwood floors, and while it’s still light outside, I flip on the work lights to make sure I can see everything clearly. After I finish my burger, tossing the foil in the trash I’ll be taking out when I leave, I walk to the kitchen sink and rinse my hands. No greasy fingers for this project.
I tug out my phone and connect to the Bluetooth speaker my dad allows on-site. Scrolling through my playlist, I pick Michael Bublé’s “Sway” to get me moving and crank it.
I carefully lay a cloth along the new floors and crack open a fresh can of cherry varnish and prep my brush, making sure I have everything I need within reach. I did the first sanding and layer of varnish in the shop, but I needed more space to do the second and third layers, so now I’m at the house. Varnish is a magnet for dust and prints. I’ll finish it tonight, and by the time the crew shows up tomorrow morning, it should be set enough to be safe.
I tug a pair of latex gloves and a face mask out of my jacket pocket before removing my coat, dropping it next to the soft drink I haven’t touched. The heat isn’t turned on yet, but it’s March, and once I start moving, I’ll be working up a sweat.
Sarah Brightman comes on singing “Time to Say Goodbye.” I start to hum under my breath and can already feel myself relaxing into the work. My shoulders soften and any tension in my neck slinks away.
Dipping my brush, I begin at one end of the wall and work my way across, singing the Italian lyrics. Despite my bubblegum-pop reputation, I was classically trained.
Classically trained to sing Broadway standards in an empty old house.
It almost makes me want to record a clip and send it to Ada Mae with a text reading Warmest Regards.
Except she’d probably accidentally-on-purpose leak it to the press.
I’m really in my feels, belting out Hayley Westenra’s cover of “Never Saw Blue,” when the doorbell rings, nearly causing me to pee myself and spill varnish all over my dad’s new floors.
“Shit!” I screech when the doorbell rings out again, but I compose myself enough to carefully put down the can and brush. I fling open the door with a scowl. “Who is—?”
“Hey, Shelby.”
My breath leaves in a gust of “Cameron.” If I hadn’t seen him a month ago, I would still recognize those grass-green eyes anywhere. Even on a thickly bearded face.
“What?” I manage to croak out after.
I cringe. Jesus. Cameron Riggs shows up at my door five years after stabbing me in the ego and all I can word vomit is “What?” In L.A., I had this miraculous confidence, likely borne out of the thick layer of don’t-give-a-fuck-ness I applied along with my sunscreen after landing at LAX. I scramble to regain that feeling, but I’m coming up short. The Midwest has made me soft. It’s probably all that fleece we wear.
I clear my throat, dragging my mask off my burning face. “I mean, what are you doing here?”
My only consolation is Cameron looks just as uncomfortable, and at six three, two hundred pounds of plaid-covered masculinity, he wears it weird. I open the door the rest of the way and beckon him in. Last time I saw him, he was defending my honor at the top of his lungs, and the time before that, I was practicing my whole “numbness campaign,” so seeing him sober and in this context is like a lightning strike. I instantly feel the telltale tickle of emotion in my throat. I attempt to ever-so-subtly slow my heart rate and open my airways.
Inhale, exhale. I am a motherfucking yogi.
“I … was in the area,” he says, hands in his jeans pockets. Like he’s completely unaware that I’m on the precipice of tears, which is doubtful. Cam could always tell when I was about to cry. “Uh, in Michigan. Finally. So, I decided to come visit. I figured doing this off-screen was better for everyone involved.”
“You heard I was here, at this unoccupied house?”
He grimaces, scratching at his heavily whiskered cheek. “Of course not. Daniel told me where to find you.”
“Oh?” The question dangles between us. Because clearly there is more to it than that. Like how he found my dad’s house? Or how he’s been in contact with my dad, and my dad didn’t tell me? Maybe even how I will be having some strong words with my father, after I figure out if I’m mad or happy to see Cameron.
“How about this?” he offers. “Let’s rewind.” He makes this ridiculous sound like a record scratch, rolling his hands backward as though he’s reversing time. “To before L.A. and Lyle. Forget them for a minute.” He steps closer, and I giggle, despite my nerves. With him, comes the smell of outside and spearmint gum. My eyes trace up his scuffed boots, long legs, and green-and-blue flannel shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows. His beard is dark brown and tidy, his eyes are familiar and edged with laugh lines. His hair is shorter than I’ve ever seen it, but it suits him.
He looks good. Real good. Like a lumberjack spliced with young Paul Newman.
Well done, past me, I think. You hit that.
To which my inner self reminds me I also did not hit that again, so ouch.
“Forgotten,” I agree. “Hey, Cameron Riggs. What brings you to the neighborhood?”
His answering grin is relieved and easy. “Heard an old friend was here and I wanted to see her.”
I allow a small smile to slip out. “It’s good to see your face, Cam. It’s been too long.”
“Five years,” he says softly.
“Something like that.”
“So, you’re rehabbing houses.” He gestures to the room at large and I realize it’s not so much a question as an icebreaker.
I close the door behind us and lead him over to my built-ins. “Well, my dad rehabs the houses. I’m a bit more specialized…”
His eyebrows lift. “You did this?”
“Yeah. It’s not as impressive if you didn’t see the before. Here.” I pull out my phone and scroll to the old photos. To his credit, Cam seems to really study them.
“That’s incredible. They’re stunning. Is this the original oak?”
“Well spotted,” I say, beaming. “It is. Nothing better than the original.”
He runs his hand along an unfinished piece with a reverence I recognize.
“What about you?” I ask. “Where’ve you been?”
“Here and there,” he says, and I know he’s not being cryptic. He’s honestly been everywhere in the last six years.
“How’s National Geographic?” That’s the spirit. We’ll talk around the memories. Like friends without complicated pasts do.
“It’s good. We just wrapped a series on the cloud forests in Ecuador.”
“Wow. Interesting.”
He nods, a little distracted. “It was, but I’m glad for the break. My mom’s thrilled. She’s been begging me to come home for a visit ever since she and my dad made their split official.”
My heart jolts. Damn. “I didn’t know about your parents, Cam. I’m sorry.”
He shrugs. “It’s okay. It was a long time coming. She moved not too far from here, actually, outside Grand Rapids, and I flew in last night to stay with her for a bit.”
Weird how I’d somehow managed to forget Cameron was born and raised in Michigan, too. It was something of an inside joke with us on the set of Jackson—two Midwestern kids in the middle of all that glitz. (Lyle was a local, of course.) But in the years since, I guess I just always pictured Cameron in some exotic, worldly destination. He felt so far away from the comfort of evergreen-lined lakes and rolling green hills.
Not that I pictured him that often.
“So, what else? Married? Dating? Kids?” I ask, as casual as I can manage, which is admittedly not very casual.
“Not right now, no. You?”
“Nah. A few dates here and there, but I’ve been focused on my work. Speaking of…” I pick up the varnish. “Do you mind? I need to get this done before the crew comes back tomorrow.”
“Can I help?” he asks. I hesitate, and Cam notices. “It’s okay, I don’t have to—”
“No!” I say. “It’s fine. Thank you. There’s an extra brush and a spare mask over by my coat.” I gesture toward the pile. “I’m not used to having other people around, but I can make an exception.”
I watch him for a few moments, but Cameron is a quick study and has a steady hand, so I motion for him to take the higher shelves while I work on the lower. “Have you done this before?” I ask.
“Not really. But I’m capable enough.” We work in comfortable silence for a few minutes and it’s strange how not strange this is. Cameron Riggs is here in Michigan. Next to me. Varnishing shelves.
“I’m really sorry again, about your parents, Cam. I feel terrible I didn’t know.”
“How could you? It’s okay.” He takes a deep breath, obviously steeling himself for something. “While we’re apologizing, I’m sorry for—”
I cut him off with a shake of my head. “Don’t. It’s fine.”
“It wasn’t. Please just let me say it, Shelby.”
I really, really don’t want to listen to this, but from his determined tone, there’s no avoiding it. “Okay, fine.”
He’s still holding the brush, but he stops to face me and tugs down his mask. His eyes pierce my carefully constructed shell. I swallow hard. “I’m sorry I left. I didn’t want to. You probably won’t believe me but walking away from you that day was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I just knew I couldn’t let anything, um, like that, happen between us. Again. You weren’t in the right headspace.”
“And you were?”
He shakes his head wryly. “Not really, no. Timing always seems to be against us.”
I let that sink in, taking his version of events and replacing it over the hazy version of mine.
“I wondered,” I say. “Not at the time, of course. I was too out of my mind to wonder then. But since … I kept your note. Which is kind of a miracle.”
He laughs self-deprecatingly. “I’m shocked you didn’t burn it.”
“I know, right? It was a dick move, Riggs, leaving while I slept. But not a complete waste. I got out before they sucked me dry, like you told me to. Packed my stuff, rented a truck, and showed up at my dad’s door three days later.”
He clears his throat, his voice a little hoarse. “I thought if I waited for you to wake up, I wouldn’t be able to leave. But leaving you … I was no better than Lyle. I’m so sorry.”
I feel the press of tears and I wave him off, pleading for him to stop. To stop being so nice. Stop being so caring. Stop being so Cam. “Forgiven, okay? I really, truly don’t want to talk about that day anymore.”
He nods in silence and we go back to varnishing.
“What are you listening to?” he asks.
“Il Divo.”
He nods again, and we fall quiet. It’s not uncomfortable or awkward. It’s … nice.
“Do you want me to do the pilot, Shelb? Not just because you need a costar, but me, specifically? Is this okay? With our, um, past and everything?”
My hand freezes midstroke and I raise my eyebrows.
He rushes on. “I’m already committed. I’m on sabbatical and obviously I’m here and everything, but you were as shocked as I was in L.A. I know you didn’t have a choice in the matter.”
I can’t help but feel stung at the idea Cameron was pulled from his thriving documentary career to swoop in and save my show. That, ultimately, Lyle had to beg him. Lyle’s still pulling strings while Cameron runs defense, and all the while, I’m here, being pitiful.
“I didn’t ask for Lyle to manipulate you like that.”
“Of course not—”
I cut him off with an aggrieved slash of my varnish brush. “I didn’t ask for him to do anything. I didn’t agree to work for him, period. He inserted himself into the production, and he took it upon himself to interrupt your life.”
“I was there, Shelb. I know.”
I huff. “I know, too. It’s just—I felt like I needed to say that. To be up-front with you, I haven’t been pining for you. And I’ve been busy. I’ve made a career here. I’m content.”
“I can tell. Honest. I didn’t mean it to seem like I was swooping in to save you. I want to be here.” He’s so sincere that I’m baffled.
