For Us: The Girl I Loved Read online

  Stop it, Amber. Stop. That's not right. Because if Peter were hurt or in the hospital, it would have hit the news and I would have gotten a call. The one good thing about being a celebrity is you never have to worry about maintaining any privacy. Though I'm not exactly sure if that's a comforting thought.

  I grab Peter's script and sit down at my desk. If I'm going to be thinking about him anyway, I might as well use his script to prep. Placing my phone where I can see it, I try to dive into my work. It doesn't flow the way it normally does, but I get through it little by little. Each little step I accomplish is punctuated by glancing at the phone, waiting for it to light up and tell me that everything's fine. Hoping that Peter will call and say he understands that it was just a misunderstanding and that we can forget about everything that happened.

  But of course that doesn't happen, so I work through another page in the script, making notes as I go along. Of course we're supposed to be shooting one of the sexier scenes tomorrow—at least his side of the shots, so I'm reminded of our night together and our morning together and how he makes me feel.

  Fuck.

  It would have been easier if I had never seen him again. Way, way, easier. But now that he's back in my life, I can't imagine a life without him. For better or worse, our lives are tangled together, and I think that it's too late to take it back. We’ve been waiting for each other for too damn long for this to be the end of us.

  I have to fix it. I can fix it, if he’ll just talk to me.

  But the phone never rings.

  3

  Peter

  Past

  I glance at the clock on the wall and let out a sigh. Ten minutes until my break is over, and then another three hours until my shift is finished. I'm exhausted, and all I want to do is crawl into my bed and sleep.

  I never thought working at a restaurant could be so tiring, but it is. I go home every night so wasted that I can barely change my clothes before just collapsing on my bed. But that's what I need to do. I need the work. I'm going to make as much money as I can before I move out to Los Angeles.

  Amber and I always talked about it, until everything happened. I don't know where she is or what she's doing, but I can still try to make our plan work. It's still what I want.

  I have no idea where I'm going to live or what I'm going to do, but I want it. The acting bug bit, and now I need to know if I'm good enough. I'm probably not, but I can feel deep in my gut that I'll always regret it if I don't at least try.

  There have been a couple of acting gigs I've done since graduating, local community theatre and a couple of small independent films, but not as much as I should be doing. Not if I want to succeed.

  Fiddling with my phone, I blow out a sigh. How is it possible that time seems to move so slowly when I'm here at work? And then when I'm home, it flies. Everyone warns you about it, but being an adult kind of sucks. At least this part of it.

  My phone buzzes in my hand and I glance down. It's not a number I recognize. I don't pick it up. They can leave a message. I let it ring out, the phone vibrating on the break room table. I could fall asleep back here. They'd probably notice when I didn't come back from my break, though.

  Not even two minutes later my phone rings again, same number. Probably somebody who's got the wrong one. They should have figured it out from my voicemail, but whatever. People can be dumb.

  Two minutes left of my break, and my phone buzzes again. Just one vibration this time, and I glance at the screen. That number left a voicemail. I have no idea who it is, but I slide my finger across the screen and hold it up to my ear.

  "Hi, Peter, it's me."

  I nearly drop the phone, because I haven't heard that voice in years. Wasn't sure that I'd ever hear that voice again. It's my mom.

  "I know it's been a long time, but call me when you get this. I'd love to talk to you." The line goes dead, and I feel like I'm drowning.

  There's no time left on my break and I have to go back out onto the floor. But how do I go back and take orders and talk to people when I'm freaking the fuck out. What? What is this?

  I moved out of my aunt's house after graduation because it was better for us. Our relationship is ten times better than it was when I lived there, and we've become much closer. Now she can just be my aunt and not have to act like my mother. But she needs to know about my actual mother, because I don't know what this means. I shoot her a quick text as I grab my order notebook and head back out to the front of the restaurant to take some tables.

  My mom called me. She's still alive. She sounded clean. She was clean enough to find my number and track me down. What does she want? This is a good thing, right? My mind can't stop racing. Even when I'm smiling at people and rattling off the specials, making sure they have enough water and french fries, I'm not focusing because Mom called. She called.

  The practical part of me is a little wary, but the kid who got dumped and shipped off to live with relatives is excited. All I've ever wanted is for her to be okay, and for us to be a family again. Maybe that can finally happen? I don't know. But I'm watching the clock move like the slowest thing in history as it counts down the time left on my shift. I'm going to call her as soon as I get home. I've already decided that. I can't not.

  Even though there's a text from my aunt saying that this is probably a bad idea. I never had closure, and I need it. If I don't do this, I'm going to hate myself because I'm going to wonder what would have happened if I just called her. When my shift ends, I get out of the restaurant as fast as humanly possible and drive home way too fast. I'm lucky that I don't get pulled over.

  I don't even take off my coat before I'm dialing the number. And it's ringing. It's ringing... and nothing. No answer. No voicemail. Just dead silence.

  Shit.

  I knew that this was too good to be true. I got my hopes up just like I used to when we lived in Virginia. I push away the sudden feeling of crushing loneliness that begins to seep in, and toss my phone onto the couch and take off my coat,. There's a small sound, and I turn to see my phone lit up, vibrating. I hate the way hope races up through my body, but I grab the phone and it's the same number.

  "Hello?"

  "Peter?"

  My eyes get watery. "Hi, Mom."

  "Sweetie!" She sounds so happy. "It's so good to hear your voice."

  "You too." I can't keep the emotion out of my voice, so I don't say anything else.

  She sighs. "I know things weren't great when everything happened, but it's better now. I'd really like to come see you, if that's okay?"

  "I'd love to see you," I say, and it's true. It's one of the only things I've thought about since I moved up here, and even more since Amber left.

  "When are you free?" she asks. "I'm in between jobs right now and it's the perfect time. I really want to make this work for you."

  I do quick mental math before answering. "Next week? I'll still have to work, but I can take a couple days off. Maybe you can see Aunt Lily too."

  "That would be nice," she says, though it's not as enthusiastic as the rest.

  I honestly don't know what to say right now. There's a ton of stuff that I know I need to say, but I'm not sure that I'm ready, or that I should say any of it over the phone. "How are you going to come up here? Are you still in Virginia?"

  "Yeah," she says. "I thought I'd take the train. The train seems nice."

  "Okay. You'll let me know when you're going to get in and stuff?"

  I feel like I can hear her smile through the phone. "I absolutely will, sweetie. I'll text you when I have my ticket. Talk to you soon?"

  "Yeah."

  "Bye!" she chirps happily before hanging up.

  I slump back on the couch, my mind spinning just as much, if not more. This is a lot. Going from having no idea if your mother is alive to making plans to see her in less than four hours is more of a ride than any rollercoaster out there. I'm going to see my mom. My mom. Joy bubbles up in my chest, and I want to call Amber and tell her about it.
r />   I barely catch myself before a slice of new pain rips through my chest. It's been a year. More than that, and nothing has changed. Every bit of news or development in my life, I want to share with her. I wanted—want—to share everything with her. She knew how much I wanted to see my mom again, and I like to think that she'd be happy for me. I like to think that her eyes would light up like they would whenever she was excited, and that she'd throw her arms around me and kiss me until both of our excitement turned into something else.

  But that's gone. She's gone. I have to accept that.

  Even if it still hurts as much as the day she walked away from me.

  But now at least one of the people I've lost has come back. I want to believe that I won't be the one who's always abandoned. That there isn't something about me that drives people away. Mom coming back, I can make it work this time. We can be a family. We can be happy. Maybe she'll come to L.A. with me. Maybe it will be so perfect that I won't go to L.A. There are a million possibilities and there's relief and hope in all of them.

  Peace spreads in my chest, and I haven't felt that in a long time, and the adrenaline falls out of me. I'm tired when I get home from a shift, but after the rush, it feels like I can't keep my eyes open. I kick off my shoes and blearily set an alarm on my phone for the morning. I don't even have the energy to move right now. Instead I stretch out on the couch, and close my eyes. I'll move to my bed at some point, I just need five minutes...

  I wake with a start, and my phone is glowing. It's completely dark in my living room and the phone tells me that it's five A.M. There's a text from that number, with a message.

  Just bought my ticket for Tuesday! I'll arrive at 11:00 A.M. See you then!

  I scrub my hand over my face and heave myself off the couch. Tuesday. It's Friday morning. I'm going to see my mom in four days. Four days seems like the longest and shortest time in the world. I collapse into bed and manage to plug in my phone before falling asleep with those words repeating in my head. Four days. Four days. Four days.

  Four days...

  4

  Peter

  Present

  This spot is equally beautiful during the day. I didn't want to be in my house, and I didn't want to be in public. I can't go back to Amber's apartment, and this was the first place I thought of: that beautiful overlook on Mulholland Drive that she brought me to. Probably not the best idea to come here given the fact that I'm trying not to obsess. But why am I kidding myself? I'm not going to be able to stop thinking about her anyway.

  I was just so angry that I let myself lose control, but I feel like an idiot. I shouldn't have walked away from her like that. I can't exactly accuse Amber of giving up on us when she probably thinks that I did the exact same thing. But she did give up on us. She thought that I would bail or ruin her life again, just because I would care more about the dream of us than the person in front of me. It hurts.

  Maybe she was right, maybe there's just too much baggage and too much history between us for it to ever be normal again. But I still want that. I still want her. After all these years of being the person who people abandon, I don't want to be the one that walks away. I will if that's what she wants, what she really wants, but I need some time before I ask her that.

  My phone buzzes in my pocket and I ignore it. Amber has been calling me almost non-stop since I walked out of her apartment two days ago, but I just...can't. I need to clear my head and get through all of this shit, and every time I talk to her, everything goes out the window.

  Our entire history is turning over in my mind, from that first day when Amber approached me in the snow to our first kiss and then when she fainted in my arms. Other moments too. Happy moments, sad moments, our fights and how we made up. And now, how we've danced around each other and finally come together just to be torn apart by an unfortunate headline and our own history.

  The whole reason I'm up here is that I don't want to give up on us, but I don't know what to say when I see her tomorrow. How am I going to react to her in a way the crew is going to perceive as normal? If she's that worried about our careers, then I want to be as professional as possible. But I'm far past professional at this point. I just need to figure it out, until she's willing to talk to me again.

  My phone buzzes again, and even though I want to talk to her, I don't pick up. The things we have to say to each other aren't things that can be said over the phone. But given how persistent she's been in calling, maybe she does want to talk. Or maybe not.

  Fuck.

  It's been a long time since I've felt this kind of confusion and tension in my body. I lay back on the hood of my car, shielding my eyes against the sun. When my phone buzzes in my pocket again, I pull it out to look at the screen. It's not Amber, it's Michael, and there's a couple of voicemails from him too. I slide my finger across the screen too answer.

  "Hello?"

  "Nice of you to pick up your phone," Michael says in a tone of voice I've come to know as him being pissed and trying to hide it.

  "I answered this time."

  There's a barely concealed sigh. "But not the other five."

  "Is there a reason you're calling me six times on a non-shooting day? Did I forget to be somewhere?"

  "No, I just needed to make sure you were alive and that you hadn't done something monumentally stupid."

  I sit up. "What are you talking about? We have two days off. You don't trust me to not get in trouble for two days."

  "Under normal circumstances, yes, I—"

  "Why aren't circumstances normal, Michael?" With everything else going on, I really don't want any more surprises. I'm trying to fight off the feeling of dread in my gut.

  "Dwyer said that she's been trying to get a hold of you for two days to go over things for the new script and she hasn't heard from you. Made her a little nervous, so she called me to make sure that you were going to show up to shooting tomorrow. I swear, Peter, if you did something—"

  "She thinks I'm not coming in?" The dread pools in my stomach and stays, cold like a rock. "Of course I'm coming in. I've just been off the grid. I needed some time without everyone in my head, you know?"

  There's a short silence. "That's it?"

  I huff a laugh, "Yeah. I've been kind of avoiding my phone. Just letting my thoughts be the only ones for a while."

  "Okay." There's a sigh, but this one is a sigh of relief. I'm used to Michael overreacting, but it still makes me roll my eyes. "I'll let her know. And in the future, if you need some personal time, at least let me know first so I can cover your ass and not get it from your directors."

  "Sure," I lie. Like hell am I going to tell Michael whenever I need space to mull over a personal problem. Some parts of my life are still mine. Or they should be. "I'll see you tomorrow?" There's no way in hell Michael would call me about this and then not show up to set to verify. His paranoia works in my favor most of the time, so I don't mind.

  "Count on it," he says before the line goes dead.

  That really wasn't what I expected. So Amber hasn't been calling because she wants to talk to me. She's been calling because she wants to make sure that I'm not going to walk off set and leave the show hanging. Even with everything that's between us, I'm stunned that she thinks I would do that. If that's really what she believes, then she really doesn't trust me. At all.

  I need a new plan. This plan is how to work with her while forcing myself to keep my distance. Because losing her twice is enough. If I let myself get close one more time and she's not ready, my heart won't take it. I know it won't.

  So, new plan. Cool and professional and distant, with the best performance that I can possibly give. I hop down off the hood and into the driver’s seat. Time to work the hell out of my script. When I used to do theater, I would make hundreds of notes about motivation and character.

  Over the years I’ve learned to do it a lot of it in my head, but not now. Not only will it help distract me from the pain that’s hovering at the edges, but also it will give me som
ething to focus on during the shoot.

  I know I’m going to want to follow Amber with my eyes and more. I’m the moth, and she’s the flame. It’s going to take time for me to train myself out of the habit.

  That pain flashes out, and for a second, I can’t breathe. This feels worse than I ever imagined it could. I shut off the possibility of a life with Amber a long time ago. Having that hope come back and then—

  I’m driving down this road and it feels like I’m cutting my own heart out. But I can do it for her. I’ll give her what she wants, because all I’ve ever wanted is for Amber to be happy. And if this is what it takes, then I can do it, even if it kills me.

  5

  Amber

  Past

  I feel like I've been waiting for hours for them to call my name, even though it hasn't been. It feels like that because we got here early and I've watched at least ten other kids get called in and then come out. All artsy kids like me. I've gone into the bathroom three times just to make sure that I look okay and not like a total crazy person. I'm sure mom would be teasing me if she didn't already know that I was crazy nervous.

  All the fidgeting I would normally do, I can't. I can't pull my sleeves down over my hands cause that will mess up and wrinkle my shirt. I can't bite my fingernails because of the shiny clear manicure I got before coming down. I can't scream and cry like a toddler because I'm in a room full of strangers. Okay, so I wouldn't normally scream and cry but I'm nervous enough that I'm tempted.

  After the car ride where all I thought about was how I didn't want to be in New York, the nervousness took me a little by surprise. But there's nothing I can do about it now. I'm here. It's about to happen.

  I glance up at the clock on the wall. I swear it's standing still. Five more minutes and I'll be called in. Holy shit. They're going to notice how much I'm sweating. They're not going to let me in because they're afraid I'll just leave sweat stains on everything. I'll be known to the admissions team as 'that sweaty one.'