Butterfly Tattoo (34 page)

“Yes, Rebecca,” he answers. “The character I have in mind for you is a lot like you.”

I laugh. “An unemployed actress?” Too many margaritas and too much crowd-exposure tonight have left me feeling blank and fuzzy.

“Rebecca,” Cat interjects, cautioning me with her eyes not to do anything stupid.

Evan is clearly unaffected by my sarcasm. “I could use anybody, Rebecca,” he reminds me. “Makeup can create anything, you know that.”

“But you’re interested in…” I pause, thinking of how to frame it. “Well, making my actual scars a sort of
presence
on the screen. That’s what you’re after?”

“The authenticity of it, yes,” he says, clearly pleased that I get his vision for the character. “Her scars are a kind of character unto themselves. They’re part of the canvas.”

“So, the lighting, the camera work, it would all be to overstate them, definitely not
understate
them?”

His gaze never leaves my face. “Would that make you uncomfortable?”

I imagine my smile spread across a gigantic Cineplex screen, every flaw in my appearance magnified many times over. “It scares me,” I answer honestly.

“And I respect that.” He gives a firm nod. “I totally respect that.” He looks to Cat, then back at me. “We just thought it might be a great role for you.”

“We?” Cat’s been behind this introduction? What happened to my great sense of comedic understatement? To him being a fan of the reruns?

“Cat and I have been talking about it, yes.”

“He’s been watching the show,” Cat interjects, and from the anxious look on her face, I can tell she knows the game may be up.

Evan grins. “I love your work, Rebecca.” His smile is genuine, reaching his eyes. “You are so terrific with comedy. Brilliant.”

“So is this a comedic role, then?”

His expression becomes guarded. “Not really.”

“Oh, I get it,” I say with a slight laugh. “The only thing that
really
qualifies me for this part is my facial disfigurement.”

Evan stares back at me, his face growing ashen, and I actually feel bad for him. He’s only trying to do a good deed here for me. Charity, celebrity style.

He watches me. “I wouldn’t be offering the role if I didn’t think you were one terrific actress,” he tells me seriously. “You could bring an amazing depth of feeling to the part.”

“Evan, thank you,” I say sincerely, reaching to take his hand. “You’re awesome to think of me. I am so incredibly honored, but I just don’t think I can make myself that vulnerable at this stage of the game.”

I remember Jake off in the bathroom and in that single moment my destiny feels encapsulated. I can never get away from myself. My scars, my past: I own them now. There will never be a day when a part for a normal person, a normal character with a boringly normal life floats my way. There will only be my ruined face.

Cat leans toward me. “Rebecca, you should at least let Evan tell you about the movie,” she almost begs.

But Evan doesn’t say another word. He just smiles at me. A sympathetic, gentle look that tells me he understands how I can let this opportunity slide past me.

“Thanks,” I say, giving them both a little wave as I turn to go. “But I better go find Jake.”

I grab Jake by the arm as he exits the bathroom; those familiar gray eyes now distinctly red around the edges. One look at him tells me my suspicions were correct.

Guiding him by the elbow, I redirect him from his path toward Evan’s table. “Let’s go over here.” I indicate a pair of bar stools on the far side of the place.

“What about Evan Beckman?” he asks, incredulous. “We’re having drinks with Evan Beckman.”

“Not anymore we’re not.”

A quizzical frown comes over his face. “Why not?”

“We just had a fight.”

“Oh.” He gives a shrug and that, as they say, becomes the end of that. Sometimes it can actually be convenient when your ex is Coke Boy. “Really?”

“No, Jake, not really.”

“Oh.” He gives his head a stunned little shake, trying to compute why Evan has vanished during his trek to the bathroom.

We slide up onto the bar stools, and he plops his large briefcase duffel between us. He’s clearly trying to cultivate a kind of director or writer look, though I guess that’s where he keeps his stash. We order drinks and I wonder why I really came out with him tonight. What it is I’m always searching for when I come back to him.

“You miss me?” He chuckles.

“No, Jake. Not really.” I keep my voice even, but beneath the table, my hands begin to tremble.

“How’s the new boyfriend?”

“What makes you think he’s new?”

“Because last I asked around, you weren’t seeing anybody,” he says. “That’s what I heard a few months back, and then kapow, you mention a boyfriend.”

“Well, he’s fine, actually,” I lie. “He’s wonderful. He loves me. He treats me well. It’s a nice departure from being with you.”

“I hear you,” he mutters, acting suitably subdued. “I hear you, Rebecca.”

“Why am I here, Jake?” I pose the question that’s in my own mind. “Why are we doing this? Can we just cut to the chase? We’re not really here to relive the bad times. Are we?”

Beside him, he retrieves a script from inside his satchel. He slides it across the table toward me reverently. “Will you look at this?”

“A screenplay.” I stare down at the binding, confused.

“Yeah, something I wrote. I was hoping you’d take it to your boss.”

“You were hoping I’d take it to Ed,” I repeat in disbelief.
A Guy Like That
, Jake’s script is called. Well, at least it’s not
Beautiful, But Me
.

“Yeah, Becca, that’s what I’m hoping. Will you do that for me?”

“That’s why you’ve spent the whole summer pursuing me? For a
screenplay
?”

He rakes his fingers through his shaggy bangs, obscured from me behind the dark lenses. “You make it sound so mercenary.” He laughs.

“You do have an agent,” I remind him irritably.

“He doesn’t do stuff like this.” He gestures at the script, tapping it with his fingers. “He’s only handling my acting gigs.”

“Of which there are so many.”

He chuckles softly. “You probably think I deserve that, don’t you, Rebecca?”

I lean forward, thumping the script with my hand. “I thought you missed me, Jake,” I explain in a low, fevered voice. “That you wanted to see how I’m doing.”

“I did,” he answers with a casual shrug. “I do.”

I shake my head, thinking of dear Trevor earlier by the hotel swimming pool—of him dancing with me and holding me and trying to convince me that Michael still loves me, devoted and believing the best in me when I least deserved it. And I think of Michael in his golf cart, desperate to get me to listen, while all the time I kept pushing him away. And I think of Evan Beckman, offering me a second shot at my career, and me backpedaling as fast as I could away from him.

“I’ve been a fool,” I say and stand to leave without taking his script.

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Michael

It’s sweltering hot when Andrea’s wrapping up her first week of school. Man, when I was a kid, you didn’t start back when it was one hundred degrees. But here it is, not quite the end of August, Andie’s back in her routine—and I’m feeling like a successful parent. So far, I’m managing to remember all major homework assignments, and I’ve even gotten her enrolled in ballet and Girl Scouts. I’m Super Dad, clear-headed and together about this stuff for the first time since Alex’s death.

The key seems to be maintaining a constant mental checklist, which I’m silently running through right now while we sit in the carpool line outside her school. That’s when I remember her lunchbox and, glancing between us on the seat, I find it right there—but only after the momentary seizure of panic.

As I nudge my truck closer to the front door of her school, she turns to me. “Don’t forget tomorrow’s a teacher workday,” she reminds me with a well-earned look of suspicion.

“Already on the calendar.”

“So you called Ms. Inez?” She stares at me in wide-mouthed surprise at my efficiency.

I give her a smile. “Already on it, sweetie.”

She smiles too, holding her backpack close to her chest as we pull up in front of the school’s main doors. “Have a good day,” I tell her. “Be careful and be safe.”

I know the drill here: it’s my job as the parent to be as inconspicuous as possible, not to make a fuss. No big hugs or sloppy kisses—just her scrambling onto the curb, and me giving an aloof wave goodbye. I’m doing just that, but then she surprises me, leaning across the seat to give me a quick kiss on the cheek.

“Bye, Daddy,” she says, then pops out of the truck without ever looking back. I stare after her, stunned, and wonder what’s gotten into her this morning: I haven’t told her the truth yet, even after talking to Laurel. Not sure
when
I’m going to tell her, but I figure I’ll know when the time’s just right.

Maybe I’m becoming Daddy in her eyes again—earning the name—now that I’m not such a shoddy, heartbroken mess. I’m even doing a pretty damn good job of concealing my pain over losing Rebecca, keeping it together much better than I did after Alex died.

Of course with Rebecca, it’s different than with Allie. I know in my heart that I’ll eventually figure a way to get her back.

***

The next morning, I’m up before Andrea, showered and dressed for work. It’s Friday and I’ve put a lot of thought into how I want things to go today. Her birthday’s next week, eight days away, and although she’s having a big bash at the ice-skating rink, what I’m doing today is my biggest gift for her.

Staring at myself in the mirror, I’m momentarily startled by the man who stares back at me, at his dark curling hair, neatly trimmed. At his clear eyes—unlined by dark circles of exhaustion for the first time in about a year. He even looks like he’s putting some healthy muscled weight back on, thanks to his time at the gym.

Touching my bare chest, I think of Rebecca—of her small warm hand stroking me in that very spot. Then, my hand wanders to my shoulder, and I remember her kissing my tattoo, her mouth against my sun-warmed skin, and I burn with the fleeting memory of it.

I’ve tried calling her a few times, but she never answers the phone or returns my messages. Still, I have an inexplicable peace when it comes to my relationship with her. Technically we’re broken up, but I still feel connected, like we’re only spending time apart right now.

Tugging a crisp white T-shirt over my head, I give myself a final once-over in the mirror. I’m a handsome guy still, at least on my good days—but lately I make sure I look my
best
every workday for one reason. Just in case I bump into her.

Walking into Andie’s room, I sit on the edge of her bed. “Hey, sweetpea,” I whisper in her ear. “Time to get up.” Her eyes slowly open, a sleepy, confused look on her face. “I have a birthday surprise for you,” I explain with a grin. “Time to get dressed.”

She squints at me. “But Ms. Inez is coming today.”

I only smile back at her, walking toward the closet. “What about this?” I ask, pulling out a sundress. “You want to wear this one?”

“For what?”

“We’re going on a little field trip.”

At the studio, we hurry down an alley between two sound stages. So far, Andrea hasn’t figured my surprise out—or if she has, she’s keeping quiet. She holds my hand dutifully, the yellow ribbon I used to tie her hair in a ponytail flapping in the breeze as she works to keep pace with my long strides. I’m walking fast because the AD told me to be on the set no later than 8:30, and we’ve only got five minutes to make that deadline.

We duck between another set of buildings, and then just ahead the giant placard for
Evermore
looms, huge—at least half the height of the building. Andrea squeals when she spots it, hopping beside me. “You got me a pass! Didn’t you? You got me a pass!”

I shove my hands into the pockets of my jeans, feeling peculiarly shy with my own child. “Yeah, sure did.”

She flings her arms around my waist, holding tight. “Michael, that’s so cool. So, so cool!”

“You know, it’s kinda hard to get on that list,” I explain—not exactly apologizing for that day last spring, but at least clarifying the situation. “I had to put in for these passes over a month ago.”

“I am so, so, so excited!” she cries, lifting up onto the balls of her feet and doing a ballerina pirouette. And then she stops, smiling up at me, her voice becoming serious. “Thank you, Michael.”

She suddenly seems at least seventeen, and in her eyes I glimpse the woman she will one day become. A lump comes into my throat. “Happy birthday, sweetie. Early birthday.”

“Can we see Rebecca after? Maybe?”

I anticipated this question, but it still makes my stomach tighten with nervous anxiety.

I scratch my eyebrow, searching for a solid excuse to explain the improbability of such an event. “Andie, she’s working, you know.”

“But couldn’t I go say hi?” she asks, gazing up at me hopefully. “Just for a minute?”

She probably doesn’t want to see me, I ache to tell her, but from somewhere else I hear, “Sure, I’ll give her a call.”

While Andie sits on the set happily watching them film her favorite show—a scene involving her most favorite character, Gabriel—I sneak away. When the buzzer sounds, signaling that cameras are no longer rolling, I step out onto the bright street behind the sound stage. Nearby, there’s the rumbling motor of a honey wagon, and I poke a finger in my ear so I can hear as I dial the phone.

Trevor answers, his distinctive British accent immediately recognizable. For a moment, I think I’ll simply hang up. As much as I love Rebecca, my heart tells me she’s still not ready for this—and that she’s especially not ready to see my daughter. But I mumble something into the phone, identifying myself and asking if Becca’s there. Trevor’s voice brightens, becomes much more upbeat. He’s pleased I’m phoning her; I can hear it in his tone.

Although he promises that she’ll be right with me, I wait a long damned time out here on the street. Finally, the buzzer sounds again, warning that the cameras are rolling once more and that it’s no longer safe to enter the stage.

I’m about to give up when she comes on the line, greeting me in her sexy, southern-accented voice. She sounds familiar, yet formal, but just the sound of her voice makes my chest clinch.

“Hey, Becca,” I say, feeling unexpectedly quiet. “How are you?”

“I’m doing great, Michael. Really great, thanks.” She’s talking down to me—talking to me from the end of a great tunnel. She’s talking to me like she would Jake. Damn it, I ain’t Jake, and something about her talking to me that way kind of pisses me off. So I get pretty direct and forceful, sidestepping the need for delicate formality. “I need to see you,” I tell her simply.

She hesitates. “Michael, we’re not a couple any more.”

“I need to see you, Rebecca,” I repeat, wondering if I could leave Andrea in the capable hands of the AD while I jog over to Rebecca’s offices. “Andie’s here today, and she’s asking about you, and I thought maybe we could all go to lunch later”

“That’s not
you
needing to see me,” she answers softly. “That’s
Andrea
needing to see me, and you needing to provide some kind of resolution for that.”

“I need you too,” I half-whisper into the phone, aching for her. “You’ve known that for a long time.”

“Michael, I love Andrea. She is so incredibly precious to me, but—”

“Please, Rebecca,” I beg. “It’s been tough on her, you coming into her life then vanishing like this.”

“I know that it has, but I can’t be in your life just for her sake.” She sounds crushed; the distance and order replaced by obvious pain. “That’s not enough for me, and it’s not fair to her, either.”

“That’s not fair. You know it’s not just for her. You know how much I love you. How much I miss you.”

Silence fills the line between us, the sound of blood rushing in my ears my only answer. “Rebecca?” I prompt her.

“I miss you too,” comes her quiet, emotion-filled answer.

“Then see us,” I answer hopefully. “For lunch, today. I’ll come get you.”

“I-I’m not ready yet, Michael.”

“When will you be ready?”

“I’m not sure.”

I open my mouth to tell her I love her; that I want to talk to her, for God’s sake. That I want to spend forever with her; that I can handle anything but this wall of silence—but the phone goes dead before I can reply.

***

My daughter has a perfect, glorious birthday outing, all except for not seeing her favorite celebrity on the lot, Rebecca O’Neill. I mumble a flimsy excuse about Rebecca’s work schedule, and Andrea nods, frowning slightly. But the day’s too fantastic for her to stay down long. We finish off at the commissary, eating together at the cafeteria table.

While we sit together, she keeps looking around, like she’s searching for someone. Hoping to spot Rebecca, perhaps. Finally, I ask, “Who you looking for?”

She stares down at her plate of food, picking at it. I’m pretty sure she won’t answer, but she surprises me.

“Daddy brought me here. Remember?” She looks up at me, her clear eyes shining bright. “That last day before he died.”

With all that happened the next day—with all that’s happened since—I never even thought about it. “No, I didn’t… I didn’t remember that.”

She nods, looking around again. “It was last day of school, remember?” she prompts me, cocking her head sideways as she studies me. “You both came to my party, and we were gonna have lunch here, but you had a job to do.”

“So Daddy brought you by himself,” I finish.

She nods her head, glancing around the cafeteria. “I kinda kept thinking about it. Later,” she admits. “That it was the last thing he ever did with
just
me. The last really special thing.” Her mood grows serious, and she glances around the commissary again. “We played a game together. We kept trying to see how many people we could find in weird costumes. He said he wanted to be an extra and play an alien one day.”

“That sounds like Daddy,” I agree and we both laugh.

“How come Rebecca didn’t want to see me?” she asks with a slight frown. “Is she mad at me? ’Cause if I did something to make her not like me…”

“Andrea, sweetie, no.” My voice becomes firm. “It’s not
you
. Rebecca’s got some issues with
me
.”

“Is she mad at you?”

I blow out a breath. “It’s kind of complicated.”

She takes a drink from her milk, sipping through her straw, and then asks, “Complicated for her? Or for us?” The amazing wisdom of my almost nine-year-old.

“You know how we’ve been through some hard stuff?” I begin, choosing my words carefully. “In the past year? Losing Daddy and learning to be on our own, all that stuff?” She nods, taking another sip of milk, her eyes never leaving me. “Well, Rebecca’s been through some tough times too. Some really hard stuff.”

She leans close across the table, dropping her voice. “At the beach, I heard Aunt Marti talking to Casey. She said somebody tried to kill Rebecca. That’s how come she’s got all those scars.” She searches my face. “Is that really true?”

I don’t want to upset her, but she deserves to understand the facts. “I think we’re probably all very lucky we still have Rebecca.”

“You mean ’cause she could’ve died,” she clarifies. “’Cause that’s what Rebecca told me. She said she understood about what happened to me. That she almost died and all that.”

“She understood about you being in the accident?” I’m not sure what Andie’s saying precisely, and at first she doesn’t elaborate further. But then, without looking up, she whispers, “I told her maybe I should’ve died.”

My mouth goes dry. She’s offering my first real glimpse into what has haunted her since the accident, and I know that what I say next is crucial. Like that first night she met Rebecca, she’s trying in her own nine-year-old way to communicate with me.

I clear my throat. “What did…Rebecca say about that?”

She shrugs, glancing around the commissary again, as if she’s searching for Alex here among all the other crazily clad actors and extras. As if he might have been hiding here, ever since that last day they were here together. “So what are we gonna do now?” she asks, directing the subject away from this topic that I desperately want to explore.

I can’t hold back any longer. “Andrea, you don’t really believe you should have died?” I blurt.

She shakes her head. “No, I don’t,” she answers easily, taking her sandwich apart. “Not anymore. I did, though…for a while.” Then she glances up into my eyes. “Michael, can we stop going to counseling now? I hate it there.”

“Nobody loves seeing the doctor, but we all need to go sometimes.”

She blinks back at me. “Only if we get sick.”

“Or if we’re hurt,” I remind her. “Doctors help us then, too, remember? Like Daddy used to do over at the hospital? He’d help the kids who were sick?”

Her head pops up, and she opens her mouth, drawing in a breath. There’s something she wants to say, something monumental; I know it like I know the hairs prickling on my arms.