Cal winced, and I regretted my choice of words.
“There’s too much anger,” I said. “Too much bitterness. We’re past forgiveness. It’s too late.”
“You’re giving up,” Cal said.
“There’s too much history,” I said. “I hurt you. I didn’t mean to—not this time and not then, but it doesn’t matter. It seems I’m only capable of hurting the people I care about.”
Cal was silent for a moment.
“I’m not going to argue with you,” he said. “I’m not going to try to convince you that you’re wrong, but I don’t think I’m the one who needs to forgive you.”
Tears brimmed in my eyes, making everything blurry.
“I think you need to forgive yourself,” he said.
We looked at each other. I knew it was over, and yet.
“If I leave, I’m not giving you another chance, Kathleen,” he said. “Two is more than enough.”
“I know,” I whispered.
We just stood there staring at each other. I knew he didn’t want to leave. I didn’t want him to leave either.
But what could we do? I’d just hurt him. Again. And again. And again. Because that’s what I did.
“I am sorry,” I said.
“Me too,” Cal said.
CHAPTER 37
The only time I didn’t hurt was when I was onstage. I lost myself in Peggy, in the show. Buried myself in that character. It wasn’t until I got to my dressing room and took off my wig, washed off my makeup, that I was forced—once again—to confront the reality of what I’d done.
Harriet had been avoiding me for a week. Cal was polite but wouldn’t look me in the eye. I smiled too big and spoke too loudly.
After each performance, I left as quickly as I could. I was usually the first one out, and then it was the wall of fans at the stage door. I didn’t want to linger and sign autographs, but it was also hard to resist the requests of the only people who seemed happy to see me these days.
I signed as many as I could, smiling but not looking up as I scrawled my name over decades-old headshots and magazine covers. I tried not to look too closely at who I’d been.
Someone shoved an old copy of People magazine into my hand. There was a picture of Ryan and me on the cover with the headline “The Prince and Princess of Pop: Their Happily Ever After.”
“Hiya, Katee,” Ryan said.
It was like seeing a ghost. A very tanned, subtly botoxed, well-manicured ghost.
“Oh, come on,” Ryan said when it became clear that all I was capable of doing was staring at him with my mouth wide open. “Give your old friend a hug.”
He pulled me into his arms—he was a little damp, but it was also kind of nice? I wasn’t sure. I was probably still in shock.
“They’re taking pictures,” he said in my ear. “A smile might be a good idea.”
I did my best, letting Ryan take the lead, putting his arm around me.
“Isn’t this great?” he asked the group of fans gathered at the stage door. “I love reunions!”
Everyone cheered.
“What are you doing here?” I muttered out of the side of my mouth, while he waved at the sea of cellphones turned in our direction, capturing every second.
“I was in town and thought I’d stop by,” he said.
“Bullshit,” I said, still smiling. “Were you in the audience tonight?”
He laughed. “Come on,” he said. “The show’s like three hours long.”
“I figured,” I said. “Okay, nice seeing you. Bye.”
“Don’t be that way,” he said. “Let’s go somewhere, okay? We should talk.”
Of course, Ryan took me to the fanciest, most exclusive bar in Midtown. I spotted at least three other celebrities as we were led to a table in the back.
“Was that Jacinda Lockwood?” I asked.
“Probably,” Ryan said.
We sat.
“So, Katee Rose,” Ryan said. “How have you been?”
I gave him a look. “It’s Kathleen,” I said. “And it’s been over ten years. What are you doing here?”
He grinned at me, and despite everything, that smile still brought back a lot of memories. Good ones. Complicated ones.
“You look great,” he said. “I can’t even tell what work you’ve had done.”
I just sipped my drink, knowing he wouldn’t believe me if I told him the truth.
“Ryan,” I said, “spit it out. What do you want?”
He looked sheepish, but purposefully so. He’d always been good at that look—that “who, me?” sad, confused puppy dog look. Then again, a lot of the time it had been genuine—he was confused more often than not.
“I’m hearing great things about the show,” he said.
“You want tickets?” I asked.
He laughed. “God no,” he said. “Musical theatre? No thanks.” He gave a full-body shiver as if he couldn’t imagine anything worse.
“Well, this has been lovely,” I said.
“Wait, wait, wait,” he said. “I just wanted to see you. Is that so wrong?”
“Ryan,” I said slowly, patiently, “you told the entire world that I cheated on you.”
“Well, you did,” he said.
Touché.
“We haven’t spoken since then,” I said. “So I’m sure you can understand my confusion as to your sudden reappearance.”
Ryan was silent for a moment, and I watched him weigh the pros and cons of telling me the truth. God, this was all so familiar that it hurt a little. Not that I wanted to go back in time—especially not to that era of my life—but it was still this tender, bittersweet feeling, remembering how long ago it had been and how far away I was from that girl now.
“Okay,” Ryan finally said. “Ever since you and Cal announced the show, my manager has been getting all these calls about us. About the band.”
“Your manager?” I asked. “Diana?”
It should have felt more like a betrayal when I found out that my manager had left me to go work with Ryan, but I’d been so exhausted and worn out by the lashing I’d gotten from the press that I’d been numb to it.