I meant more to her than that.
I needed to remember that, to hold it close and keep my mind clear. I needed to be smart and patient and . . .
I needed to not give up.
Well, I was just a small-town kid from a middle-class family. I wasn’t special or unique or exceptionally talented. Oh, I wasn’t falsely modest. I was realistic. I did my job and did it well. No drama. No ego. No taking the easy way out.
That was how I’d made my way from small town to big city, from county fair exhibitions to big-time Hollywood contracts.
I put my head down and got shit done.
So yeah, not giving up was kind of my life’s motto.
Eight
Eden
“She’s beautiful,” I whispered, smiling at Artie while cradling their newborn baby against my chest. I ran a finger across her cheek, feeling the silky skin and my insides twinging with an old pain.
An old pain that would never be soothed.
Because I was . . . empty.
Except, maybe, I didn’t have to be.
Wrong. It wasn’t empty. It was safer.
But why did safer not feel better? It used to be so comfortable and easy and empowering, in a way. Now, it felt constricting, weak . . . especially with the snoozing newborn in my arms, so vulnerable, the people who loved her the most trusting me with the precious bundle.
Little Daphne—because Artie was actually Artemis and she and Pierce had decided to stick with the Greek names—stirred in my arms, a soft mewl emerging from pink rosebud lips.
“Yes, she is beautiful,” Pierce said, scooping her out of my arms and doing some cradling of his own. “Just like her mama.”
Artie smiled, leaning over to tuck the blanket around little Daphne, not because it seemed at threat of unraveling, but because she couldn’t help herself from touching and caring for and protecting her baby . . . even if that was from a tiny perceived dip in temperature.
Unlike my parents.
Be quiet. Don’t run, for fuck’s sake! Don’t make a fuss or question. Be respectful.
Be a lady.
Well, I hadn’t made a fuss, had I?
I hadn’t stopped Tim from doing what he wanted. I hadn’t run. I hadn’t been loud. I’d let him respectfully take what he wanted.
And perhaps it wasn’t precisely ladylike, but I’d also been starving for attention since I hadn't received any from my parents. Tim had been there. He’d given me that attention, made me feel special, and for my selfishness, my needing that attention, I’d paid a very heavy price.
The memories were oppressive, sitting on my lungs, making my throat burn. I popped to my feet. I wasn’t going to have a meltdown in front of the people who’d done so much for me. Breathe. I sucked in some air, steadied myself. “I should go,” I said, “let you both get some rest.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I have some lines to go over,” I said, and it wasn’t exactly a lie. All I knew was that I had to get out of there before I did something, before I ruined—
Enough.
Forcing a smile, I hugged Artie, kissed Pierce on the cheek, and brushed my fingers across Daphne’s cheek.
“Eden.”
“I hope you get some sleep.”
Artie snorted. “With this little one? Not likely.”
A complaint, but one filled with teasing love.
I picked up my purse, heart aching, but forced lightness in my tone. “Meh. I’ve seen how little sleep you guys run on. You’ll both be fine.”
Pierce cupped Artie’s cheek and smiled down at his wife. The love in that glance took my breath away, seized my lungs, absolutely made my heart hurt.
I wanted that.
The yearning was a lightning rod.
I wanted someone to look at me like Pierce did to Artie, love shining in his eyes, affection written across his face, expression so soft and—
I could have that.
With Damon.
But no, I couldn’t. I couldn’t risk going down that road. Damon was a good person, and wanting something between us would only end in heartbreak.
Yet I still wanted it.
I was desperate for something that would only destroy me.
Artie glanced over at me, concern overtaking her expression, and I knew my face must have shown my longing, my fear, my desire, all mingled together. “Eden?”
Thankfully, I was close to the front door. “See you guys soon!” I called and high-tailed it out of there.
But not fast enough.
Artie knocked on my driver’s side window before I could pull out of the driveway, and I felt a pang of guilt for making a woman who’d recently given birth chase after me.
Still sighed before I rolled down the window though.
She stared at my face for a long moment. “Don’t do this to yourself, honey,” she murmured.
“I’m fine,” I said. “I promise.”
I was fine. I was always fine. I always found a way to get through.
“I know you’re fine,” she said, hand resting on top of mine on the steering wheel for a brief moment. “I was fine, too.” A squeeze. “But consider that you could be great, Eden. That you deserve to be great.”
She stepped back and waved as I opened my mouth to protest, to agree, to spill my guts, who knew?
Either way, I didn’t get a chance to express any of that.
Artie waved one more time then disappeared into the house.
And I sat in her driveway for long moments before gathering myself and driving away.
But I couldn’t deny that something inside of me had shifted.
A week since I’d seen baby Daphne and I was feeling . . . unsettled.
I was dreaming of Tim, of that time when I’d been so young and vulnerable, excited and hopeful for a happy ending, to find someone who would love me and—
It wasn’t to be.
I relied on myself, lived my life by myself.
That was better.
Except . . . I wasn’t really by myself, was I?
I had Artie and Pierce. I had Damon. I had my agent, my publicist, Maggie. I had loads of people . . . all of whom I paid or who’d been responsible for my paycheck.
With the exception of Damon.
No connection aside from . . . a connection.
We’d done Pizza Night the previous evening and it had been light, almost impersonal. He’d shown me some pictures he’d taken at Joshua Tree National Park and for as much as he liked to tell me that he wasn’t a good nature photographer, his shots of the harsh landscape and alien-esque trees were stark but beautiful.
But he hadn’t stayed long, just for carbs, photos, and one episode of a documentary called McMillion$—it followed the McDonald’s Monopoly scandal and was as crazy as it was interesting. But Damon and I were still tentative after our night together, after the scene in my bedroom.
He hadn’t worn long sleeves, and the Band-Aids on his arm were a blatant reminder of what had happened between us.
It made me quiet.
And sad.
And . . . the persistent ping in the back of my mind telling me that I was missing out, that I could have more if I only just—
Enough.
I pulled out the script and my pencil and started going through it again. There was a scene toward the climax that was going to be tricky to balance the comedy aspect of the film with my character’s growth.