“It’s not aboutwantingto sleep,” I murmured reflexively, with no real heat. I’d given up trying to explain narcolepsy to him years ago. Even my parents, who’d organized all the sleep studies and doctors’ visits and medication refills, still seemed to think my narcolepsy was about being too lazy to stay awake.
“And,” he added softly, “a baby on the way...”
Funny how things change. Up until a year and a half ago, I would have sworn to anyone who would listen that this was all I wanted. Michael and me, together, starting a family.
And I still wanted a family. I wanted it so badly it hurt sometimes. A child to hold and love and give the entire world...
Michael spoke before I could answer, pressing his forehead to mine. “I know I’ll have to earn your trust again, but I know I can, if you’d only give me a chance.” He let out a breath; it was warm against my lips. I didn’t know what I was feeling. “And I can’t lie, Winnie, seeing that picture of you, even if it was with another guy—I had no idea. No idea you were like that, that you couldlooklike that, and I...”
He moved the hand he was holding down between us and pressed my hand to his groin. Where he was undeniably hard as stone.
I snatched my hand back, staggering backward. “Michael, what thefuck?”
“Language, Winnie.”
“No, notlanguage.You just—you just—” I was so pissed, I couldn’t find the right words. “You think that I want to have sex with you ever again? We’re divorced! You cheated on me!”
His eyebrows pulled together in confusion. “Yes, but like I said—”
“Did my parents even tell you they wanted me to come home?”
He sighed, like I was being unbelievably childish right now. “Look, theywillwant you to come home once you’ve stopped this little rebellion of yours.”
“Go home, Michael,” I said, turning back toward the town. “Make yourTreasuressequel without me.”
“You’ll change your mind,” my ex-husband said. When I looked back at him, he didn’t seem angry or worried or anything other than contained and handsome. “There’s only so far you can go alone.”
Chapter Twelve
Kallum
After Michael had waltzed onto set, we took a break, which turned into an early wrap on my scene with Winnie.
I watched her walk right back into his arms, their hands clasped with the stupidly picturesque mountains behind them. I should have taken a photo for them to use for their next Christmas card.
I wasn’t off the hook so easily though. I filmed a North Pole (Santa’s North Pole, not the nacho cheese–scented den of vice outside of town) scene of the young Santa writing a letter to his parents, the original Mr. and Mrs. Claus. He was letting them know he was going on his Santa sojourn to sow his wild oats and maybe even find his soul mate. Gretchen called cut over andover because I was grinding my teeth or furrowing my brow too much. One time I even gripped the pencil so hard it snapped.
Finally, Pearl came over and held some purple crystal to my chest and coached me through breathing exercises. I wasn’t sure it worked, but it worked well enough for us to call it quits on such a car crash of a day.
I spent the whole night channeling my inner sad boy. I even shot off a text to the original sad boy, Isaac Kelly, who’d holed up in his Malibu mansion after his wife’s death and hadn’t come out.
Me:Wanna be sad together?
When he didn’t message me back, I got angry. And maybe had a few beers, so I texted the safest person in my phone who could handle me when I was sad and angry and a little drunk.
Me:Fuck Isaac, by the way.
I expected a text in reply, but instead I got a FaceTime.
With a groan, I threw myself back against the tiny love seat in my room and covered my face with a Christmas tree–shaped pillow before answering. I didn’t want him to see me like this.
“Kallum?” Nolan asked. “Is that you or a body-snatching Christmas tree pretending to be you?”
“It’s me,” I said. “You could have just responded with a text.”
“Yeah, well, a Tuesday nightFuck Isaacreally called for more than a text. So did I miss something?”
I peered out from behind the pillow. “I just... I feel for him and stuff. But why is he the only one who gets to be sad?”
