[Fontaines 01.0] The Sweet Taste of Sin Page 21

  I wonder how his script is coming. He didn’t seem particularly inclined to talk about it last night, but maybe he’ll give me the details in time. I’ve watched him pour his soul into his writing, and I can only imagine the creative and emotional stress he’s enduring right now. Every screenwriter dreams of penning the next big blockbuster, but there must be an intense amount of pressure following such a success.

  I’m so lost in these thoughts that I don’t notice that the wind has strengthened until it’s too late. My only warning is a sudden flapping of paper, and suddenly Dante’s notes are everywhere, blown across the room by a sudden gust.

  “Crap,” I mutter under my breath, hastily yanking the window shut. I pray that Dante’s notes weren’t in any particular order as I race across the room, frantically gathering them up.

  I don’t mean to look at them. But I spent so many years admiring his work that it’s hard to ignore the pull of those pages in my hands. I fell in love with his passion, and these words are his art. I’d almost swear I can feel the power of them pulsing off the paper.

  Most of the sheets I have in my hand are character sketches. Nearly all of them have “Cataclysm: Aftermath” scribbled across the top of the page, so it’s no great leap to assume these are related to Cataclysm: Earth’s sequel. The top sheet in my hand says “Jax Walton — Luca” under the title, and I guess from the notes that follow that he was sketching out the character arc for his brother’s part. It’s fascinating to read—after a quick bullet list of his physical appearance, Dante goes into an entire personality breakdown of the character. He lists strengths, weaknesses, fears, hidden desires… It’s like looking into a master storyteller’s head. I wrote a number of scripts and stories while I was in film school, but I never examined my characters this closely.

  The page beneath Jax Walton’s is for a female character named Isabel Alonso. This one has “Emilia” written next to the character name, so it’s no mystery who belongs to this part. Part of me wants to read Isabel’s description, but another part of me doesn’t want to think about Emilia at all, let alone examine the character Dante wrote for her. Besides, I probably shouldn’t even be looking at these notes in the first place.

  I quickly gather up the rest of the scattered pages, determined to keep my eyes to myself. But as I’m adding the last one to the stack in my hands, a single word on the sheet catches my eye.

  Ashlyn.

  I freeze. And though I try to tear my gaze away, that’s impossible now that I’ve seen my name. Why is my name in Dante’s notes?

  This sheet of paper is titled “Ashley Holtz — to be cast.” Unlike the other character profiles I glanced at, this one is heavily marked up. Half of the notes are crossed out, and others are squeezed into the margins. There are at least four different shades of pen at work here, which means he’s probably come back and reworked this character several times.

  My name appears halfway down the page in red pen: “Like Ashlyn.” Ashlyn is underlined three times.

  You’re not supposed to be reading this! a part of my brain screams. But how can I turn away now? And why wouldn’t Dante tell me he was basing a character on me?

  My eyes skim over the page, focusing mainly on anything in red ink—which I’m guessing was written about the same time he scribbled the bit with my name. The physical description of the character doesn’t resemble me much at all, but then I get to this section of her description: “Orphaned as a child. Owned her own small business before the disaster. Something creative—bakery, pottery studio, plant nursery, or similar. Struggling business?”

  That stings a little, but I guess my little bakery would hardly seem successful to a guy who makes millions of dollars a year. I definitely wouldn’t turn down more business, but it’s still not exactly pleasant to see that note on the page.

  He’s just using you as inspiration, I tell myself. This is fiction, not fact.

  But my stomach only sinks further as I continue reading: “STRENGTHS: Tenacious. Passionate. Kindhearted. WEAKNESSES: Too emotional. Impulsive. Acts without thinking.” And a few lines below that, next to a crossed-out section: “Naïve. Should she have some emotional baggage? A guy from her past—the only guy she’s ever loved. Never got over him. Hasn’t been with anyone else, even years later. Emotionally volatile around him.” And below that: “Very vulnerable, physically and emotionally. Needs protecting.”

  It all hits too close to home to be merely coincidence—especially with my name right there on the page. By the time I’m done reading, I feel like I’m going to throw up. Jack’s words float to the front of my mind: How many times does he have to hurt you before you start seeing sense? This wasn’t the kind of hurt I was expecting, but the pain cuts just as deep. Last night, when he promised to protect me, I thought he’d be guarding me from the judgment of the rest of the world—not participating in it.

  At once, the maelstrom of emotions I’ve been fighting swells forward. I knew this was too good to be true. I knew it was all too much, too fast. There are still so many things I don’t know about this man, still parts of his life I have yet to see, but it’s too late—I’ve given him my heart. Made myself vulnerable. And he’s putting that vulnerability in a movie for everyone to see, exposing it to millions. It doesn’t matter if no one knows it’s me—I will know. He’s putting my heart, my pain, on his page, when I’ve spent so long trying to keep those things safe to myself.

  I’m still fighting nausea as a pair of arms slide around my waist from behind.

  “Good morning,” Dante says against my hair.

  His just-woken-up voice is scratchy and raw, and on any other morning it would have made my toes curl. Today, though, I just feel sick.

  “I never said you were allowed to leave the bed,” he murmurs, sliding a hand beneath the robe to find my breast. “I’m not done with you yet.”

  Even the promises of his body can’t chase away the chill that’s come over me. “Dante, what is this?”

  I can tell the exact moment his eyes land on the sheet of paper because his fingers freeze. “Where did you get that?”

  “Your notes blew off the table and I was picking them up.” I shouldn’t have looked at them, I know, but it’s too late for such regrets. “Is this a character in your script? You’re using this? Using me?”

  He doesn’t speak for a long moment. Too long. And when the words finally come, he talks slowly, as if choosing every word carefully. “Writers use real people as inspiration sometimes, Ash. It helps us create characters that feel authentic. But a lot of influences go into a character. Bits and pieces from different people and different experiences.”

  I’m still frozen in his arms. “Her name is Ashley.”

  “That was the director’s decision. It’s his girlfriend’s name—purely a coincidence.”

  “But this note about me isn’t a coincidence. You have a comment about her running a bakery… about her having emotional baggage…” But my eyes keep going back to the weaknesses: Too emotional. Impulsive. Acts without thinking. Even as part of a fictional character, they sting. It’s like having all of my worst traits spelled out. And the fact that Dante has recognized them and is using them as part of his work is just too much.

  “Ash,” he says, pulling the notes out of my hands. “You’re a fascinating woman. That’s why you’ve found a way into my work.” He tosses the notes on the bed behind us and turns me around in his arms. “I’ve been struggling with this script for months. The studio didn’t like the first draft I turned in. They wanted me to add a bunch of new characters and rewrite the entire second and third acts. I’d hit a wall.” His hands come up to cup my face. “And then you came back into my life—you with your smart mouth and your passion and your energy—and suddenly I found the words flowing again. I saw this character in my head and she had all of your vibrancy, all of your emotion.”

  “Too much emotion, apparently,” I whisper. My throat aches, but my eyes are strangely dry. For once, I feel like a hollow, emo
tionless shell. “And all of my baggage, too.” I pull out of his arms. “I’m not perfect, I know that. But I’ve spent the last few years beating myself up for being too emotional. For acting without thinking. For letting my heart get in the way of my better sense. My best friend just accused me of those very things—he thought I was crazy to come back to you. And I was afraid he was right, that I was being naïve and impulsive and stupid for letting my emotions make my decision for me.” I back up another step, shaking my head. “But I thought that you, at least, would defend that decision. That you saw my choice as something wonderful, something inevitable. But you think those traits are weaknesses, too.” Is this why he’s been hesitant to talk about his work around me?

  He moves toward me. “Ashlyn, I think I’ve made it more than clear how I feel about you. I don’t care what your friend thinks. You belong with me.”

  “You’re missing the point,” I say, throwing out my hand to keep him from getting closer. “I don’t expect you to think I’m perfect. But to have you call out all of my issues… for you to use them like this, use our relationship history as inspiration… Do you have any idea what this has done to me, letting you back into my life? I don’t even feel like myself half the time anymore. I’ve been terrified that it would all come crashing down again, fighting myself at every turn, hating myself for being weak.” My eyes are burning now, but they’re still perfectly dry. And my voice remains steady and cold. “I know I wasn’t supposed to see these notes. But God, you have no idea how it feels to have the person you love consider exposing your pain to the world. Sharing your baggage for everyone to see.” In fact, it feels like a knife right to the gut—or is that just another overemotional reaction?

  I feel exposed, stripped. All of my fears and doubts are threatening to pull me under. Maybe he’s right—maybe I’m not strong enough for this. Not for the intensity of emotion or for the spotlight or for the glimpse into his art—if I can’t handle a character, a work of fiction, how can I handle a life with him?

  Dante steps closer. “Ash, I’m sorry.”

  “This isn’t something an apology can fix.” No, this goes much deeper than that. I take another step back toward the door. “But I’m glad you finally found a way I could help you with some aspect of your career.” Maybe, as usual, I’m just being naïve. Unrealistic. But the feelings I have for Dante are beyond intense, beyond anything I’ve ever felt for anyone else. And the way he’s looked at me, kissed me, made love to me… made me feel like he worshiped me. But if he’s willing to put this character on the screen, then he’s not the man I thought he was. Maybe all of this is just an illusion. I’ve been willfully blind because I wanted to believe I was strong enough to handle things this time.

  Too emotional. Impulsive. Acts without thinking. A checklist of my shortcomings. All the things I’ve been trying to fight since Dante broke my heart the first time. I never got stronger, never learned.

  “I think I need to… to think,” I say. “I need to go.”

  He shakes his head. “You’re safer here. The paparazzi are still going to be looking for you. We need to make sure you aren’t getting harassed.”

  The note at the bottom of his character sketch jumps into my mind: Very vulnerable, physically and emotionally. Needs protecting.

  “I can handle it,” I tell him—even though I know the words are a lie. This is all a lie. “Please, Dante. Just let me go.”

  His dark eyes are fixed on me, searching me. His jaw is tight, his shoulders tense. He looks like he’s one breath away from lunging toward me.

  “Please, Dante.” I need to get out of here before I completely fall apart. Before the last shreds of my armor are torn away. I hear Jack’s voice again in my head: This wouldn’t be the first time you let your emotions get in the way of your better judgment. What made me ever think this relationship was a good idea? It’s all too much. Too much.

  Maybe it’s the look in my eyes. Maybe it’s the fact that I still haven’t shed a tear. Maybe he just doesn’t know what to make of me right now. But he gives a single nod.

  And I escape while I can, before this empty, hollow feeling abandons me and he has the chance to add “weepy, pathetic mess” to the sheet of paper.

  * * *

  Mama Pat is my savior. She picks me up from Dante’s house, and I don’t think I’ve ever been happier to have a mama hen in my entire life.

  The moment I slide into her car she looks me up and down. “Need to talk about it, honey?”

  I shake my head. If I say a word about Dante, I’ll lose my carefully maintained self-control, and I’m barely holding myself together as it is.

  “Thank you for coming to get me,” I tell her. “Normally I’d have called Jack, but he and I aren’t exactly on good terms right now.”

  “You know I’m always here for you, my dear.”

  I do know. Mama Pat’s been the closest thing I’ve had to a mother since my own died, and something about the way she’s looking at me now—with compassion and understanding—softens me. I need a friend, a mom, right now.

  “I’m an idiot,” I say, leaning my head against the car window. “I should have known I wasn’t strong enough to handle this. I knew I was being stupid and emotional… but I let myself fall right back into his arms.”

  “Don’t be too hard on yourself,” Mama Pat says.

  I let my eyes fall closed. My head and chest feel heavy, like I should be sobbing—but I must have finally reached a breaking point because the tears don’t come.

  “I don’t know what I’m doing,” I tell her. “Part of me knows I’m in way over my head, and the other part thinks I’m overreacting. And I don’t know which part to listen to. It’s all a mess. I’ve screwed up everything. Everything was going so well for me before he came back into my life—I had a business I loved, good friends, a life I enjoyed. Now I’ve had to close my bakery and my best friend is mad at me and I feel like I’ve lost control of everything. I’ve been so stupid.”

  Mama Pat is silent for a long moment. And then, “Love does strange things to people. If it doesn’t turn your life completely upside down, then it’s probably not love.”

  “Maybe some people just aren’t equipped to deal with it,” I say, opening my eyes.

  “No one is, honey.”

  Another time, I might have smiled. But it’s hard to get my lips to move when my insides are in such a jumble. I press my fingers against the glass of the window, lining them up with a set of smudgy prints someone left there. In my mind I can still see Dante’s eyes, still hear the intensity of his voice. I’m not strong enough for this. For him.

  “He had a bunch of notes about me,” I say softly. “Or—not me, exactly. But a character based on me. She had all of my baggage.” I flatten my palm against the glass. “I know it sounds silly and petty, but when I saw all of those things written down… God, it just felt like someone had reached inside of me and ripped my heart out. I knew that dating Dante came with its own set of complications, but I just thought… He’s the only man I’ve ever loved, Mama Pat. In a twisted way I thought we were living our own little fairy tale. I thought the man who loved me was supposed to accept all of my issues. Not expose them to the world to further his career. He said he was going to protect me, but who’s going to protect me from him? I feel so… so bare around him. And he was willing to show that to the world.” I let out a long breath. “God, this all sounds so ridiculous when I say it out loud. I’m sorry.”

  “First of all,” Mama Pat says, “don’t you ever apologize for how you feel. There’s no shame in emotions.” She glances over at me. “Some people spend most of their lives hiding their emotions. Or burying them down so deep that even they don’t recognize what they’re feeling. If something in this life makes you feel something, let it. Don’t judge yourself for it.”

  “Even when it makes things worse?” Even when others judge you for it?

  “Ashlyn, dear, I’m pretty sure I only know half the story, but from where I’m sit
ting, you’ve had a very overwhelming couple of weeks. And you’ve spent the last few years working your butt off, pouring your heart and soul into the bakeshop and never giving yourself a chance to breathe. Take a few days and get some rest. You’ll think clearer when you’ve given yourself a little break.”

  Taking a break is the last thing I want to do—honestly, I want nothing more than to throw myself back into my baking, to bury my hands in flour and work out all of these churning emotions in a batch of dough. But I’m not going to go back to my bakery, not when there are probably still paparazzi and reporters looking for me there. Not when that’s one of the first places Dante will come looking for me. I’m afraid to even go home.

  “Mama Pat,” I say, sitting up as her car nears my home. “I should probably warn you that there were reporters outside of my house last night. I don’t know if they’re still there.”

  She frowns. “Oh, honey. Has it gotten that bad?”

  She turns onto my street, but—thank God—there are no paparazzi to be seen. Still, there are a handful of subtle clues that they were here—footprints in the gravel next to my mailbox, cigarette butts in the street. I wonder if they plan on returning.

  I’m not strong enough for this.

  “I tell you what, my dear,” Mama Pat says as she pulls into my driveway. “Why don’t you come stay with William and me for a few days? I hate the idea of you being here all alone if they come back.”

  “I’ll be fine,” I tell her. I don’t want to have to rely on anyone.

  But she gives me a look that says she knows me too well. “There’s no shame in accepting help when it’s offered. You need someone to make sure you’re getting enough food and rest.”

  I’m too exhausted to argue. “All right. Let me go grab some things.”

  I only pause once during the packing process, and that’s to pull out my phone. It’s been off since yesterday, and I cringe when I see how many messages are waiting for me. I don’t check to see whether they’re from reporters or Dante or someone else. I just shoot off a quick message to Jack.