Between Never and Forever by Brit Benson

24

Sharon putsa thick manilla envelope on the counter and I curl my lip at the familiar cursive scrawled across it in black marker.

They just don’t fucking quit. I don’t even have to open it to know what’s in it, so I pick it up, walk it to the trashcan in the corner, and drop it in.

“At this point I bet this could classify as harassment,” Sharon says idly as I stare daggers at the envelope. If I were the dramatic sort, I would light it on fire and dance on the fucking ashes.

“They’ll give up eventually.”

I feel Sharon’s eyes on me as I speak, but I don’t look at her. She doesn’t believe my words any more than I do. I try to act unbothered, but she and I both know that I’ll be making a call to Clark Jessop, my lawyer, later just to double check that everything is still good. I have nothing to worry about. Just for the peace of mind.

“It’s been over two years,” Sharon states, and I nod.

Two years and five months. Just a few months before the hurricane hit.

That day is cataloged in my brain as both a blessing and a curse. Brynn was devastated and terrified, but also relieved, and she was far too young to have to grapple with such heavy things. Watching Julianna die slowly, withering away to nothing before my eyes, was impossibly difficult to handle. But watching Brynnlee watch it was worse.

Saying goodbye to your mom is hard at any age, but at five, Brynn had a more advanced understanding of mortality than most adults ever will. She will never have a memory of Julianna where she wasn’t sick. Even the good times were tainted, jagged and dangerous around the edges. Brynnlee will never know what her mother looked like healthy without the help of photos from the years before her birth. She will never remember a time with her mother that wasn’t shadowed by doctors’ appointments, and monitors, and the ever-present promise of death. I know she’ll never heal from that. She’s already grown around it. It’s part of her. It always will be.

My relationship with Jules’s parents was never a good one, but once she died and everything came to light, it was beyond saving. That’s fine with me. I expected it. I remind myself of that every time another of these fucking envelopes comes in the mail. But for Brynn’s sake, I wish it could have played out differently.

“You think Brynn misses them,” Sharon asks, and I glance at her out of the corner of my eye.

“She says she doesn’t,” I tell her honestly.

Sharon doesn’t respond. She just continues staring at the envelope in the trashcan with a frown.

I know what she’s thinking. Sharon loves Brynn as if she were her own granddaughter. I think part of Sharon even wishes she was. She’s done more for Brynn in the last two years than any of the others have since Brynn was born, but Sharon struggles with the guilt. She thinks that she’s not enough. She still worries that it’s wrong for her to be this close to us.

I struggle with it, too, honestly, but I’ll continue to struggle with it if it means Brynn can have another person in her life who loves her. She deserves that and more.

“The Larks are not good people, Sharon,” I say clearly. “Their love is conditional. It always has been. It doesn’t matter what they try to throw at her, the bribes or false promises or smoke shows, Brynn will never fall for it. She’s a smart kid.”

She nods and sighs, then brings her attention to my face.

“And the threats?”

I hold her gaze, and when I speak, my words come out angrier than I’d intended.

“I’ll worry about that.”

“You can’t do it on your own, Levi,” she replies, her voice lower and softer than before. “You should let me—”

“No.”

I cut her off firmly, and she doesn’t argue. I don’t want money from Sharon any more than I want it from the Larks. The business is in the clear now. I’ll pull ahead on the house soon. I don’t want Julianna’s life insurance money from her self-serving parents, and I won’t take Sharon’s rainy day fund. I don’t want any of it.

“Thank you,” I say more softly this time, “but no.”

Sharon nods reluctantly, and I shift my focus to the stairwell leading up to the second floor of my house, then shout up for Brynn.

“Boss, I’m heading out!”

I hear Brynn’s feet pattering across the ceiling and then down the stairs until she’s skidding to a halt in front of me. She’s already got her old backpack slung over her shoulder in preparation for the public library’s STEM summer camp. I’m glad she’s finally agreed to do something with kids her own age, but I’m not thrilled about the compromise I had to make. I managed to hold her off for a whole week, but she broke me down eventually.

“You promise you’ll ask her?” Brynn studies me suspiciously, eyes narrowed and ready to argue in case I go back on my word. I don’t know why she’s doubting me. I’ve not broken a promise yet. I don’t plan to start now.

“Yes.”

“Say you promise,” she insists, and I force a smile.

“I promise I will ask her.”

“Thank you, thank you, thank you.” Brynn wraps her arms around my legs in a hug. I reach down and run my open palm over her glossy brown curls.

“Remember, if you don’t finish out the week, then we don’t have a deal.”

She steps back from me and grins.

“Kay.”

I tell Sharon thank you once more for agreeing to take Brynn to and from the library this week, and then I head to my truck. My feet are heavy with each step, and my stomach churns with nerves. I’ve managed to avoid Savannah, and it hasn’t been hard. I think she’s been avoiding me, as well. But now, thanks to the promise I made to my daughter, I can’t avoid her any longer, and I can’t tell if I’m dreading this or excited for it. The entire drive to the studio, I have to fight off the urge to press harder on the gas. But do I want to speed to the studio, or turn the truck around and speed back home?

I’m just not sure.

I go through the gates and flash my badge, then drive through the lot and park in my designated spot. Then I just sit. I sit and stare at my dashboard. Am I working up courage? Am I calming my temper?

I don’t fucking know. It’s the most confusing form of edging.

“Fucking grow up,” I grumble to myself. “She’s just a fucking girl you used to know. She’s just a fucking girl.”

I take a deep breath, then climb out of the truck and slam the door.

Filming has already started, so instead of going by her trailer, I head to the set. My guys are finishing up the job turning the dirt lot into a nondescript New York City street corner, and despite the rush at which we needed to construct it, it looks good.

It’s crowded because we’re having to share the space with the painters and designers, but it looks like we’ve figured out a system that’s working. It also helps that we’re able to use existing exterior set buildings, so we just have to transform the look a bit. They’ll be able to start filming on it by the end of the week.

I inspect my guys’ work. I check the blueprints. I do some work of my own. I check the blueprints again. I talk to Jerry, the studio construction manager. I keep myself busy until I hear an announcement come through one of the radios that the actors are breaking for lunch soon. Then I put down my work and head to the sound studio.

They’re filming inside today, and right now, they’re wrapping up a scene in the kitchen.

The kitchen that I built to look like the one in my house, which I also built.

Savannah is perched atop my kitchen island wearing an oversized button-down, and her brown wig looks perfectly tousled. I step around one of the lighting guys to get a better look. There are coffee mugs sitting next to breakfast plates. A morning scene.

“I hate that you have to go in so early on a Saturday,” Savannah says dreamily, popping a piece of strawberry into her mouth. Then her co-star Paul comes into the room. He’s fixing his tie, wearing a button-down that looks just like the one hanging off Savannah’s body.

“I hate it, too,” he says before stepping in front of her. “But you’ll have me all day tomorrow, and then next weekend, it’s you and me and the Italian Riviera.”

“Mmmm,” she hums. “I can’t wait.”

From where I’m standing, I have the perfect vantage point of Savannah’s face, but only the back of Paul’s head. I don’t care, though. I can’t take my eyes off her, anyway.

The scene is a tender moment, and I know from my script read-through that it’s from the beginning of the movie before Savannah learns that Paul’s character is involved in shady business dealings that ultimately lead to the kidnapping of her younger sister.

In this scene, Savannah’s very much in love with Paul. She doesn’t want him to leave. She wants to stay in bed all day so they can continue trying for a baby. She’s looking at him with those big, lovey doe eyes, smiling flirtatiously with plump, mischievous lips, and I feel murderous.

It’s acting,I tell myself. It’s for the fucking movie.

But goddamn, it looks real. Just like her brunette wig looks real.

Savannah trails her hand down Paul’s chest. He tucks a strand of her hair behind her ear. I can tell from the way she’s looking up at him that they’re about to kiss.

I clench my hands into fists. Grit my teeth so hard the muscle in my jaw aches. I watch as he brings his hand to her face, cups her neck and brushes his thumb over her jaw. I hold my breath as he leans down, and I memorize the soft way Savannah watches him as she brings her hands to his waist.

The moment their lips touch, I see red. If I could send daggers with my eyes, they’d be lining Paul fucking Northwood’s spine. The kiss turns heated, and Savannah’s hands tighten in Paul’s shirt, and I’m practically shaking with jealousy and rage. When Savannah opens her mouth to welcome Paul’s tongue, I lose my grip and growl.

A low, feral, rabid wild animal fucking growl.

I feel the lighting guy next to me jump, but no one else seems to notice.

Except Savannah. Her eyes pop open and land on me immediately. She doesn’t even have to search. Like a magnet, our gazes snap together, and she freezes. It’s apparent to everyone, though it feels like it takes a million years for anyone to notice.

“CUT!” the director yells, shaking me out of my trance, and then I turn around and storm off the set.

I can’t do this. I can’t. I power walk through the sound stage, out into the parking lot, and all the way to my truck.

I can’t fucking do this to myself.

I brace my hands on the hood of my truck and drop my head. I squeeze my eyes shut and breathe. She’s looked at me like that before. She’s talked to me that way. She’s kissed me with just as much passion. More.

It’s acting. It’s just for a movie. And me and Sav are in the past. It’s over. It’s done. It doesn’t matter.

I kick my tire with every word as I scold myself.

“Fucking hell. Grow the fuck up.”

It’s that stupid fucking wig.

I refocus my attention. I think of the envelope that showed up in the mailbox this morning from Julianna’s parents. I didn’t open it, but I know it was filled with brochures for church camps and Christian therapy for Brynn. They probably threw in a bank statement, too. They usually do. Just to remind me of how much Jules’s life insurance payout was.

And then, because Helen works at the bank and thinks she’s above the law, there’s probably a statement in there of my mortgage. The one I took out to pay for Jules’s experimental treatments, despite knowing they likely wouldn’t work. They gave her one more year with Brynnlee, though, so I try not to regret it.

If the Larks really want to fuck with me, they could throw in my student loan debt that’s piling up. That one is especially frustrating because I don’t have a degree to show for it. Or if they got their hands on the business books from a few weeks ago, they’d use those dismal numbers to their advantage as well.

I remind myself of the other things they’d use to their advantage if they could.

I remind myself of the promise I made.

I think of Brynn.

Then, like the fucking grown man that I am, I stand straight and head back to the studio. I walk through one of the side doors and weave my way back through the sound stage. When I get to the kitchen set, it’s empty but for a few sound and lighting techs.

“She’s in her trailer, if that’s who you’re looking for,” a voice says, and I turn to find a girl with a clipboard and a headset. It’s the same girl I’ve seen carting Savannah around the studio. I raise an eyebrow and she blinks. “I’m Dakota. I’m a PA. I’m assigned to Sava—I mean, Ms. Loveless.”

I tilt my head to the side and narrow my eyes.

“What makes you think I’m looking for Ms. Loveless?”

The girl fidgets a little with the hem of her shirt and shifts her weight between her feet as she lets out a little laugh.

“Aren’t you all?”

I don’t answer. I blow a harsh breath through my nose, nod in thanks, then turn on my heel and head to Sav’s trailer. Aren’t you all? What the fuck is that supposed to mean?

I keep my head down and avoid eye contact. I walk right past everyone and keep my feet pointed in the direction of the cast trailers, until I’m stepping up to the one with Sav Loveless brandished on the door. I raise my hand to knock, but my knuckles never connect.

Instead, I drop my hand back to my side and listen.

Music. An acoustic guitar. And Sav’s voice.

She must be playing inside, and I’m frozen in place, rocketed back to a dark corner in a dingy D.C. dive bar. My heart races, my throat tightens, and I have the urge to sink further into the shadows so I can listen safely.

Just one more, honey

Just one more

Whiskey and orange

What are we waiting for?

Your spicy lips.

Your citrus tongue.

My drugged regrets

What have I done?

I avoid this song at all costs, yet I could still recite the lyrics from memory. I can still close my eyes and picture her up on that stage, holding a beat-up guitar and wearing a ripped Joan Jett shirt and a short denim skirt.

I wrote this one for a guy I thought I loved, she’d said to the crowd, and it awwwww’d in response before she started singing. Every word was a vise around my heart, my windpipe. Every note was a knife to the chest.

Streetlamp silhouette,

wore my shoes out on that pavement.

Thought you were my safe place, baby,

look how wrong I’ve been.

“She’s good, isn’t she?”

Paul Northwood’s voice comes from behind me, and I turn slowly to find him standing only a few feet away, carrying a craft services bag. I look from his face to the bag and back to his face. He grins and lifts the bag up.

“Came to see if she’d want to run lines. Brought her and Red some lunch.”

The muscle in my cheek twitches with the need to sneer. I don’t like that he knows Red’s name. I don’t like that he’s bringing her lunch. I don’t like that the scene he’s likely wanting to run lines for is the one I’d interrupted earlier.

“How’s your girlfriend, Paul?”

His smile falters, caught off guard by my question. When he doesn’t answer, I raise an eyebrow.

“That model,” I clarify, and his brow furrows.

“Oh, well, she and I aren’t together anymore,” he says slowly.

I look him over. He’s changed out of the outfit he was wearing earlier and is now in a pair of athletic shorts and a plain t-shirt. The shoes on his feet could probably make one of my mortgage payments.

“Is there a problem?” he asks, and I bring my eyes back to his.

“You tell me.” I hold eye contact for a few breaths. He laughs awkwardly, and I tilt my head to the side. “You’re not her type, Paul. She’s not going to fuck you.”

Northwood’s jaw drops open, then he sputters out a bumbling attempt at a defense.

“What? No, I didn’t...I’m just running lines. I’m not—”

“Good. Don’t. If you do, well, it sure would be a shame if one of these set walls came loose and just toppled over, wouldn’t it?”

He blinks at me in shock. I keep my face blank. Then the trailer door swings open.

I step back and look into Savannah’s surprised face. Her eyes dart from me to Paul, and she tilts her head to the side before raising a brow at me.

“Did you need something?”

Her curt tone makes my nostrils flare, and then she looks over my shoulder and gives Paul a smile that makes me consider elbowing him right in his American Heartthrob face. It’s probably insured.

“Sorry, Paul. Give me just a sec, okay?”

She bats her eyelashes at him, all sweet and welcoming, but when she looks back at me, it disappears. We lock eyes, but she doesn’t say anything else.

“Brynn would like it if you could give her guitar lessons,” I say flatly, and the shocked look that flashes over Savannah’s face gives me a spark of excitement.

“Really?” she asks, and then she narrows her eyes at me again. “What’s the catch?’

“No catch. She agreed to go to the STEM day camp this week at the public library, and in return, I told her she could have the lessons.”

Savannah smirks. “She played you.”

I don’t answer, but she definitely did.

“I’ve got some conditions, though,” I say, and Savannah nods. “You don’t take her off set. I don’t want her anywhere near those paparazzi vultures that follow you around. And no photos on social media. I don’t want—”

“The association to Sav Loveless,” she finishes for me.

I don’t confirm or deny. She’s not exactly right, but she’s not wrong either. With Sav comes media attention. I don’t need that.

At my silence, Savannah lets out a humorless chuckle and rolls her eyes.

“Got it. When do you want to start? My filming schedule is weird, but we can figure it out.”

Now it’s my turn to smirk.

“Let’s start middle of next week,” I say, taking a step backwards. “I feel like it will be easier to coordinate then. See ya later, Rockstar.”