Twice in a Blue Moon - Christina Lauren Page 0,106

did everything too fast last time.” I frown. “And the time before that. I figure this is the time to really think it through and be sure.”

“My parents moved in together after a week,” he says and shrugs. “They’ve been married for fifty-two years. What’s fast to some, isn’t fast to everyone.”

I consider that, wanting it to be true. I think about the first day of filming, seeing him on the trail, and the way it all came back in a rush. Sometimes I’m glad I didn’t have any warning. Would I have still accepted the part? Looking back, it almost seems like fate that—

I stop, my mind snagging on that detail. Something must change in my posture or my expression, because Marco is suddenly leaning toward me.

“Tate?”

His emails.

I reach for my phone in the pocket of my sweater, and start searching through the emails that Terry archived. I scroll through months and months and then there, Tuesday, January 8.

Thursday, March 14.

Wednesday, July 24.

Thursday, July 25.

My head is spinning. I hold my breath, and I read.

To: Tate Butler

From: S. .B. Hill

Subject: Milkweed

Date: Tuesday, January 8

Dear Tate,

I’m not sure how to start this email. In fact, I’ve spent years thinking how to start an email to you, but given the news I’ve just heard, I can’t afford to linger too much on the wording.

First, in case you didn’t put the penname to the person, it’s Sam, from London. I realize I have no right writing you. I fully intended to leave you alone after what I did, but this particular situation warrants a heads-up.

You see, I am the writer of Milkweed, and as I understand it, you’ve just signed on for the role of Ellen. From the looks of things, we will be shooting on a small farm in Northern California. The cast and crew are going to be housed together on the farm for the duration of the shoot.

I believe it’s early enough for you to back out if you wish; no announcements have been made yet, and Gwen tells me we are still a few weeks out from making one.

I’m sitting here, wondering if it’s worth saying all of the things I’ve stored up for the past fourteen years, but in truth I’d be crazy to think you’d want to hear any of it.

As much as I’d love for you to play Ellen, I understand if you back out.

I wish you nothing but the best in life, Tate.

All my love,

Sam

To: Tate Butler

From: S. B. Hill

Subject: RE: Milkweed

Date: Thursday, March 14

Hi Tate,

Things have gone along in the development of the film; the cast is coming together, the crew and location are being finalized. For all I knew, you were still involved. But when I saw the announcement in Variety today, I panicked, wondering whether you’d seen my first email. I’m not sure if it’s too late for you to back out; contractually, I don’t know how these things work. But the idea that you wouldn’t know about the film, and the backstory, before coming on set makes me feel nauseated.

I need to tell you a little bit about Luther and Roberta. My life with them was good. Better than good, it was the best kind of life. Free-range, bottomless love. Wisdom and commitment to community. Anyone who crossed paths with them was lucky to have known them—I was by far the luckiest for having been raised by them.

I think of this sometimes and wonder whether my decision made your life better or worse in the long run. It’s impossible for me to know. I carry the weight of my guilt with me every day, every step. I don’t say that to mean it should be a concern on your end; more that we’ve both had these inflection points in our lives where, unbeknownst to us, someone is making an enormous decision that will impact us forever. I’ve thought about this in hindsight quite often. What an arrogant kid I was.

It’s important to me that you know that none of it was premeditated. What I felt for you—to be honest, what I still feel for you—was genuine. I made the call on impulse, in a panic.

That phone call got me ten more years with Luther. I’ve examined it from every angle, but I wouldn’t trade those years for anything.

When we see each other on set, I’m sure it will be strange at first. If I am especially strange, I’m sorry for that, too. I’ll do everything I