Twice in a Blue Moon - Christina Lauren Page 0,107
can to respect your wishes, whatever they may be. If you’d like to have your manager or publicist send along a note to me with a response from you, I’d appreciate knowing that you’ve seen this email.
With love,
Sam
To: Tate Butler
From: S. B. Hill
Subject: RE: Milkweed
Date: Wednesday, July 24
Dear Tate,
We are two months out from filming, and I haven’t heard from your manager or your PR representative (Marco?). I still have no idea if you’ve even seen these. Should I tell Gwen? Should I contact Marco? I don’t want to betray your privacy. I don’t want to mess up your official PR story. You have a right to control the narrative, and I don’t know who knows.
I am an absolute fucking mess over this. I can’t wait to see you but am terrified that it’s going to be awful for you to see me.
I want to crawl out of my skin thinking about it.
If I could move past this, it would be easier. But I can’t. It looks like you have, and I’m glad for that, Tate, I really am.
I’m still in love with you (the real you, not the television version, not the magazine version. I’m in love with the girl who wanted to take charge of her life—fuck, the irony—who wanted to grab the world by the balls). You’re the reason I still feel like my life hasn’t started yet. It’s like I’m waiting for you to release me.
I can’t wait to be near you, and I just need to know that you’re seeing these.
I’ve loved you for so long, and I just need to know that you know.
Sam
To: Tate Butler
From: S. B. Hill
Subject: RE: Milkweed
Date: Thursday, July 25
Dear Tate,
I’m sorry about that last email. I’d been out late with some friends, had one too many drinks. It won’t happen again. I promise that I will be nothing but professional on set.
I am, as I’ve always been, yours,
Sam Brandis
It’s really only when I look up that I feel the tears running down my face. Marco is on the phone, pacing a few feet away. Mom is standing on the back porch with her arm around Nana’s shoulders; they’re both watching me intently.
“Two?” Marco says, pulling my attention back up to him. “That works. Business or better.”
“Two what?” I mouth when he looks at me.
“Thank you.” He hangs up and ignores me, looking up at the house. “Emma,” he calls. “Can you get some clothes packed for—”
“They’re all clean and folded,” Mom interrupts with a laugh, turning to head back inside. “I’ll put them in a bag.”
“Marco?” I ask, confused.
He looks down at me, blue eyes softening. “You don’t even need to say it, Tate. It’s written all over your face.” He grins. “But don’t worry. I just booked your ticket.”
There’s a no trespassing sign posted at the bottom of the long road, so the taxi stops near a white wooden gate.
“There were a bunch of reporters here last week,” the driver says, waiting while I run my card. “Whole road was blocked. Couldn’t even get up this way.”
I look up past the fence. Trees hide the house and most of the property. “Can you wait down here in case he isn’t home?”
He shakes his head. “That’s a ten-minute walk. I can give you a number to call if you need another ride, but it’s too long to just wait.”
Because Eden, Vermont, is bursting at the seams with cab fares, waiting for rides? I give him a tight smile and sign my receipt. “Thanks anyway.”
He gives me a questioning look in the rearview mirror. “Why didn’t you just call the house?”
“Don’t have the number,” I lie. That’s not exactly true. Sam had to change his number when the news broke, but the studio has it. I’m sure Marco does as well. It’s just that this is something I needed to do in person. I’m not a writer like Sam is; I couldn’t put what I want to say in an email or a text message. But I know how to love him in person. I don’t think I needed to know Roberta and Luther’s story in order to know that love like that can exist, but if it hadn’t been for Ellen, I’d never have figured it out.
I climb out of the car and reach for my bag. “Thanks.”
The driver waves in reply and pulls away, and I’m left staring down the long dirt road, framed by white split-rail fences on either side. I step forward,