My Google alerts tell me Wyatt's on The Late Show with Jackson Billows. Every time I try to convince myself it's perfectly normal to have a Google alert on your former boyfriend from ten years ago, I realize I sound crazy. I avoid analyzing it.
I don't follow him on any social media, so the alerts are all I have. Publicly fanning the flames isn't good. #Wyllie will never be making a repeat.
As I fold laundry, I flip to The Late Show and dial my sister. She'll still be awake. She keeps the weirdest hours of anyone I know.
Nikki doesn't say hello like a normal person, instead she says, "I hope you had a good flight back. You're not watching The Late Show. Please tell me you've turned off the TV."
"My flight was good," I say and then I add, "It's idle curiosity." I tuck the phone between my ear and neck. Calling her was a bad idea.
"You can call it curiosity, I call it obsession," Nikki says, her voice tight.
"Tomayto, tomahto. How's Haven?"
"She went to bed fine. Want me to drop her off after school tomorrow?"
"Do you mind?" I finish the last piece of folding. "Oh," I breathe. Wyatt struts onto the stage, and I wish my screen was bigger. Maybe I need a bigger TV.
"I'll let you go," Nikki says with a mirthless laugh.
I hang up without comment and go around the couch, getting comfortable. In these moments, when I'm transfixed and hungry for the sight of him, a little voice in the back of my head tells me something isn't quite right. Ten years and the sight of him on a television is enough to snatch my breath, make my heart race. His effect on me is like a burn that won't heal.
I have a boyfriend. A very nice, normal, non-famous boyfriend, who I keep out of the spotlight. Acting is a job now, and less of a lifestyle. Seeing Wyatt, knowing the life I have now is better, shouldn't make me nostalgic for what once was. We were bad for each other, or maybe he was just bad for me, but in any event, we didn't work, couldn't work.
Wyatt takes his seat, and I resist the urge to lean forward. I don't go to his movies—I'm not interested in pretend Wyatt, but I can never resist his interviews. If I still did drugs, he'd be my crack.
They banter back and forth, and I'm drowning. Wyatt, when he turns on the charm, when he sucks up all the oxygen in the room, is breathtaking. Jackson shuffles the cards on his desk. A nervous habit. I've been a guest on his show enough times to recognize the pattern. I narrow my eyes. Why would Jackson be nervous? He and Wyatt have been real, legitimate friends for years.
Wyatt appears sober, which is a nice change. Sober Wyatt was always my favorite, and he's wearing a suit that fits him like a glove. My eyes travel the length of his body, taking in his broad shoulders and narrow hips. When he gestures toward Jackson, his biceps flex under the suit coat. He looks good—too good.
I slap my face lightly and shake my head. No. No. No. If I saw him in person, I'd go the other way. I've been turning away for ten years. Sober, witty Wyatt in a nice suit can't change the past, the choices we made.
Jackson squares his shoulders and grins. Wyatt tugs at the neck of his shirt. It's brief, but it's there. I sit forward. Another nervous habit. They're both nervous. Why?
"So, are you single right now?" Jackson's words are a softball. "No one special in your life?"
The crowd goes wild, and I cringe. I hate that question, for him, for me.
"You know," Wyatt says. "I've been thinking a lot about old flames that still flicker." He winks at the camera.
Jackson laughs. "Old flames. Give us a little hint?"
Wyatt opens his jacket and leans into the couch, throwing one arm over the back. Confidence blasts from him like a siren's call. My heart rate picks up.
"Have you got a photo, Jackson? Help a guy out?"
Jackson rotates in his chair and an old photo of me and Wyatt pops up on the screen behind him.
My heart threatens to gallop away, and I clutch my chest.
Oh, my God. What is he doing?
My stomach flips, and my phone comes to life, buzzing on the coffee table. I glance down to see Nikki's name. I send her to voicemail. My gaze zooms back to the screen. When my phone buzzes again, I don't even look, I send it to voicemail. Bile rises in my throat, and I swallow it down.
Shit. Is this really happening?
The crowd bursts to life with wolf whistles, cat calls, and screaming. More than one old photo of me and Wyatt flips across the screen. The memories. Oh, God. The memories.
"Ellie Cooper." Wyatt draws out my name like he's licking an ice cream cone, his eyes glued to the last photo of us.
Ten years since I've heard my name leave his lips. The genuine animation in him, the love on his face when he looks at the photo, softens me, even as rage builds deep in my gut. He loved me so hard once.
"Have you and Ellie been in touch?" Jackson asks.
Why is he going along with Wyatt's asinine chatter? I will tear Jackson apart for agreeing to be part of this ridiculous public spectacle. I'm never going on his show again. He's dead to me. I'm half tempted to call my manager right now, but I want to see where this is going. After all these years, why would he bring me up on such a highly public forum?
"I'm hoping to get reacquainted with her really soon." Wyatt laughs. "Anyone know how I can get in touch with her?" His expression of hopeful bewilderment plays to the crowd.
His brazenness is achingly familiar. He wasn't the only one who'd loved hard.
"Wyllie was huge when you two were together. I think people even wore t-shirts picking sides when you split. The two of you have never spoken publicly about what happened."
Wyatt's grin fades. "Ellie's a classy woman." He holds up a finger. "The best woman. I mean, look at that face." He points to another, more recent photo that's appeared behind Jackson. "Brains, beauty, the biggest heart. Our breakup was my fault—completely my fault. I couldn't give up the drugs." Then, he adds, "I didn't want to get off them then."
"And where are you at now?"
Wyatt or his people approved all these questions. Unbelievable. He rarely talks about his drug use. We've never spoken about each other. You ask, you get blacklisted from talking to me. I assumed Wyatt had the same rule since he'd never talked about me openly either. A constant stream of buzzing comes from my phone as calls, texts and social media notifications flood it. If I ever see Wyatt again, it'll be too soon. I'm ghosting the jackass harder than I have been the last ten years. Is that even possible? We'll see.
"I've been drug free for two years now. I'd never tell anyone sobriety is easy, but I'm ready to put the past behind me."
Sure, Wyatt. All talk. He might be sober right at this moment, but completely sober for two years? Impossible. His morning routine consisted of popping some pills and drinking a coffee, often chased with a few shots of alcohol or a couple beers. Wyatt, even when he looked sober, was never stone cold sober. Just a taste. A little something to take the edge off. There was always an edge that needed dulled. To be on stage talking about them, well, he must be on something.
"I'm sure people battling their demons take a lot of hope from your words." Jackson turns to the audience. "I think we all thought when Isaac died as he did that tragedy have been enough motivation to get sober."
Did he just say Isaac? He's letting Jackson talk about Isaac. Wow. Talk about a shot across the bow.
Wyatt tips his head. "It should have been."
Sometimes I hate myself for watching these interviews.
"Remind me again where you and Ellie met?" Jackson stares at Wyatt with raised eyebrows. He knows. Everyone knows. We had the biggest movie in the world the year it came out.
"On the set of Love Letters from Spain," Wyatt says. "Ellie—well, she's the greatest love of my life." His eyes bore into the camera, coming through the screen, threatening to burrow back into my soul. "I was a fool before, but I'm not a fool anymore."
In a panic, I turn off the TV. Then, I quickly turn it back on.
What in the world is he doing? Why is he doing this?
Jackson laughs. "You're going to reignite #Wyllie fans."
He did not just do that. Another great rush of buzzing comes from my phone, but I refuse to look at the notifications. People can think what they want. I don't need to answer to anyone. Besides, I'll have levitated off this island to commit Jackson's murder soon.
"Maybe they deserve to be reignited." Wyatt winks at the camera again, a cocky, playful smile bursting onto his face.
This time when I turn off the TV, I do it with finality. We wouldn't have needed to be reignited if the jackass chose me instead of an eight ball.
Emotions are rushing through me, hard to identify. Anger, for sure. Fear. But under those is one I don't want to consider because it feels a lot like hope. What could I possibly hope for? He's lying. Wyatt lies. He's not sober.
I pray my manager is mobilizing my PR staff, otherwise this stunt could spin out of control. It took years for the swirl around us to die down enough for me to spend more than a few days at a time in Los Angeles. Those damn team t-shirts were everywhere, breaking my heart, mocking my choice.
In a daze, I wander down the narrow hall to my bedroom at the back. Although I can afford a lavish house, I have a small three-bedroom bungalow on an oceanfront lot. It's not fancy, but it's perfect. I never needed all the Hollywood pomp and circumstance, just the right place and people. Wyatt never understood that.
My security intercom buzzes, and I go to the nearest receiver to press the button. "Just about to go to bed, Freddie. What's up?"
"Uh, Ellie, I have a man here who wants to see you." His voice is tentative.
"It's late. I have jet lag. No one who knows me would come this late." I frown. Probably some stray member of the press here on holiday, seizing the opportunity to secure an interview before I get swarmed tomorrow.
"It's Mr. Wyatt Burgess, Ms. Ellie, and he says he isn't leaving until you agree to speak to him."
Ice freezes my veins and then fire chases it out. Turns out I don't need to levitate off the island to commit murder tonight. "Oh, Freddie. I have a thing or two to say to Mr. Burgess. You can deliver him to the door."
"Yes, ma'am." A grin is evident in his voice. He must have watched The Late Show, too.
I check my appearance in the hall mirror and then scold myself. I don't care how I look. I'll see him just to tell him to go to hell. National television to declare his undying love after ten years and a series of bad choices. I don't think so. Not happening. Going to the side entrance where all expected guests are delivered, I swing open the door.
Immediately, I realize my mistake. He's taller than I remember, which seems ridiculous. That's not all, though. No, his dark hair is a little darker, his blue-green eyes more electric, everything jumps at me all at once.
My heart does one loud, crushing thump and falls to pieces.
Ten years, gone in a heartbeat.