Page 22 of Never Been Matched
“No, I’m an only child.” His head tilts. “My parents were older, so it was always on the quiet side growing up. What about you? Don’t you have a sister?”
My chest aches when I think about Audrey. I haven’t seen her in three years. “Yeah. Audrey.”
“Vivien and Audrey. Great names. Very classic Hollywood.”
“Yeah. Mother loves Vivien Leigh and Audrey Hepburn. I’m more of a Katharine Hepburn kinda gal.” I wave a hand. “Anyway, Audrey is six years younger than me, so I don’t really feel like we grew up together.”
Except it’s not the age gap that kept us apart. When Audrey was little, from when she was a toddler until she was about ten or eleven, we were really close. She looked up to me, mimicked me, and wanted to be around me all the time. And I adored her. She was a cherubic child who was quick to laugh and loved being silly.
But then Mother said we were too close and that our relationship was weird. She insisted I needed friends my own age. I shouldn’t spend so much time with Audrey.
She kept us apart more often than not, and when I had breaks from filming, I was sent to Surrender with Beverly or to private schools for tutoring. I didn’t miss Mom or my stepdad. He was nice enough, just . . . passive. Like all Mother’s husbands. Easy for her to manipulate. But I did miss Audrey.
I shake away the thoughts, focusing on the conversation. “I do feel like I grew up with two brothers, because of Whit and Hudson.”
He nods. “That makes sense. You worked together for most of your childhood. I’m sure you are really close.”
Another pang of loss echoes off the first. We were really close. Not so much anymore. Which is mostly my fault. We talk or text somewhat regularly, just checking in on our group chat, but I haven’t seen either of them in person since my forced seclusion.
It strikes me then that this is the first time Spencer has made any reference at all to the fact that he’s aware of the show or my fame.
Except for the teasing moment when we first met, when he said I look nothing like Vivien Hart and winked at me. Otherwise, he’s been all business and normalcy. No probing questions, no gushing over me or asking about the show or the other stars—who are more famous than I am, since I went into hiding.
Is it weird that part of me wishes he would be more impressed with me? After spending years avoiding that exact thing from people in general?
I need more therapy.
Maybe I ruined it by showing up in handcuffs with an old man in stripper clothes.
It’s simple attraction. Nothing more. I can’t help it, he’s tall, annoyingly handsome, and has great hands, currently clenched around the steering wheel.
And now I’ve been staring at Spencer for at least a minute without speaking, and his brow is creasing with concern.
I clear my throat and reach for the door. “Okay. Thanks for the ride. I’ll see you later.” I give him an awkward little wave before hopping out.
So embarrassing.
For a moment I stand there on the snow-covered sidewalk, staring up at the theater.
The marquee stretches nearly the length of the building, old art deco lines climbing upward in geometric tiers. Faded gold trim traces the edges, and the words The Palace spill down the curved facade in tall vertical letters.
The marquee reads: Casablanca.
The L is slightly askew.
In the bright winter sun, it looks . . . old. The paint is peeling in spots, a few bulbs along the sign are burnt out, and the neon tubes are dull and lifeless in the daylight.
It isn’t quite how I remember. It’s older. More worn out.
Kind of like me.
Spencer’s truck is still idling at the curb. Is he waiting for me to go inside?
I head for the door, fishing the key from my pocket. Nerves make my fingers tremble. Why am I nervous? Is it because I haven’t been back since that one magical summer, and I’m worried it won’t hold that same charm, and I have no idea what I’ve actually gotten myself into?
Maybe. Probably. I mean, of course.
I take a deep breath and unlock the door, waving once more to Spencer before opening the door and stepping inside. It swings shut behind me, locking out the rest of the world.
