Say You Love Me Again

SAY YOU LOVE ME AGAIN CARRIE AARONS Copyright © 2022 by Carrie Aarons All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Editing done by Proofing Style. Cover designed by Okay Creations. CONTENTS Reader Note Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Epilogue Also by Carrie Aarons About the Author READER NOTE This book contains the sensitive topic of postpartum depression. It is my hope that I’ve handled this important subject matter with the care it deserves. 1 SOPHIE There are no less than four extraneous people in my house at all times. Imagine that; settling down for a binge-watch at night, and it’s not strange in the slightest that people who aren’t related to you by blood, or by the fact that they’re sticking one of their body parts into yours on a regular basis, are just walking around your house. I try to think back to a time when this wasn’t my normal, but it’s been so long that I don’t know if I’ve ever lived a life like the rest of the Americans sitting down to dinner at their kitchen tables, talking about carpool and what park soccer practice is at this weekend. Shit, I haven’t taken myself to a grocery store in nearly three years for fear of mine or my daughter’s safety being threatened. Right now, I probably sound like some bitchy princess in her ivory tower, looking down on everyone else. In some ways, I am that loathsome, spoiled brat. But you learn quickly in Hollywood, or once fame is injected into your life, that none of this shit glitters. The gold isn’t real. Beneath the surface, these people you read about have lives just as fucked up as the rest of the world. Even more so, if I’m being honest. “Ms. Truin? What do you think?” A voice knocks me out of my melancholy daydreams, and I straighten my back. I remember my mother telling me that once, if you’re unsure or confidence is lacking, fix your posture, and the rest will fall in line. How many times have I used that trick in my life? Enough that its magic has probably worn off by now. I should pay attention. I’m sure at any point now, Ariana is going to hit me with an annoyed glare and clear her throat. As if her ears are ringing, my assistant turns to me and does just that. I’m being rude to the party planner sitting in front of me, the woman who is going over what kind of olives will be served at a charity event I’m throwing next month. “I’m sorry, forgive me. Can you say it again?” “We thought we’d go with that one because of the cuisine chosen? But we know you prefer a bleu cheese stuffed, so if you like …” The party planner trails off as if this is the most important decision in the world. Gertrude, my regular event planner, was booked for the last-minute fundraiser next month. If this were her doing the charity auction to raise money for mothers suffering mental health crises, we wouldn’t even be meeting. She would just know precisely how I like things run, what kind of bar staples need to be stocked, and who isn’t supposed to be seated next to each other at dinner and just get it done. Internally, I take a deep breath, because if I come off like a bitch, it’ll somehow end up on a gossip website in twelve hours flat. Honestly, even if I’m Mary Fucking Sunshine in this meeting, some tabloid will end up running a ranting, raving story on me by the end of the week. A sweep of my eyes around the room as I collect myself shows the calming interior of my house. I told the designer I worked with that I wanted the whole house to have that elevated coziness feel of a Nancy Meyer’s movie. Overstuffed cream-colored chairs and huge windows cover almost every wall of every room to let in maximum natural light. Fresh flowers on little pedestal tables. Artsy, colorful throw pillows. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined with classics and cookbooks. When I was little, my mom would always curl up on the couch with me to throw on movies like Something’s Gotta Give, The Holiday, and my personal favorite, The Parent Trap. They were a source of comfort, and when I could afford a home to make all my own, it was the style I wanted to emulate. Thankfully I did, because it’s bringing comfort in this annoying time of discussing olive flavors. “I think that sounds perfect. And if we could get the booth set up for silent donations, maybe make it a confessional of sorts.” I snap my fingers like it’s all coming to me. “That new reality show, the one everyone is gushing about, with the confession cam? It’s all the rage, and a dreamy set up including that would be fun for our guests.” Anything gimmicky to get them to dig a little deeper into those pockets. “Perhaps a huge balloon arch people could walk into?” She grins like it’s the best idea she’s ever thought up. I cringe on the inside but keep