Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 109038 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 545(@200wpm)___ 436(@250wpm)___ 363(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109038 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 545(@200wpm)___ 436(@250wpm)___ 363(@300wpm)
He takes a step away from the edge, and then another when I widen my eyes, squeezing his arm.
“I’m fine.”
I let him go. He smells faintly like cherry syrup, which must be from the bar. His gaze lands behind me, and I realize he’s noticing the partly empty bottle of Scotch that’s sitting on the ground where I just was.
“Drinking again?” he asks.
“Yep.”
“Same.”
I’m probably only a handful of years older than him, but even when I was his age, I would never take a risk like he just did.
He digs in his pocket and takes out a cigarette, putting it between his lips. He doesn’t make any moves to light it, though, and it hangs there between his lips as he looks out at the river of cars on the street far below.
I toss him an upward nod. “Are you okay?”
“Are you really still here?”
“Because you don’t seem okay.”
He pulls the unlit cigarette from his lips and looks down at it for two seconds before ripping it in half between his fingers. He strides over to the trash can near the wall, tossing the pieces away.
“Are you looking for a real answer to that?” he asks. “Or yes, of course I’m okay, thanks, have a great night?”
I’m silent for a moment. The sound of a car horn blaring below drifts up in the air. “I’m not sure.”
He puffs out a bitter laugh. “Damn. I feel like I should be asking if you’re okay instead.”
He’s right. I don’t exactly remember how to have a real conversation anymore, but I’m not going to mention that to him. Even while I dream, I think in sound bites now:
I’ve just been so grateful.
It’s been a dream come true.
Fame is…
Fame is a lot. But I know how lucky I am, of course.
No one’s spoken to me like he has in a long time, even before my life exploded.
“I do want the real answer,” I finally tell him. “We don’t know each other, and we never have to see each other again. I know how to keep a secret.”
He lifts an eyebrow. “Fine. The real answer is no, I’m not okay. But I never really was in the first place, before I started dating again last month, so does it really matter if my girlfriend cheated on me?”
I press my lips together and give him a short nod.
“I see.”
He takes his gaze over my body. Suddenly his gaze feels even more intense, which I didn't think was possible.
“I’ve been cheated on before, too,” I tell him. “Not fun.”
He waves a hand. “I’ll be over it soon enough.”
I watch him for a moment, trying to gauge if I should keep talking.
It’s strange to remember the person who cheated on me. It was a long time ago now.
“I thought I would get over it fast, too, but it didn’t work out that way,” I tell him. “The woman I was dating got upset that I kissed my male co-star, when I was in a play. Turned out she was the kind of person who doesn’t believe men could be bi, which is inconvenient for her, because she was dating me.”
“Meaning?”
“I’ve been with men and women,” I explain. “She changed when she found that out. Then she cheated instead of having the courage to break it off fast.”
“Brutal.”
“Just saying, I understand how shitty it feels, even if you know you dodged a bullet. Sorry you’re going through it.”
“Thanks.” He nods, looking me up and down. “You do theater? I thought you must be a corporate exec when you said you were in the film industry.”
Yep, I do theater.
And very popular TV.
And probably filming a major motion picture soon, but I don’t want to tell you that.
“I used to do theater,” I tell him. “My character in that play was a gay soldier in the Roman Empire.”
That play was just business. There were zero feelings present when I kissed my male costar.
But I’m not going to mention Daniel. I’m not telling a stranger about how the only other man I’ve been with was my best friend in the world, who used to secretly pull me close in locker rooms, backstage at plays, and anytime he drank enough to ask me to sleep over.
I’m not ashamed of what I used to do with him. Not even a little. I just can’t talk about Daniel right now, and no one asked to hear a sob story about my dead old friend, anyway.
“What happened with your girlfriend?” I ask him, bringing the conversation back to his own life. “Did you get in a fight downstairs or something?”
He finally splits his gaze from me.
He looks back out toward the city, shaking his head slowly, and I watch the way the neon light shines on different areas of his black curls.
“Ex-girlfriend, now. And can it be called a ‘fight’ if it’s me confirming she’s cheating from an Instagram picture?”