Chapter 56
CHAPTER 56
CHARLOTTE
It’s Thursday evening, two days after we got back from his Malibu house, and I’m sitting on the couch in his TV room.
It’s 9 p.m. and we’ve just finished having takeout while watching another episode of Friends . Aiden is lounging beside me in a pair of gray sweats and a T-shirt, with my laptop open on his lap.
I play with the hem of the oversized blue T-shirt I’m wearing. It’s his. I’d thrown it on along with a pair of pajama shorts after showering in his giant en suite bathroom. That was after he’d gotten home from work and we had fast, hot sex in his bed.
I’m getting very used to this intimacy. Every day, still, since we started having sex again.
“What do you think?” I ask.
Aiden smiles, eyes still on the screen. “I’m still on the first page.”
“Your poker face is too good.”
“It’s interesting,” he says. “It’s very interesting.”
I roll my eyes and fall back on the couch. “That’s a terrible word. It could mean anything.”
“Shhh,” he says gently. “I’m reading.”
I have bugs crawling under my skin. The pitch is something I’ve worked on for days, in between finalizing most of the chapters for Aiden’s memoir. My plan is to get the pitch to Vera in a few weeks. If it’s good enough.
If I think I can go through with actually writing it. Which is still a big if . Right now, I can’t imagine putting it out into the world, but… maybe I can find the courage.
My phone rings. It jolts me off the couch and toward where it’s lying on the end table. Next to empty boxes of Chinese.
“Shit.”
“Who is it?” Aiden asks. He’s still sprawled on the couch.
I rise and race down the hall to my bedroom. “My parents! I forgot we arranged to have a call tonight.”
There’s silence from the couch. I sit down on my bed and hit the answer button on my phone. And shit, I should have closed the door so Aiden won’t be bothered.
My parents’ faces fill the screen. They’re a bit too close to the lens, Mom’s reading glasses take up half the image. Dad’s looking concerned. But then my camera must have finally connected, because they both smile.
“Honey!” Mom says.
“You’re looking tan.”
“You’re not forgetting sunscreen, are you?”
“No, no, I’m wearing it every day.” I smile at them. “How are you guys?”
They tell me about life in Elmhurst and fill me in on Dad’s ongoing feud with their neighbor. This time, it’s about the placement of a fence.
“Riveting,” I say after a few minutes.
Mom laughs and nudges Dad. He rolls his eyes. “It’s about common decency, which is in sharp decline these days.”
“You sound like one of those it was better in the good old days geezers,” I tell him with a smile. Every time we chat, I’m reminded of how much I miss them. They’re closing in on retirement age, and I know they have plans to travel. I can’t wait to see them flourish.
“No, I know that’s factually incorrect,” Dad says. “But it’s true that fifteen years ago, Dave would never have pulled this fence stunt. He knew better?—”
“John,” my mom says with a laugh. “I love you, but I wanna hear what Charlie’s been up to. How are you, sweetheart?” She leans closer to the screen. “You’re somewhere else. Doesn’t look like your apartment.”
Panic races through me, and I remember that I’m wearing his shirt. Aiden’s shirt.
“Yes, I’m not home,” I say. My voice comes out perfectly calm and placid. I hope. It takes effort not to glance past my phone to the hallway. Is Aiden still on the couch, just steps away? He’d hear all of this if he is.
Mom wiggles her eyebrows. “Oh? Have you met someone nice in Los Angeles?”
The moment hangs in the air. I could go either way. Tell them I’m living in the house belonging to the memoir subject, or admit I’m staying over at a friends.
The first option dances on my tongue.
But it’s only a matter of time before they’ll learn just who I’m writing the memoir about. They’re not going to like it. And even less when they realize I’ve stayed in his home.
For a split second, I want to hang up the phone.
“Yes,” I say instead. “I have met someone. But it’s still very new.”
Mom beams a wide smile and leans in, nearly pushing Dad off the screen. “Really? Tell me more, honey.”
“Is he a big, famous actor?” Dad asks out of view. “Is he in any of the movies I know?”
“No, but I did meet Logan Edwards the other day.”
Mom draws in a breath. “You did?”
“Who’s that?” Dad asks.
She nudges him. “The young boy who was so good in that space movie we saw after Christmas.”
“Oh. Right.” It’s clear Dad has no clue who she’s talking about.
“Anyway, honey. Who’s the man?”
“He works here in Los Angeles,” I say and pick at the hem of my T-shirt off-screen.
“In the entertainment industry?” Mom’s face is equal part hopeful and equal part cautious.
I know what they want to hear.
“Not really. More on the corporate side of it.” I shrug. “Anyway, it’s still very, very new.”
“LA is far, but it’s not that bad,” Dad says. “Have you asked your boyfriend if he’d be willing to move to Elmhurst?”
I laugh. “No, and I’m not planning to.”
“Shoot.”
We all know that I’m not comfortable in that town anymore. Not with everyone knowing what happened. The community is small, and my parents have been living with my shame there for nearly a decade.
But we like to pretend as if it never happened.
We’ve become good at it, the three of us. We had to.
“Do you think you’d want to come home? After your deadline?” Mom asks in a gentle voice. “It’s Grandma’s birthday, and we’re inviting all your cousins, too.”
“You don’t have to answer now,” Dad says. “Think about it.”
“Maybe. Will you text me the date of the party?” I ask.
Mom smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. Like she already suspects I’m only asking to humor her, certain I won’t come. It feels like a knife wound, that look. To know that I’m still disappointing them.
“Absolutely.”
“Honey,” Dad says. “We still don’t know the name of the person you’re writing the book about!”
“You know I’ve signed NDAs.”
“Yes, but come on. We’ll find out in a few months anyway, and we won’t tell anyone,” Dad says. “Is it someone I know?”
“Dad, you don’t know anyone.”
“That’s not true. I know the guy who played Rocky. And the one who played Han Solo!”
“What are their names?”
He struggles for a few seconds, and Mom and I both laugh. “Okay, fine. Maybe I know their character names better,” he admits.
“I’ll tell you later,” I say.
It’s just a conversation I’ve been dreading for weeks.
“What about your boyfriend?” Mom asks. “How is he treating you? Is he nice?”
“Yes, tell us more about him,” Dad says. “He hasn’t asked you to sign an NDA, too, has he?”
I run a hand over the back of my neck. “No, not exactly.”
The distance from my bedroom to the large couch in the TV room feels painfully small. There’s no way Aiden isn’t hearing this.
“So? What else?”
“He’s a good guy,” I say, my cheeks burning. “Funny. Has a good job. Works hard. I actually tried surfing thanks to him. But, like I said, it’s still early. We’re not really boyfriend-girlfriend.”
“I see,” Mom says with a knowing nod. “He sounds fantastic. And he’s treating you well?”
“Yes, and you already asked that.”
“It’s worth double-checking,” she says. “We care about you, honey.”
I know they do.
And I know they don’t entirely trust my judgment. To this day. Even though it’s been years and years since The Gamble .
We chat for a few more minutes before I excuse myself and hang up. The silence in my room feels absolute, and I take a deep, calming breath before forcing myself off the bed.
Aiden is standing in the doorway. He’s leaning against one of the jambs, hands in the pockets of his sweats. He takes up all the space in the threshold.
I grimace. “How much of that did you hear?”
His face is carefully neutral. “How much are you comfortable with me having heard?”
“I’m sorry about the boyfriend thing. I had to give them something, but I know we’re not… that we’re…”
He lifts an eyebrow. “That we’re what?”
“You know,” I say and wave between us. “That we’re this.”
“Right. And what do you think that this is, exactly?”
“Aiden,” I say.
He takes a step into the room. “Your number one rule is for this not to be serious. That neither of us are allowed to want this to continue.”
The blush had been there during my call with my parents, but now it singes my cheeks. “Yeah. I did say that.”
“I won’t hold you to it,” he says. “You know that, right?”
I blink a few times. “You mean you… wouldn’t mind? If I theoretically called you… that… again?”
“Your boyfriend?” A smile plays at the corner of his mouth. “I wouldn’t, no. But we’re not in a rush, either. I think you’ve felt that in the past. The rush. So we won’t add any here.”
“I have to hand in your memoir in a week.”
“Yeah. But life will continue after that. You can stay here. Work on your book proposal, which is fucking fantastic.”
“You think? Really?”
He nods. “It’s spot-on for the time. You should use yourself, too, sweetheart. And your story.”
I dig my teeth into my bottom lip, and then slowly shake my head. “I can’t. I don’t want to be back in the media, ever.”
“Your story deserves to be told. Properly. The way you told it to me.”
“Maybe. But I can’t do it.”
A furrow appears between his eyebrows. “Your parents don’t know who you’re writing a memoir about.”
“No. I signed an NDA.”
“Chaos, break it. Break it if you want to tell them.” He sits down beside me on the bed. There’s something measured about his movements. “Are you worried what they’ll say when they realize who you’re writing about?”
“They won’t like it,” I admit.
His frown deepens. “Fuck.”
I shrug. “You weren’t responsible for the show. I realize that now. And I think, in time, I can get them to see that, too. Maybe. But they hold a bigger grudge on my behalf than I do for myself. There will be… reactions.”
“Do you want me there when you tell them?”
My gaze flies to his. “You’d do that? Why?”
“If I’m there, they can take their anger out on me,” he says.
“I don’t want you and my parents to get into a fight.”
“I won’t fight back.” Lifting his head, he points his chin toward me. “I’ll give your dad a free pass to clock me. Right here.”
The stupidity of that makes me chuckle. “Thank you. But it’s me they’re going to… question. I should tell them, though. Better they hear it from me than when your book is released.” I sigh. “I’ll call them tomorrow and have the conversation with them.”
“Okay,” he says, his smile slowly fading. “But I don’t like the idea of you getting any flack for something that you didn’t even know about. You had no idea I was the subject when you signed the contract.”
“If it’ll make you feel better, I’ll tell them about that.”
“Please do.” He pulls me to his chest, and the warmth is more calming than any words could be. “I do want to meet them, though,” he says. “Someday.”
My eyes widen. “You do?”
“Yes. They’re important to you, so they’re important to me. And I can be very charming, Chaos. I charmed you.”
“Yes, but I feel like that’s somehow in a different way than you want with my parents?”
He chuckles against my temple, just like I’d hoped. “Slightly, yes. But I want you to know, I’ll be there if you need me, or if they want answers from me about the show. My face is available for punching.”
A smile tugs on my lips. “I’ll bear that in mind.”
“Good. We can circle back to this next Tuesday.”
My smile widens. “Add it to the agenda?”
“Yes.” He leans down to press a kiss on my cheek. “It’s a great initiative for Q3.”
I kiss him back and surrender to the soft warmth of his lips. I love it when he kisses me like this. Slow and steady, like he could do it all night.
“I love it when you talk nonsensical business jargon to me,” I say.
“Mm-hmm. What if I said...” He kisses my neck. “That I’m spearheading a new proposal… that has a hard stop.”
It’s hard to think with his lips right below my jaw. “I think we should workshop that. Invite some... other people... for maximum synergy.”
He groans against my skin. “Invite other people?”
“Yes. Like five to ten useless employees who nod approvingly at your suggestions,” I say, and he pulls back to level me with a look. I giggle. “What? That’s exactly how your meetings look like.”
“Are you saying what I think you are?”
“That you’re surrounded by sycophants?” My eyes are wide, the picture of innocence. “Of course not.”
“Okay, that’s it.” He grabs me and pulls me up to the center of the bed, into his arms.
I laugh again. “Oh no. Have I upset you?”
“I’m realizing,” he says, settling against me, “that I’ve failed to make a sycophant out of you.”
I wrap my arms around his neck and feel the worries of the last hour melt away. Even when they’re related to him, he’s so good at making them disappear. Shelving them for another conversation.
He’s always been good at making me feel safe. Even when it would make no sense to anyone else, even when it made no sense to me.
“Are you going to convince me?” My fingers play along his cheekbone, up to his temple, into his hair.
He bends closer. “No. I like you disobedient.”
“Disobedient, huh? That implies I’m yours.”
He brushes his lips over mine. “And are you?”
I don’t answer him. Instead, I kiss him, my fingers twining in his hair, and pull him closer. I wrap my legs around him, and it’s not a verbal answer, but he groans low in his throat, like he’s heard it regardless.