Chapter 7 #2
His mouth fell open. Then closed. Then opened again.
"Samuel?"
My mustache chose that exact moment to detach on one side and dangle limply from my upper lip.
"Hi," I said, like a man who hadn't just been caught looking like a festive serial killer. "I can explain."
Scene 2
I could not, as it turned out, explain. At least, not in any way that made me sound like a functioning adult.
"Is that..." Farley's voice had gone strange. Strangled, almost. Like he was trying very hard not to do something. "Is that a mustache?"
I pressed the dangling half back against my lip with as much dignity as I could muster, which was approximately none. "It's a disguise."
"A disguise."
"Yes. So I could go to the store. Without being recognized."
"The store."
"You're just repeating everything I say."
"I'm processing." Farley's hand had come up to cover his mouth, and his shoulders were shaking. "Give me a moment. I need to process the fact that you made yourself a mustache."
"My friend Chandra said you have to commit to disguises," I said defensively. "Half-assed disguises don't work. This is a fully-assed disguise."
The sound that escaped Farley's throat was somewhere between a wheeze and a snort. "Fully-assed. Yes. That's certainly one way to describe it."
"Are you laughing at me?"
"I would never." He pressed his hand harder against his mouth. "I'm simply having a respiratory event."
"You're definitely laughing at me."
"Your sweater is blinking."
I looked down. The reindeer's nose was, indeed, blinking. Red light, pause, red light, pause—like a beacon of my own poor decisions.
"It's festive," I said weakly.
"It's something." Farley had lowered his hand, and the expression on his face was—I couldn't quite read it. Amusement, definitely. But something else too. Something warmer than I'd expected after two days of radio silence.
"I was going to drive to the store," I said, because apparently my mouth had decided to keep talking without consulting my brain. "I figured if I looked different enough, maybe the church choir lady wouldn't recognize me, and I could buy coffee like a normal person."
"And the mustache was... essential to this plan?"
"Chandra went blonde once. For a bowling alley. It worked."
"I have so many follow-up questions," Farley said, "and I'm not sure I want the answers to any of them."
We stood there, in my gravel driveway, staring at each other. The December wind cut through the sequins of my sweater, and my mustache was definitely coming loose again, and I was absolutely, positively, making a fool of myself in front of the one person I most wanted to impress.
This was worse than the bowling alley incident. This was worse than the time a fan caught me buying hemorrhoid cream at CVS. This was rock bottom, decorated with Christmas lights and a light-up nose.
"I'm an idiot," I said.
"You're not an idiot." Farley's voice had softened. "You're a person who wants to buy coffee without being harassed. That's a completely reasonable desire."
"The mustache was not a reasonable solution."
"No," he agreed. "The mustache was unhinged. But I respect the commitment."
I felt a laugh bubbling up in my chest, surprising me. This wasn't how I'd imagined this going. In my head, Farley had been cold and distant, treating me like every other fan encounter—polite but removed, seeing Dr. Brock Blaze instead of Samuel.
But he was standing in my driveway, making fun of my mustache, looking at me like I was the most entertainingly ridiculous thing he'd seen all week.
Looking at me.
"I was actually coming to see you," he said, gesturing with the tote bag.
"I'm driving to Charlottesville for supplies.
Shifflett's doesn't have what I need, and I thought.
.." He paused, looking suddenly uncertain.
"I thought maybe you'd want to come. Get out of the cabin for a few hours.
It's about forty-five minutes each way, so there'd be significantly less chance of anyone recognizing you. "
I stared at him. "You're inviting me on a supply run?"
"I'm inviting you on a forty-five-minute car ride where you won't have to worry about ladies with cell phones." He tilted his head, that sharp gaze sweeping over my outfit. "Though I'm going to have to insist you leave the mustache behind."
"That seems fair."
"And maybe change the sweater. Not because I don't appreciate the artistry, but because a blinking reindeer nose might attract attention we're trying to avoid."
"Also fair." I reached up and peeled the mustache off, wincing as the tape pulled at my skin. "Give me five minutes?"
"Take your time." Farley's eyes crinkled at the corners. "I'll be in the Range Rover, trying to erase the mental image of you in that sweater from my memory."
"Rude."
"Accurate."
I went back inside, my heart doing something complicated in my chest. Purrsephone was waiting by the door, and I swear she looked smug.
"Not a word," I told her.
She purred.
I changed in record time—jeans, a normal sweater (forest green, no sequins, no lights), my actual coat instead of whatever fever-dream outfit I'd assembled.
I scrubbed the tape residue off my upper lip and put the baseball cap back on, but at a normal angle this time, like a person who was just cold rather than a person in hiding.
When I climbed into the passenger seat of Farley's Range Rover, he gave me an approving once-over.
"Much better. You almost look like a regular person."
"High praise."
"I'm known for my effusive compliments." He started the engine, and the car filled with warm air from the heating vents. "Shall we?"
The drive down the mountain was winding and beautiful, all bare trees and frost-covered fields and the occasional glimpse of distant peaks.
For the first few minutes, neither of us spoke.
The silence wasn't uncomfortable exactly, but it was full—weighted with everything we hadn't said since the Shifflett's incident.
I could feel the questions building between us, all the things we'd been carefully avoiding.
Farley broke first. "Can I ask you something?"
"You can ask. I can't promise I'll answer."
"Fair enough." He was quiet for another moment, eyes on the road. "Why did you come here? To the mountains, I mean. Not to Charlottesville."
I considered deflecting. Giving him the sanitized answer I'd prepared for Sabrina, the one about needing a break and wanting to enjoy nature. But something about the way he asked—direct, curious, not fishing for gossip—made me want to be honest.
"I'm at a crossroads," I said. "My contract with the show is up at the end of the season. The network wants me to re-sign for three more years."
"And you don't want to?"
"I don't know what I want." I turned to look out the window, at the blur of winter landscape.
"I've been playing the same character for seven years.
Dr. Brock Blaze, the brilliant surgeon with a heart of gold and a jaw that could cut glass.
I've had my memory erased twice, been poisoned three times, died and came back from the dead once—long-lost twin, very dramatic—and had approximately seventeen love interests, none of whom lasted more than a season. "
"That sounds exhausting."
"It's absurd. But it's also... safe. Predictable. I know who I am when I'm Dr. Brock Blaze. I know what people expect from me." I shook my head. "Out here, without the scripts and the costumes and the carefully managed public appearances, I don't know who I am anymore. And that terrifies me."
Farley didn't say anything for a long moment. Then: "I read about the tabloid stories. The ones speculating about your... sexuality."
My stomach clenched. "Yeah. That's fun."
"Your agent leaked them, didn't she?"
I turned to stare at him. "How did you—"
"I work with authors. I've seen the same pattern a dozen times—agents or publicists creating controversy to drive engagement." His grip on the steering wheel tightened slightly. "It's manipulative and invasive, and I'm sorry you had to deal with it."
Something in my chest cracked open. "I’m nervous that people assume I must have been in on it. That it was some kind of publicity stunt I agreed to."
"Were you?"
"No." The word came out harder than I intended.
"I've been out since I was twenty. Before I was famous, before anyone cared.
My sexuality isn't a brand strategy—it's just who I am.
And having it questioned, constantly, by my own agent, for the sake of clicks and engagement metrics.
.." I trailed off, suddenly aware of how much I'd just revealed.
"That's why you fired her," Farley said quietly. "Or are in the process of firing her."
"I told Sabrina I didn't want to hear from her until I got back from vacation.
Which is the coward's version of firing her, I suppose.
" I managed a humorless laugh. "I'm not good at confrontation.
Seven years of pretending to be Dr. Brock Blaze, and I still haven't learned how to be direct about my own feelings. "
"You're being pretty direct right now."
I looked at him—really looked, taking in the sharp profile and the careful way he held himself, the tension in his shoulders that suggested he understood something about hiding behind walls.
"You're easy to talk to," I said. "I don't know why."
"Probably because I'm a stranger who you'll never see again after this month." His voice was light, but there was something underneath it—a brittleness that didn't quite match the casual words.
"Is that what you think?"
"Isn't it true?"
I didn't answer, because I didn't know how.
"Your turn," I said instead. "Why are you here?"
His hands tightened on the wheel again. For a moment, I thought he wasn't going to answer.
"I walked in on my boyfriend of three years making out with my personal assistant in a coat closet at my author's book launch party."
"Jesus."
"Savannah Flores. Romance author, absolute sweetheart, had just hit the New York Times list for the first time.
I'd planned the whole event—the venue, the catering, the photographer.
" Farley's voice was flat, controlled, like he'd rehearsed this recitation until it couldn't hurt him anymore.
"I found Ollie with his tongue down Roger's throat, and thought I would die. "
"Roger being..."
"My PA." His grip on the steering wheel tightened. "So I didn't just lose a boyfriend. I lost my professional judgment, my sense of trust, and my dignity—all in front of half of New York publishing."
"Farley—"
"I had a meltdown. A public, humiliating meltdown in the middle of Savannah's party.
She felt terrible, which made me feel worse, because it wasn't her fault my life was imploding on her big night.
" He exhaled slowly. "My boss told me to take a few weeks off before I had a complete nervous breakdown.
So. Here I am. Hiding in the mountains like a wounded animal. "
"That's not hiding. That's survival."
He glanced at me, something flickering in his expression. "Is there a difference?"
"Yeah." I turned to look out the window at the rolling farmland, the outskirts of Charlottesville appearing in the distance. "Hiding is pretending nothing happened. Survival is doing whatever you need to do to get through it."
We drove in silence for another moment.
"For what it's worth," I said finally, "Ollie sounds like an idiot."
Farley's mouth quirked. "He is. Was. Is."
"And Roger sounds worse. That's not just cheating, that's also professional betrayal."
"Roger is exactly the kind of person who thrives in publishing—pretty, ambitious, and completely devoid of loyalty." The bitterness in his voice was sharp enough to cut. "He's probably already working for Ollie's publishing house now. They deserve each other."
I thought about Sabrina, about the calculated way she'd weaponized my identity for engagement metrics. "That's entertainment, too, apparently. People using you for what you can give them."
"Aren't we a pair." Farley pulled into a parking lot outside a strip mall. "Two refugees from toxic industries, hiding in the mountains and making terrible life decisions."
"My terrible life decisions are worse. I made a mustache out of my own hair."
"That's true. You win." Farley turned off the engine and looked at me, and for a moment, neither of us moved. "For what it's worth, I'm glad you made that mustache."
"Because it gave you material to mock me for the next several weeks?"
"Because it made me laugh." His voice was softer now, the sharpness fading into something more vulnerable. "I haven't laughed in... I don't remember how long. And then I walked up to your cabin and saw you standing there like a deranged holiday elf, and I couldn't help it."
"Deranged holiday elf," I repeated. "That's going on my tombstone."
"I'm honored to have contributed."
We sat there, in the parking lot of a Charlottesville shopping mall, grinning at each other like idiots. And it suddenly hit me.
I'm in so much trouble.