30 #2
Then it finally dawned on me. For him, his life was over. He was afraid she'd tell her family. He was afraid of headlines and paparazzi, probably suffering vicious PTSD from the public fallout of 2016. Worse yet, he was afraid of his overly religious dad and cousins finding out.
When I returned, coffee refilled, he grew paler by the moment.
With each additional cigarette smoked down to the filter, he became a bit smaller.
With each new perspective introduced to the matter, his voice grew more faint.
With each added nuance unveiled, one fact triumphed: we were well and truly fucked.
I gazed at him when I sat, noticing stress lines I'd never seen before. He was changing before my very eyes. The fear devouring him.
"Baby…?" I whispered, getting on my knees and grabbing his hands. "We're gonna get through this, ok? I promise, Rome. It's not as bad as it seems."
"Oh yeah?" he said wryly, withdrawing his hands from mine and grabbing the cup.
I sat back against the bottom of the couch and gazed darkly ahead. His voice penetrated the ugly premonitions unfolding before my mind’s eye.
"You know, Rafe, before I got here...I'd started to blame you.
Started to hate you, even. But then I had to remember, I reached out to you in that parking lot.
I reached out to you on the phone. I kissed you in the yard before you left, not the other way 'round.
So, I can't really be angry with anyone but myself here.
Still...if I'm honest, I just wish I'd never seen you again. "
A lump formed in my throat, but I was careful not to respond. I wanted to hear him out.
"I swear to God, man…if I'd never laid eyes on you again…for as long as I lived…it still would've been too soon."
"Fuck you," I croaked, chest imploding.
I got up, absently pulling my collar away from my throat. Tears stung my eyes. I needed air.
"You know I'm not tryin' to be hurtful."
"No?" I scoffed, putting as much distance between us as was physically possible. I stood near the windows on the far side of the lounge, and remembered looking out from that very spot the night before last. At my fated party.
"Look, bro, you know what I mean. The last thing we need is to keep bein’ dishonest about the situation, especially with each other. We're a fuckin' mess, Rafe. Always have been."
"And? Why keep stating the obvious? That's uz. It's always been uz! You signed up for it, each and every time. Nobody forced you to fuck me, Rome. In fact, I can recall when quite the reverse was actually true. So don't pull that self-deprecating bullshit now and drag me down with you!"
"Yeah, but it's not just about us anymore, is all I’m sayin'.
Now the mess is destroyin' someone else's life too.
" He picked at his chin. "I would've never dreamt it.
Not her stoppin' by the first time, or her sneakin' back to watch us afterwards.
It's sick, if I'm honest. It's almost like she's been waitin' to catch us for a while now. "
"Well, that’s because she’s a paranoid cunt.”
“Rafe…”
“Most girls are."
"She must've sensed someone else was in the house," he cringed. "There was no denyin' what she’d seen. Fuck, bro. I'm so incredibly fucked."
"Only if you decide to be."
"Oh yeah? Then what's your big plan, genius?"
"Let's talk to her."
"You mean us? Like together? Fuck no! What're you, mental? She'd kill you."
"I'd like to see her try." I glowered at him.
"Babe, will you just come here? Why the hell are you all the way over there, anyway? C'mere so I can look at ya."
I returned without question, sitting beside him on the sofa. I snaked a hand up the back of his tee and measured his warmth—measured the rise and fall of his breathing.
"I didn't mean what I said," he admitted sometime later. "I don't regret anythin' to do with you or us. I would do it all over again, straight-up. Only problem is...I wish I'd been upfront with her about it."
"I know," I muttered. "That's why I know she'll forgive you. She's not gonna give you up that easily. You’re Roman Fucking Jacobs."
I’d spoken it before the realization even dawned on me.
She had already won. This situation hadn't put me in the running for acquiring him somehow, it had done the exact opposite.
What I saw in her the other day was the same sort of obsessive insecurity I'd struggled with since the day I met him.
And it was the glimpse of that loathsome thing within her that ascertained she would do all she could to get me out of the picture.
Whether she loved him or hated him now was irrelevant.
I was her enemy. A threat she would seek to neutralize at all costs.
All we had accomplished was gifting her leverage.
"I sat with her afterwards, explainin' everythin'. She wanted to know everythin'. How it started, how long we'd been together...how I could possibly be into...you if I was into her."
He set his face in his hands and began to cry.
It shook me. It took a lot to break him.
He had to be either enraged or genuinely afraid.
The latter was rare. I knelt in front of him again, pulling his hands away from his face to hug him.
He crushed me, weeping into my shoulder unreservedly.
I could tell he hadn't had a good cry in a while, and that he'd lacked a shoulder to hold him had he even borne the inclination.
That night he slept over and we didn't make love. Every time he got up to smoke on the balcony, I watched him from the bed until he returned, reeking more of nicotine with each trip. He must've gotten up half a dozen times that night, and neither of us slept a wink. We were scared to even kiss.
Come morning, we showered and drank more coffee and realized neither of us had eaten anything the day before. We ordered takeout from a nearby deli and as I devoured a salad, he picked at his Philly Cheesesteak like it was molded.
"Rome, eat something," I said, sitting across from him at the island in the kitchen.
"Not hungry, I guess."
"I don't care. Eat something. Stop stressing. She'll call eventually…they always do."
With that, he took up his sandwich and took a bite. He finished most of it but felt sick shortly afterwards and vomited upstairs. I let him sleep the afternoon away while I left for a meeting on the Spielberg thing.
***
The casting headquarters was located on the twentieth floor of a skyscraper in downtown LA.
Unlike the auditioning process, Spielberg was the only person in attendance.
Sitting across from him felt as monumental as the day I first met the head of Mania Records for Invicta’s big break.
We’d been signed to a three-album contract with promises of generational wealth if we stuck to their roadmap for our careers, and the rest was history.
Right there in that twelfth story office, I’d been totally consumed with nerves, just as I was now on the twentieth floor.
Except, the man before me in the small round glasses was soft-spoken and kind.
With the gentle demeanor of a grade school teacher, and all the dignified zeal for his craft one would expect in a three-time Oscar winner.
Grisly cinematic stills from Saving Private Ryan covered the walls and windows, in addition to posters of the Allied armada landing at the beaches of Normandy.
Wildly effective visualizers that set my blood to strumming.
“Ralph, so good to see you again,” he held out a hand and I accepted.
“It’s an honor, Steve. Thanks so much for having me.”
“The pleasure is all mine,” he smiled, in his unassuming way. “Do sit.”
He slid a script across the desk, whose cover simply read: Normandy By: Steven Spielberg | Episode 1: D-Day. It was a follow-up miniseries to the acclaimed Saving Private Ryan, that would hone-in on the timelines and perspectives of several officers throughout key battles.
“You know, Ralph, I’m really glad you said yes to this. Not everyone does, especially with material this intensive.”
“I wouldn’t dream of missing out on an opportunity like this.
I’ve been a huge admirer of your work for as long as I can remember.
My Dad is so psyched. He and I would watch Saving Private Ryan and Band Of Brothers every year around the anniversary of D-Day.
I’m so honored to be a part of anything adjacent to that greatness. ”
“Then I’m honored as well, thank you. That instinct’ll serve you well. It really takes a deep appreciation of what was truly sacrificed and fought for on that day, before anyone can begin to portray it accurately.”
“Agreed.”
“How’s that American accent coming along?”
“Swell,” I chuckled. “Nearly perfect, or so my friends say.”
“Good, good.”
“I won’t let you down, I promise.”
“Oh I know you won’t.”
He leaned his elbows onto the desk and leveled with me.
“But I want to be honest with you, son, because honesty is a crucial part of respect—and respect is critical when telling a story like this. It’s foundational.
I want you to know now, upfront…that it won’t be easy.
Controlled chaos, most days, but chaos nonetheless. ”