2. Graham
GRAHAM
NOW
Heavy feet pound the metal steps before the door to my trailer crashes open. All members of the production crew have been informed that the red flag in my window means do not disturb. I’m not surprised when Maisy Donovan appears and points a disposable mascara wand at me like it’s a sword.
“Stephanie’s getting on my last nerve. You swore none of these newbie actors would be divas, but she keeps telling me how to do my job.”
“Her name is Sarabeth, and she’s not a newbie. She starred in commercials.”
“Whoop-dee-fucking-doo. She earned a paycheck. Spending her money on luxury makeup doesn’t make her an expert in bronzer application.” Maisy’s hazel eyes track my hand when I place my phone face down on the table. “You’re looking at pictures again.”
I shrug and fold my arms over my chest, leaning back in the worn, vinyl bench seat.
The trailers I’ve rented are the cheapest in Austin, Texas, where I’m getting ready to direct my first film.
We’re reaching the end of the pre-production phase, and the actors are rotating in and out of Maisy’s trailer this week for costume fittings and hair and makeup trial runs.
She plops down on the other side of the booth.
Her black leather jacket and brown curls with magenta tips give off an edgy vibe that contrasts with her petite, five-foot frame and delicate features.
Even the scowl on her pixie face is cute, but I would never tell her that again.
She didn’t speak to me for days the last time.
“Why are you torturing yourself?” she asks.
“He’s the one doing all the torturing.”
I glance at my phone and tighten the grip on my biceps. Over twenty thousand photos exist in my camera roll. Revisiting the moments when Miguel smiled at me might seem like a punishment, but the photos keep him close.
The ones of our lazy days lounging by the pool are my favorites.
He’d wear a shirt because he’s afraid of sun damage, and I catered to his every need.
Snacks, sunscreen, margarita refills, a towel…
he never had to ask for anything. I spoiled my prince, took care of him and loved him. My love wasn’t enough.
“It’s been a year, Maisy, and not a single word. I’m finally living my dream, and he should be here. Without him, all this”—I wave at our surroundings—“has no luster.”
“Your shiny prince.”
“My shiny prince,” I say with a sad smile. “I never should’ve let him leave.”
She lays a hand on the table but doesn’t reach out, not that I expect her to. Maisy is stingy with her affection. Where my tan is on loan from the sun, hers is natural, inherited from her Black father and white mother, and reminds me of the golden shore at my favorite Costa Rican beach.
I miss the beach. I miss him.
“You’re old enough to know you can’t dictate someone else’s choices. There’s such a thing as free will,” she says.
I’m thirty-one, but who’s counting? And I disagree with her implication that I’m controlling.
Yes, I’m driven in my career and prefer being at the wheel in that regard, but I’m laid back in my personal relationships.
I want the people I care about to be happy.
Life’s too short to be weighed down with worries, which is why I confront and fix minor problems before they become major ones.
The only unresolved problem is the gaping hole Miguel left in my chest. The night he left, I thought his need for space would be temporary. That he’d return in a week or two, and we’d work things out. He blocked me from contacting him instead. Still, nothing could convince me we’re over for good.
I relax my shoulders and sit taller. “You’re right. If I’m patient and stay away a little longer, he’ll cave and reach out first.”
“That’s not even close to what I said.”
Her phone vibrates, and she wrestles it from her coat pocket, eyes growing in size as she reads a message.
It’s from Miguel. My gut and her effort to shield the screen tell me as much.
Sometimes, I get jealous because she has an open line of communication with him, but I’d never ask her to choose between us.
After she tucks the phone away, she nibbles on her bottom lip, frowning at the variety packs of potato chips stacked on the counter behind me.
Emotions rarely filter to her surface, and the internal battle playing out on her face has my heart ticking faster.
When her indecision has gone on too long, I snap.
“Spit it out. Is he hurt? Sick?”
She closes her eyes. “Miggy went on a date.”
“Excuse me?” My shrill voice is as rigid as my spine. Shooting to my feet, I pace the narrow walkway, fingers stuffed in my hair. “No. No way. Absolutely not. He can’t do this without speaking to me first. He owes me that much, at the very least.”
The notion of Miguel seeing other men twists my stomach into vicious knots. First, he threw away the beautiful life we built together. Now, he wants to move on without giving me closure? None of it makes sense.
My pacing halts, and I glare at the parking lot through the cheap, cracked blinds. Forget waiting for Miguel to come around. His time is up.
As I rub the onyx pendant hanging from my neck, a plan forms in my mind. This weekend, I’m flying to LA for meetings disguised as parties. I’ll go to him while I’m there, beg him to look me in the eye and either declare we’re over or give me another chance.
My plan has one major flaw. I have no idea where to find him. His cousin won’t reply to my texts, and the private investigator I’ve used in the past could take too long to gather intel. But there’s someone else who could help.
When I spin around, Maisy waves the mascara wand in a circle. “I don’t like the look on your face.”
“Tell me where he lives,” I demand.
Her sigh is long and loud. She shouldn’t be disappointed when she saw this coming. “I can’t do that, G.”
My knees hit the linoleum as I clutch her jacket. “Help me, Maisy. I know he shares his location with you.”
“I don’t check anyone’s location unless it’s an emergency.”
“This is an emergency!”
Her eyebrows dart up, like she’s daring me to raise my voice again. I’m smart enough not to test her limits.
Softening my plea, I say, “Do it for me. Just this once.”
Kristen, my assistant director, pokes her head through the door. She looks from me to Maisy, taking in our precarious position, and glances away. “I’ll come back in five to go over tomorrow’s schedule,” she says.
The door closes, and Maisy groans. “Great. Now they’ll spread rumors about us on set.”
“Kristen’s not like that.” I climb to my feet, giving her my saddest puppy-dog eyes and a set of prayer hands. “Won’t you help me repair my broken heart?”
Maisy rolls her eyes. “You’re so dramatic.”
“I’m an actor.”
“Not anymore.”
Touché.
From the moment I rolled into Hollywood at eighteen, I hustled, peddling my looks, charisma, and mediocre dance moves at every open casting call.
My efforts paid off, but acting had been a steppingstone toward my ultimate goal of directing movies by age thirty.
I’m a year behind schedule, but better late than never.
Every cell in my body thrums with impatience as Maisy thinks through her decision. She draws out the suspense, running the bristles of the brush along her fingertips. “You’ll go about it the right way. No bulldozing him or trying any of your off-the-wall antics.”
“I only want to talk to him. If he says he’s done with me, I’ll walk.”
She rubs the space between her eyebrows. “Fuck, he’s gonna hate me for this.”
“No, he won’t. I’ll make sure of it.”
“Fine. I’ll send you the name of the street where he works. That’s the best I can do.” Her shoulders slump as she scoots off the bench, and I hug her the second she stands.
“Thank you. I love you, and I’m forever in your debt.”
“Get off me, weirdo.” She shoves me away while trying not to smile. “I should check on Seraphine and make sure she hasn’t ruined all my hard work.”
“Sarabeth.” The correction earns me a scathing glare. And because it’s so much fun to rile her up, I play my boss card. “Please send Kristen in when you leave.”
“I know where you sleep,” she whispers, aiming the spiky end of her wand at me.
We’re renting a house together in Austin during filming. I sleep down the hall from her, which is why I keep my mouth shut as she exits the trailer, grumbling about spoiled celebrities always getting their way.
One can only hope. If things go my way, I’ll have the man and the career of my dreams. Life would be perfect again.
Sunday, January 1st
I drape my suit jacket over the chair by the bedroom window and unbutton my shirt, glad to be done with ringing in the new year. The pool lights cast a blue glow on my reflection in the floor-to-ceiling glass, but my gaze is lost to the shadowy hills beyond.
My house in Hollywood Hills is where I remove my armor and hand over the reins to the introvert I keep tucked away. Everywhere else, I’m the assertive guy who tackles things head on. But in the privacy of my home—my metaphorical shell—I retreat and go quiet.
The things I hated most about being an only child, I’m greedy for in adulthood. I’d rather lounge on the couch and watch movies than walk the red carpet at a premiere. I prefer eating in to dining out, and savor solo activities like hiking and yoga.
My personal time and space are sacred, and few people have access to either. Aside from my closest friends and the woman I’ve hired to clean twice a month, no one has stepped foot inside this house since Miguel left.
“Fuck,” I whisper.
Heartache makes itself known, trickling down my cheek. I brush it off and flick on the bedside lamp, confronting the evidence of his life here. Miguel said my old black sheets were a bachelor’s cliché, and he insisted on brightening the space with light grey walls and white linens.
If I added up the hours we spent in bed, exploring the intricacies of each other’s minds and bodies, they would equal months. Months I’d give anything to relive.
In the closet, I strip off my clothes and stuff them in the hamper next to the drawers.
The top one taunts me, and I slide it open.
Each piece of neckwear has its own compartment, organized by color.
My fingertips graze the black silk, tracing its subtle texture and sheen.
The first bow tie Miguel made for me is special, but what’s hidden beneath the fabric reminds me of all I’ve lost.
I slam the drawer shut.
After a speedy shower, I crawl into bed and reply to neglected emails before opening the group chat.
I’ve been best friends with Tatum Wakefield and Maisy for eight years.
When either of them is going through a hard time, I keep their spirits up with random, lighthearted texts.
They would do the same for me if I told them I’m feeling down tonight.
But as my thumb hovers over the keyboard, I draw a blank.
Sighing, I set the phone on the nightstand and roll onto my side, hugging Miguel’s pillow to my chest. His scent has long since faded, but I can imagine it. Candy and chocolate and the sweet decadence that is purely him.