17. Graham
GRAHAM
NOW
Miguel walks out of the café with downturned lips and a pinched brow, hauling defeat on his slumped shoulders. The dejection on his face brings me no satisfaction, knowing I’m the likely cause of it.
It hadn’t been my intention to make him think I left without saying goodbye. I made a promise not to interfere. After stealing eight minutes of his time, I thought he’d prefer to mingle without me breathing down his neck. He should have known I wouldn’t go far.
Hands buried in my pockets, I use my shoulder to push off the lamppost. “Hey.”
He looks up. A smile breaks free, popping the dimples in his cheeks. The happy expression aimed at me eases the turmoil in my stomach but shows my heart no mercy. His natural radiance—the thing I miss about him most—burns the backs of my eyes.
As quickly as it came, he tucks the smile away and plasters on a mask of indifference. “Are we loitering now?”
I jerk my head to the left. “Walk with me.”
The lack of playfulness in my tone gets his attention, and he eyes me as we fall into step.
We weave around small groups of friends and couples holding hands before finding an open stretch of pavement.
A pang grips my stomach. I regret not spending more time in Miguel’s neighborhood after we first got together.
My visits to gay venues around Sunset Boulevard ended long before my anonymity did.
“Tonight was fun,” I say, shrugging off the loss.
Based on his grunt, he disagrees. “It was okay. I’ll never do it again.”
“What, speed-flirting with guys named Gavin?” We share a grin, and I pull the folded name tag out of my pocket, offering it to him.
He turns the small square in his fingers, checking both sides. “What’s this for?”
“A keepsake from our shortest date ever.”
Miguel is more sentimental than he lets on. He keeps a box of little mementos from all our past dates and vacations, but I won’t tease him about it when I’m obsessed with my camera roll.
“Have you had dinner?” I ask.
He nibbles his bottom lip and looks straight ahead. “I didn’t have time before the event.”
I’m not surprised. The thought of socializing with strangers kills his appetite. Once I’d figured out that turning my body into a dessert platter was the easiest way to get food into his stomach after a party, I stopped trying to feed him beforehand. We both reaped the benefits of that discovery.
“What’s good to eat around here? I’m starving.”
“There’s a sushi place on the next block,” he says, pointing out the way.
Music, laughter, and loud conversation accompany our journey, but none of it comes from us. Miguel glances at me on occasion, and my chest flutters because the needy organ inside it likes when he looks at my lips.
Half the tables are full when we enter the restaurant and snag an empty booth.
Traditional Japanese music plays in the background, low enough for diners to hold private conversations.
It makes sense why Miguel chose this place, despite knowing I don’t like sushi.
He’s always preferred quiet atmospheres to loud ones.
Coffee shops, the seaside at dawn, an intimate gathering…
he’s most comfortable when there’s not a big crowd.
And I’m grateful for his choice because this wig has exacerbated the headache I’ve had all day.
After watching a pair of lovebirds snuggle together in one side of a booth, my gaze slides back to Miguel.
He peruses the menu, more relaxed than he’s ever been in a restaurant with me.
I realize the disguise is the reason he’s at ease.
It’s fine. Whatever makes him less anxious works for me, but these itchy contact lenses need to go.
“I’m gonna pop into the bathroom and take these contacts out. Will you order for me?”
“Sure.” Switching his focus to the non-fishy entrées, he mutters, “Lose the mustache while you’re in there. You know I have sensitive skin.”
I freeze halfway out of the booth. Will he let me kiss him tonight? From the way he continues reading the menu, oblivious to what he implied, the chances are slim. But kissing him is the only thing on my mind as I barrel into the restroom and pluck the contacts from eyes.
As I lean toward the mirror, looking closely at my disguise, I smooth the mustache with my thumb and middle finger.
Being with Miguel tonight required a team effort.
When Carmen told me about the speed-dating event, I knew I’d be short on time once my flight landed.
Maisy made some calls and traded favors on my behalf.
The car service dropped me off at home, where a special effects makeup artist named Anthem was waiting by the gate.
While their partner battled traffic from the driver’s seat, Anthem transformed my face in the back.
The mystery favor I owe Anthem will be worth it because they did a stellar job on my disguise.
No one has recognized me, except Miguel.
No one recognizes me.
I gasp at the stranger in the reflection but don’t give him a second thought as I rush back to the table and slide into Miguel’s side of the booth. Panic flares in his eyes when I grab his hand, cutting off any protest before he can think of one.
“Let them look.”
“Don’t.” He tugs against my grip.
I tighten it, speaking with hushed urgency. “No one recognizes me, Miguel. We can do whatever we want tonight. Be whoever we want to be.” Bringing our hands to my lips, I quickly kiss each of his fingers as emotion clogs my throat. “We can be us…in public.”
His breath catches, an echo of mine from a minute ago. When the brown eyes I love so much begin to mist, I know he’s convinced to play along. He scoots closer, pressing right up against me, his body stiff as a board but connected.
“Why didn’t we think of using disguises like this before?”
My sharp laugh draws attention, and we duck our heads together. “Don’t ask me. You’re the brains and beauty behind this operation. I do as I’m told.”
He chuckles, melting into me. I wrap an arm around him and press my lips to his hair. The hand he slips under the table squeezes my thigh in response, and I pull him even closer, wishing the touches would never end.
When he speaks again, my neck muffles his voice. “And what if I told you to keep holding me until the night is over?”
“Then I’d say your wish is my command, because I have no intention of letting you go.”
Wednesday, January 25th
Me
The package will be ready for pickup tomorrow.
Carmen
Aye, aye, Captain!
I’m having lunch with him on Friday.
Me
Perfect. Thanks for the help.
For days, I’ve been riding the high of being affectionate with Miguel in public. Every time I reach for my phone to text him about it, I’m reminded he has my number blocked. With Carmen’s help, I have a plan in motion to change that.
Staring out the car’s passenger window, I’m thinking over tomorrow’s shooting schedule when Maisy lets out long-suffering sigh. Filming wrapped early today, so we’re visiting Walford, Texas, her hometown an hour from Austin. She hates coming here but hasn’t explained why.
Walford is a quintessential small town with brick shops along Main Street and school colors decorating every home and business.
With a population of three thousand, it’s quiet and remote, and the landscape is similar to the one back home, though the hills are smaller.
Miguel would love it here. He’s never seemed to have any real affection for city life. Too many people.
A bell above the door jingles when Maisy and I walk into The Drip.
Vintage furniture and overstuffed bookshelves create a cozy atmosphere in the only coffee shop in town.
Our arrival earns us a few looks, but the other customers return to their books, conversations, and lattes without a second glance.
Tatum flags us down, waving from a gold velvet loveseat in the corner. Maisy takes one look at her and curses before heading for the counter to order drinks.
Smoothing my hair back with a hand, I plop down next to Tatum and smile. “Good afternoon, gorgeous. You look comfortable.”
Anywhere else, a world-famous pop star couldn’t get away with wearing fleece pajamas with music notes on them in public. And calling her bun messy would be an understatement. The knots have knots.
A sweet and spicy aroma wafts from her chai when she brings it to her lips. “I just woke up. Jake’s out of town, and I’m not trying to impress anyone else.”
She recently got back together with her high school sweetheart. I played a major, albeit uncredited, role in their reunion. They haven’t had much time to reconnect, though. Jake travels for work often, and Tatum can’t go anywhere because she’s in hiding.
A few months ago, her attempts to escape the losses from her past took a bad turn. Her performances became increasingly disastrous, and a nipple slip while humping a mic stand at Madison Square Garden landed her at rock bottom.
Her record label and manager dropped her, setting off a media frenzy and a hunt for her whereabouts. After ninety days in a recovery facility, Tatum fled to Walford, where she’s staying with her aunt while deciding what comes next for her music career.
Maisy settles in a wingback chair across from us and smirks at Tatum. “You owe me twenty bucks, so I put our drinks on your tab.”
“Why does she owe you money?” I ask.
“We bet on how soon you’d show your ass to Miguel and make a fool of yourself. I won.”
Slinking lower in my seat, I cross my arms over my chest. “I didn’t show my ass, which is a gift to humanity, by the way. No body double required.”
I starred in one movie where I bared my backside, and it remains a fan favorite. Since then, I’ve been propositioned more than once for underwear ad campaigns, but I’m not interested in showing my front side to anyone outside my trust circle.
Lydia, The Drip’s owner, stops by and sets two mugs on the battered table. Her spiky bleached hair and blinding white smile are as legendary as her coffee beans.
“What else can I get you kids?” she asks.
Maisy picks up her hot chocolate while eyeing the mess on Tatum’s head. “Scissors.”
“We’re all good, thanks,” I say, returning Lydia’s smile before sniffing my black coffee. I moan, because the brew here smells strong and delicious.
Tatum digs in her bun, searching for the hair tie. After she returned to Walford, she dyed her hair its natural shade of light brown. It’s strange seeing her like this when I’ve known her only as a blonde.
“Give us the latest with Miguel,” she says.
While she weaves her long hair into a messy braid, I fill them in on all the finer details of speed dating and, more importantly, what happened afterward at the sushi restaurant. Tears of joy are shed, and some are mine.
“I’m trying to be chill and supportive about his dating life—”
“But it kills you inside?” Tatum steals the words right out of my mouth.
It kills me to know Miguel has been seeing other men, which is why I’ve volunteered as a tribute in his dating game. If there’s even a remote possibility that someone else could win his heart from me, I deserve the fighting chance to keep it.
Maisy blows on her hot chocolate and says, “We have five more weeks of filming. Let him have his fun.”
Nodding, I set my mug on the table. “That’s what I told him I’d do. I won’t go back on my word, but it would be helpful if I could teleport. Travel eats into what little time I get to spend with him.”
“I have a solution for that,” Tatum says. Sitting crisscross, she spins to face me head-on, and a deep, serious ridge forms between her eyebrows. “Since I’m stuck here forever, you’re welcome to use my plane.”
I bark a laugh. “You can’t be serious. It’s a jet and costs real money every time you travel. A lot of money.”
She shrugs. “You can still use it. Whatever you need from me on this mission, just say the word.”
“From either of us,” Maisy says, her expression equally serious. “And run all your crazy ideas through the group chat first. You can’t be trusted to make good choices on your own.”
“I’ll do my best to remember.”
Rubbing my pendant, I smile. I won’t tell them I stole something from Miguel’s apartment the night I surprised him. He’ll get it back when I enact the next phase of my plan.
By the time Maisy and I hop in the car for the drive back to Austin, the sun has set and I can’t stop yawning. She insists on driving, claiming she’s more familiar with the area, but I’m not fooled. I’m a slow driver, and my lack of urgency behind the wheel irritates her.
“Are you sure traveling back and forth every weekend is a good idea?” she asks.
“I have it all planned out and under control.”
“You and your plans.” Grumbling, she cranks up the heater. “I’d bet good money your schedule has hemorrhoids.”
“Probably.” I lean the seat back and close my eyes for a minute. As usual, Miguel graces my nighttime visions like his face is tattooed on the inside of my eyelids.
The sound of Maisy’s voice tapers off, her warning distant. “I’ll remind you again to tread carefully, and don’t fuck this up.”
“I’m walking on tiptoes,” I murmur. The world fades to black after that.