“The worst part?” I whisper, watching a seabird wheel overhead, free and untamed. “When he broke up with me, he said he was only dating me to advance his career. Just another stepping stone. How ridiculous is that? I should’ve known better.”
“Bullshit,” he bites out. “You didn’t deserve that. And you were a fucking child—he should’ve known better than to fucking use you.”
“It’s not only him.” I wrap my arms around myself, fighting a shiver that has nothing to do with the breeze. “Decades in this industry teaches you that too many men see young actresses as means to an end. That’s why all my boundaries matter to me, from the no-fraternization clause to keeping myself focused on my career.”
“So all those rumors about you and Jaxon Elio?”
“Like you said, there’s more to the story.” I echo his earlier words.
When those golden eyes turn to me, his smile turns wicked, promising trouble. “Your turn. I want three regrets.”
“I’m the one giving homework here.”
“Come on, humor me. You want me to get a perfect score, don’t you? All three regrets? So I’ll give you my last one if you give me three in return.”
“Nothing exciting,” I admit, suddenly fascinated by my hands, aware of how tame my rebellions must seem to someone like him. “Talking in class in fourth grade?”
“That’s it?” His knee brushes mine, and neither of us moves away. “Come on, there has to be more.”
I bite back my smile, but his energy draws it out of me. “Well, in fifth grade, I carved ‘Mrs. Tracy is amazing’ into a picnic table because some kids were being mean to her.”
His laugh wraps around me like a caress. “You vandalized school property to defend a teacher’s honor? Actually kind of perfect.”
“Don’t mock me!” I snort-laugh, loud. My hand flies up to cover my nose like I can take it back.
A slow grin spreads across his face. “Adorable.”
“It was not.”
“Oh, it absolutely was.” His voice is all amusement, but he doesn’t push, only tucks the moment away like it’s something to keep.
I peek at him through my fingers. “Everyone thought I had a crush on my teacher.”
“I had my own Mrs. Tracy. Ms. Austin, my art teacher before boarding school. Ancient as a dinosaur, but man, the way she talked about art had me completely starry-eyed. She’d tell these stories about partying with Fonda, and she claimed she dated Bowie. Total nonsense, but I ate it up.” He chuckles at the memory. “Thought I was so grown up and sophisticated getting to hear all her tales, you know?”
“So why didn’t you become Mr. Austin?” I tease.
“Wasn’t long before I realized my love for her was teenage hormones,” he teases. “Second one, Reese.”
I ponder. “Not letting myself off my own leash. I was so focused on being perfect, on being a good role model, that I never got to live. Never got to do anything. No outlandish stories followed me around, and I’m grateful for that—the media is ruthless. But maybe being known as unproblematic isn’t something that fits me anymore, especially since I’m turning thirty next year.”
“Sounds like we’re both in a bit of an identity crisis.”
The weight of his words settles in my chest. He sees whatever small fire I keep hidden there. The sun is high above us. An hour here has slipped into three.
Dante pulls out tobacco and papers. “Mind if I smoke? Or do you find the smell distracting?”
I know.
Smoking is bad for me.
Secondhand smoke is bad for me.
Dante is bad for me.
But I find myself saying, “It’s fine.”
“It’s a bad habit, I know.” I observe his practiced motions, cataloging each movement like I would for a role. He seals the paper with a flick of his tongue that I absolutely do not fixate on.
