“You’ve been up for a bunch of awards. You star in the most popular television program in the world. When you left Dido behind and spotted that damn funeral pyre from your ship, I nearly required medical intervention for my weeping-related dehydration issues.”
Shespoke slowly, as if to a blockheaded child, and he bristled instinctively at that familiar tone. At least until the actual meaning of her words sank in. Then he flushed hot with embarrassment and kicked at a crack in the sidewalk.
“And all those nominations weren’t just forGods of the Gates,” she added. “There was that Stoppard play too, and the astronaut role.”
Starshine. He’d played the only survivor of a catastrophic incident aboard the International Space Station. Maybe the indie film hadn’t done as well as he’d hoped in theaters, but yeah, for that red carpet, he’d probably strutted a bit, truth be told.
She stepped in closer, until they could communicate in near-whispers. Until she could study him up close, her attention sharp as the hero sword he’d never actually swung in hisGatesbattle scenes.
“But in all honesty, probably the most demanding and impressive role you’ve played isn’t any of those.” Her chin was firm, her tone still determined and confrontational for reasons he couldn’t fathom. “Is it?”
He frowned at her, lost.
Maybe that time he’d played Posthumus in an adaptation ofCymbeline, given the language issues, but—
“I’m not sure which role you mean,” he told her.
When she arched a fiery brow, he knew he was in trouble.
“It’s you. Marcus Caster-Rupp. The performance of a lifetime.” She laid her palm on his chest, over his heart, as if she were taking its measure. Maybe she was. “The vainest, dimmest actor on the planet, who’s actually neither. Seemingly shallow and shiny as a puddle, but deep as the Mariana Trench.”
Deep?Him?
What the actual fuck?
“Explain it to me, please.” She spoke politely, but it wasn’t a request. Itwas a demand. “Sooner or later, the paparazzi are going to find us again. Before I watch your next performance, I need to understand.”
That flaming hair should have warned him. Somehow, she was his crucible, burning away everything but the truth. Forcing him to speak it aloud and purify himself before her.
He opened his mouth. Closed it, unsure what to say or how to begin.
Her hand gave his sternum a gentle but firm pat. A warning. “Don’t bother pretending you don’t know what the Mariana Trench is, either. I streamedSharkphoon, and those chompy bastards came rocketing up from that trench into the cyclone. You told the president about the danger in your white lab coat and safety glasses, to no avail.”
Stupidly, he couldn’t help wondering whether she’d watched the movie in 3-D, because the scene where the mother shark ate that cruise ship in three giant bites was really enhanced by—
Nope. Not the point right now.
He let out a slow breath. Closed his eyes.
Why had he ever imagined she might simply accept his change in demeanor without remarking on it? Without asking what it meant?
The woman standing before him was Ulsie, the beta reader who challenged any inconsistencies in his stories.
The woman standing before him was April, who made a living out of comparing surfaces to what lay underneath.
The woman standing before him was the woman he wanted. That simple.
So at long last, he opened his mouth again and gave her whatshewanted.
The truth.
Enough truth for now, at least.
1 WHEEL, 2 REAL
EXT. THEMEAN STREETS OF PORTLAND – MIDDAY
EWAN looks at the beautiful, quirky girl with the bright pink hair sitting beside him, his unicycle propped against the back slats of their bench. Suddenly, he realizes she knows everything about him, but he knows nothing about her.
