Page 20 of Burn the Script

“Not at the moment, no. But I’m hoping that changes soon.”

“What?” I whisper, craning my neck to see the TV.

He stares into the camera with an impish little grin, like he knew I’d be watching. Like he’s daring me to look away as he issues a bold warning that he’s only getting started. Everything fades from view except for him and the faded brown T-shirt he’s wearing on live television. The one with the hole in the armpit that, thankfully, no one can see.

I wanted to burn the shirt years ago, but it’s his favorite. So we compromised, agreeing he would only wear it while hiking, out of my sight. Yet I’m sitting here in my pajamas, half a continent away, with my twitchy eyes glued to his fashion disaster, until a grinding noise severs the connection.

“Damn it!” I yell, jerking my foot off the pedal.

The needle stops, but the damage has been done. The bunched thread in the seam resembles a bird’s nest, and I’m in no mood to deal with it tonight. I abandon the waistcoat and grab the remote, stabbing the power button to shut off the TV.

Despite everything, I’m proud of Graham for accomplishing what he set out to do from a young age. His endless well of confidence fed my own for years. It’s too bad his audacity never stuck to my bones. I’m expressive and outspoken on occasion, but contrary to what people believe, I’m not brave.

My whole life, I’ve relied on others to shield me from the worst of the world. I had my parents, older brother, and Carmen to coddle my naive, little soul. Then my college boyfriend proved how easily a soul could be destroyed. By the time Graham came along, I’d been drained of naivety and confidence. Anxiety took their place.

I double check the locks on the door and kill the lights. The darkness is short-lived as my nightlights activate a glowing path leading to my bedroom. As I climb into bed two hours earlier than usual, the question of whether other grown men are scared of the dark crosses my mind. Not likely.

I can’t go on like this, trapped inside the comfort zone of my making. Maybe I should follow Carmen’s advice and meet new people. Nothing screams bravery louder than opening myself up to criticism. Perhaps one day, I’ll even be brave enough to love Graham without fearing the fallout.

Saturday, January 7th

The jazz-fusion playlist cycling through the speakers grates on my nerves. What’s worse, the person pretending to be a DJ set the volume at midrange. The music should be loud enough for dancing or quiet enough for mingling. It’s not that hard.

Film industry mixers are all the same. Anyone who knows someone with an invite can get through the door. Carmen translates scripts from English to Spanish, and she drags me to these events as her plus-one.

In the past, I would come willingly. Earlier this evening, however, we argued when she refused to let me spend another weekend holed up in my apartment. Once I remembered my new goal of meeting people, she gave me a choice between a house party or a club. And since I’d rather gouge my eyeballs out than get knocked around in a horde of sweaty bodies, I chose the lesser of two evils.

As soon as we arrived at the mini mansion, Carmen flitted off to do god knows what, besides find me a drink. I’ve claimed a chair in the corner farthest from the foot traffic while texting Maisy. Now that she and Graham are temporary roommates in Texas, her proximity to him gives me peace of mind.

Me

Did you get the chamomile tea? It helps him sleep.

Angel

Yes.

Me

And the chocolate puffs cereal? Not the generic brand.

Angel

I’m his roommate, not his personal shopper.

Me

Is he with you? Send me a pic.

Angel

CALL HIM!

Me

One pic, Maisy!

Angel