Page 5 of Burn the Script

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.

3

GRAHAM

THEN

Late January, 5 Years Ago

A jogger shuffled along the path dividing the sand from the park where I sat in the grass. The popular stretch of coastline between Venice Beach and the Santa Monica Pier was at its quietest before sunrise. I could visit the beach without being harassed.

Salty air filled my lungs, and I closed my eyes, letting the breaking waves lull me into a meditative state. As always, I reflected on my acting career, a burgeoning one I was privileged to have at the age of twenty-six. It wasn’t moving fast enough.

The Academy Award nominees were announced half an hour ago. Despite the critical and public acclaim for my first dramatic role, I wasn’t listed among them. An Oscar nomination would’ve catapulted me to the top of the A-list and opened doors to work with the best filmmakers in the industry. While acting padded my savings account, earning an education on set had been my underlying agenda.

Someone shouted. My eyes flew open in time to catch a harrowing scene play in slow motion. A guy on an electric scooter zipped around the curve and flew past me. The cyclist he cut off lost control, veering off the path and toward a group of palm trees. He bailed from the bike. The tumbling and skidding that followed snapped me to my senses.

I raced to his side, and my knees hit the grass. “Oh my god! Are you okay?”

Groaning, he rolled to his back and blinked at the sky. High-pitched, hysterical laughter burst out of him. The staccato rhythm of it shook his whole body, forcing him to clutch his stomach and curl to one side.

“I’m alive!” He gasped for air while trying to speak. “…the morning…less people…fucking scooter…I almost died!”

My heart sprinted from the terror of what I’d witnessed, but my brain couldn’t process his reaction. All I could do was gawk until he calmed down enough to hear me.

Again, I asked, “Are you okay? Are you hurting anywhere?”

His chest heaved as the laughter subsided. “I think I’m okay.”

Slow to sit up, he rubbed the kinks from his neck, but his smile remained intact. I’d never seen dimples as prominent as his, deep divots in an otherwise smooth complexion. His skin was a creamy blend of tan and pink, like the turret seashells I’d seen in Costa Rica.

You’re staring at his cheek, Graham. Stop being weird.

When our gazes met, his flared wide. I braced for the usual onslaught of questions about my movies and personal life, but it never came. Something in the grass stole his focus instead. He scrabbled for it, and my jaw hung open as he glared into a bag of candy like he was taking attendance.

I rested my butt on my heels and let out a disbelieving chuckle. All things considered, he was unharmed, but his blue beach cruiser didn’t fare as well. The chain was broken, and a smashed basket hung crooked on the handlebar.

Convinced he was minimizing his injuries, I checked him over once more. He looked around my age, maybe a couple of years older. His outfit was an unusual choice for a bike ride. Beneath his navy blazer, a crisp white shirt was buttoned all the way to his neck. Colorful socks peeked between his burgundy chinos and the brown loafers on his feet. A rip in his chinos snagged my notice.

“Are you bleeding?” I asked, reaching for his knee.

Before I made contact, he bent his leg to inspect the damage himself, and blew a sharp breath. “No blood. It’s only a scratch. I’m more upset about my pants.”

“They’re nice pants.” I pressed my lips together.