Page 51 of Burn the Script

Fine lines decorate the corners of his eyes, and tiny strands of silver peek through his dark sideburns. He’ll look distinguished later in life, with salt-and-pepper hair and skin marked by happy memories.

“Sometimes, I think you need to be committed,” he says.

“If you’re asking me to marry you, my answer is and always will be yes.”

With my firm hold on his jaw, he can’t turn away when his gaze slides to the window. “The rain stopped. I should go before it starts up again.”

I bring his face closer and steal a chaste kiss. “We haven’t had our cocktails. I bought the cherries you like.”

“Save them for next time.”

The promise of a next time earns him a more thorough kiss, one that speaks volumes. One that says he won’t regret giving us another chance.

As the kiss goes on, he buttons my shirt, then pulls back to run his hands down my chest, smoothing out the wrinkles. Delaying his departure. I know him, avoidance tactics and all.

“I’ll text you in the morning before my flight leaves,” I say.

His throat bobs with a hard swallow while he stares at my chest. “Don’t forget.”

Those two words mean everything to me. Miguel hates flying, and while he’s never said it out loud, he worries when I travel by plane. He’d insist that I text an “I love you” in case the last message we exchanged turned out to be our final one. But he has nothing to fear. Regardless of how or when I leave this earth, he’ll be the only thing on my mind.

Sunday, February 5th

I bang a fist on the door five seconds after ringing the bell. Between knocks, I ring the bell again and again. The door jerks open. Jonathan’s sparse grey hair stands at all angles, and the straps of his CPAP mask left lines on his ruddy face.

“Do you know what time it is?” he asks, squinting into the darkness behind me.

“It’s noon in other parts of the world.” Dropping my backpack on the floor, I slip past him and head for the espresso machine, the only appliance in his kitchen made after the turn of the millennium. “I’m getting engaged. For real, this time.” The tiny labels beneath the multitude of buttons are hard to read, so I bend down for a closer look. “Scratch that. Miguel and I are getting married.”

He flicks on the overhead light. “Am I invited to the wedding?”

“This is serious, Jonathan. I’m done hiding our relationship.” Nothing happens when I push the largest button. “How does this thing work?”

He shoulders me out of the way and ties the flannel bathrobe around his protruding belly. “First, you plug it in.”

As he goes about preparing the elixir of life, grinding beans and adding water, I swivel on a bar stool and gaze through the window at the canal. I rub my lips, remembering Miguel’s kiss last night and his vow not to date anyone but me. I’m high on the promise of our future, and nothing could bring me down.

The machine hums while filling Jonathan’s miniature mug. He leans against the counter near the sink, gripping the peeling edge. “The last time you stormed my house at the ass crack of dawn was after Miguel’s first trip to Costa Rica. You made this same announcement. I told you to marry him. Be happy. To hell with the media and the money men, as long as you’re ready for the fallout. You decided to wait.”

When I first arrived in Hollywood, I was young and eager to make a name for myself. Based on my looks, the term heartthrob was thrown around at every interview and audition. I embraced it. My agent at the time said I could be the guy women fantasized about and men emulated, not the other way around. As long as I kept my sexuality locked down with airtight NDAs, my career would be on the fast track. I listened to his advice, and it paid off. Now, a hetero image is the uncomfortable bed I’m chained to.

Jonathan is the only person in the industry I’ve entrusted with my secret since that agent. He’s a straight shooter who commands respect, but he returns it tenfold by fighting for and protecting his clients. If he had been on my team in the early days, I may have done things differently, like fight to stay true to myself.

Planting my elbows on the counter, I take off my cap and ruffle my hair. “Why does there have to be a fallout?”

“Because you’re a liar, and he’s a nobody.”

I rear back as blood rushes to my face. “What the hell, Jonathan?”

“That was a test. The haters will say much worse, Graham. You and Miguel need to prepare for the worst of the worst.”

The erratic pounding in my chest might be a clue I’m not impervious to harsh criticism, but I’ve expected this day to come. As long as our support system remains intact, Miguel and I will survive whatever the media throws at us.

“We’re prepared,” I declare.

Jonathan takes the longest, loudest sip of espresso from his tiny cup. “Are you sure about that?”

I’m feeling less certain about everything than I was five minutes ago. “No. We’re not exactly together again, but we’re getting there.”