Page 13 of The Star in Room 7

Except I can’t. “You’re right, it’s too fresh and raw right now. I’m sorry for wasting your time.”

“You’re not. Would it help if we talked about something else?”

I nod. “What’s your niece called?”

“Cassie.”

“You don’t look old enough to have a thirteen-year-old niece.”

“I’m old enough to have a thirteen-year-old daughter.”

“Do you have kids?”

“No.”

I narrow my eyes. “How old are you?”

“Thirty-nine.”

I was close. He’s fourteen years older than me.

“Do you want kids?” Why did I ask that?

“Not at the moment. Maybe never. Do you?”

“I don’t think I’d make a good parent.”

“Why?”

“Because I can’t even take care of myself right now.”

Nate raises an eyebrow. “Asking for help isn’t taking care of yourself?”

I have no answer to that. “I’m not honest about who I am.”

“Oh?”

“I pretend to be a tough guy. Strong, stoic. Pretty much like my character in the film. Chase would have never cried at the start of the film.”

“Crying isn’t a sign of weakness. If I remember correctly, Chase realized that by the end of the movie. He had this whole transformation and redemption arc that allowed him to get the girl by the end.”

“You really did watch it,” I mumble.

“And I paid attention. You’re being too harsh on yourself, Zach. You might have adopted a persona to get roles, but that’s all it is.”

“Is it?”

“Yes. If you need to cry, cry.”

My tears burst out of me, like a dam breaking. One moment I’m staring at Nate, blinking, and the next I’m sobbing into my hands.

“Can I offer you a hug?”

I start. I hadn’t realized Nate had stood up, let alone moved so close to me. He’s a couple of footsteps away, giving me space, but offering me comfort. I want to refuse, but I do want a hug. I want him to hug me. I nod.

He moves closer, slowly. He wraps his arms around me and guides my head onto his shoulder, allowing me to cry into his probably expensive jacket. He rubs my back, his chin resting against my temple as I sob uncontrollably.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I’m sorry.” I keep repeating it, over and over, my voice increasingly broken and disjointed by tears and hiccups. “I’m sorry.”