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“And nothing.”

“That’s rarely the case when people say it like that.”

Hakeem rubbed a hand over his mouth. The words came out flatter than he intended. “And I want to audition, which is embarrassing, because wanting things at this point feels a little beneath me.”

Antonio went still in a way Hakeem had started to recognize as attention-sharpening.

“Why embarrassing?”

Hakeem laughed, though it came out thin. “Because it’s always some variation of the same thing. Submit, wait, probably get ignored, but in a professional way. Maybe get a self-tape request that makes you rearrange your whole week to cry in medium close-up for strangers. Likely be told you’re ‘interesting’ and then watch the part go to a man with a better agent and less student debt.”

Antonio did not interrupt.

“Or,” Hakeem said, his voice turning lighter in self-defense, “I book nothing and continue my exciting career trajectory of fake dying in themed environments while women in bachelorette veils order espresso martinis named after exorcisms.”

Antonio’s mouth twitched, though only briefly. “That sounds more like bitterness than embarrassment.”

Hakeem let his head fall back against the chair. “Thank you, Dr. Sanchez. That’s extremely helpful.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I hate you a little.”

“No, you don’t.”

It came out absent, almost automatic, and Hakeem felt it in places that had nothing to do with language.

He sat up and gave Antonio a look. “Very presumptuous.”

Antonio was looking at him with that same maddening composure. “You brought up the audition because you want to do it.”

“I brought up the audition because I’m tired and tragically indiscreet.”

“Mm.”

“That means yes, by the way.”

“To which part?”

“All of it.”

Antonio looked down at the glass by his foot, then back up. “Then audition.”

The simplicity of it irritated Hakeem instantly. “Oh, great. Perfect. Why didn’t I think of that?”

Antonio ignored the tone. “You should.”

Hakeem laughed. “You say that like I’m choosing between soup and salad.”

“I say it like you already know what you want.”

Hakeem looked at him, thrown off by the steadiness of it. Antonio was not giving him cheap, inflated encouragement, the LA variety where everybody told everybody else they were brilliant right up until the moment they stopped returning emails. He sounded almost annoyed by the fact that Hakeem was pretending not to know himself.

“That’s very motivational-speaker of you,” Hakeem said.

Antonio reached over and nudged his shoulder with the side of his fist. The contact was brief but undeniable.

It was stupid how much that did.