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There’s more, but I can’t read it. Ethan keeps stirring in my side vision and it transforms the scenes in my head, the faces, the bodies . . .
He glances at me again and our gazes hook.
Like wildfire, we leap away from each other and rush inside to our separate beds.
My pants come off. My hand wraps around my dick. In the distance, mattress springs groan.
I know we’re both imagining that story, and I know in our versions, we’re not drunk.
On the balcony the next morning we can hardly look at one another.
Ethan speaks first. “Let’s not ever . . . read anything like that again.”
“Agreed.”
“Not that Ford isn’t talented, clearly . . .”
“He knows how to make something sexy.”
“Do you think all his stories are that . . . erotic?”
“I suppose if he’s earning something they must be?”
“Huh.”
“Ethan?”
“Yeah.”
My voice is a low rumble. “You totally want to read another one.”
His blush says everything. He stammers. “I don’t want to read it.”
Oh.
I flush. Step forward—
He shoves his hands in his pockets, a reminder there’s an unbridgeable chasm between wanting and having. The disappointment is expected, sour nevertheless.
“I’d better have breakfast,” Ethan murmurs. “Cress wants to rehearse, and I only have half an hour.”
“Babysitting the Dashwoods?”
“Yeah, their mum’s not feeling well. Thought I’d take them for a hike.”
“Right. Take my car.” I pause. “Will you be ready for the taped run-through tonight?”
“My lines are . . . very hard to forget.”
My Adam’s apple is a hard lump as I swallow. “You and Cress perform them well. What I’ve seen, anyway.”
“You always walk out of the room near the end.”
Before that one scene . . .
My voice is raw. “I’m sure that’s done well too.”
“The end is the hardest to get right. I’m not sure we have yet.”
We stare at one another. He runs a hand through his hair and laughs tightly, shaking his head.
“What?”
His eyes fall softly on me and he rips them away again. “It feels like I’m on fire inside and I’m not allowed to scream.”
I’m quiet. “Why don’t we scream?”
He’s shaking, and I think of the reason we don’t say a word. Our little sister, with her skin, dark like mine, her eyes bright and silvery like Ethan’s. Her joyous love of us, her two big brothers. Her little arms wrapping around our necks, her sweet singing voice, love hims forevers.
Would I risk losing her for him?
Yes.
I throw the thought away, terrified, ashamed.
Would Ethan?
No, never.
“Maybe,” Ethan says, and pauses.
“Maybe, what?” My breath is tangled in my chest.
“Maybe we need a certain kind of closure.”
My stomach sinks to my knees. “Closure.”
I frown.
He clasps his nape and rubs. “What if . . . I mean, could we practice that scene together? Just you and me?”
“You want to practice that declaration with me?”
His eyes meet mine. “I’d like a moment to pretend it’s real.”
“Then the curtain drops and we never think of it again?”
“Well. We’ll never mention it again.”
“Closure,” I repeat, swallowing.
“Yes.”
“Do I get to kiss you one last time?”
His voice is a small pebble in the river; quiet, but its ripples grow and grow. “Yes.”
I turn abruptly on my heel and make for the door. “Find me when you get home.”
The whole world shall be ours because of our love.
K. Mansfield, Letter
It’s impossible to concentrate. I go for a jog, shower, attempt to write, give up reading, miss half of my current audiobook narration, eat lunch, clean up, change my sheets, avoid Cress.
In the afternoon, I hear a lot of rumbling and grunting and follow the sounds to Tom’s office. “What on earth?”
Ford looks up from where he’s shoved Tom’s desk to the side of the room. “Hey, Finley. Give me a hand?”
Startled, I enter. “What are you doing?”
“Preparing for our taped rehearsal, of course.”
“I thought we’d do it in the living room.”
“It doesn’t have the right structure. This room is perfect. Look at it. Those double doors open onto the billiard room. The archway would frame this room and make it look like a stage.”
“Um, but . . .” I gesture to all the furniture that’s been shifted to clear space.
He waves my concern away. “We’ll put it all back when we’re done. Now if you’ll lift the other end of this cabinet . . .”
I help him move it and once we’re done and the doors are thrown open and Ford has shuffled a few other things around, he nods. Satisfied, he leans against the bookshelf and eyes me.
His teeth flash. It’s the smirkiest I’ve seen him yet.
“What?”
His smirk grows. “Did you have a good night last night?”
My hands freeze around a throw pillow that’d fallen off the chaise. “What does that mean?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Just thinking you might have . . . slept really well. Eventually.”
I swallow and lower my voice. “How do you know?”
He laughs and circles me. “Cress said she mentioned my pseudonym. Then voila! Last night, two sales . . .”
