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Almost.
And then a duck splashes in the river, diverting our attention behind our shoulders. As our eyes are about to come back to each other, Charlie begins speaking.
Guess what? I suddenly hate ducks.
“Still, I need this show to happen,” Charlie says, not telling us the main reason why, the one that has nothing to do with me. “We’re still set with filming then?”
“I’m fine with it, if Oscar is,” Jack says, glancing to me.
Now I have to be around Jack knowing Charlie is trying to set me up with him. As if this couldn’t get any messier.
But I think about what this show means to Highland again. What it could do for his aspirations, his career, his life.
I’m not that big of an asshole.
“I’m alright with it,” I say.
Charlie exhales a short breath, then tilts his head to me. “If I crossed a line today…”
“You cross them every day, Charlie,” I say with no anger. What I’ve learned in my thirty-two years, there are some fights not worth stewing over. Tomorrow is another day.
His lip rises with a nod of agreement, and he sticks his cigarette in his mouth. “L’enfer est vide et tous les diables sont ici.” Hell is empty and all the devils are here. I recognize the Shakespeare quote. The Tempest.
His gaze does soften. “I am fine, Oscar.”
“Yeah, I know.”
I’ve heard it a million-and-one times. But nothing really changes. As long as I’m protecting Charlie, there’s going to be a large part of me that has to protect him from himself. He’s not the only self-destructive client, but he’s the one who runs the most laps around the world.
12
JACK HIGHLAND
Two weeks have passed since Paris, and I’m still reeling from the whirlwind of events that happened over the course of two days. From the meeting in my Philly apartment to the New York concert venue to racing around Paris. It should be a blur by now, but it’s too vivid.
Every frame, every shot that I took with my eyes of Oscar Oliveira, I remember. Like that experience alongside him will be a gold standard for all the others in my life. And I’m not even sure it’s what I did but just the company I held.
After we got back to Charlie’s apartment from Le Chat Rouge, we grabbed our things and left for the airport. We clocked in less than 24-hours in France—and that’s normal for Charlie…and Oscar.
How in the fuck is this TV show going to work, dude? I’ve been asking myself that for two weeks and tossing and turning every night trying to figure out logistics.
And other things…
Let’s face it, this pilot has confused my confusion. I now know one reason Charlie wants to film a docuseries about his life. He’s trying to matchmake me and Oscar together. As friends. As something more? I missed the chance to really talk to Oscar in Paris. We fell asleep on the plane. But I woke up early.
Could’ve woken him up too.
These missed opportunities are so foreign to me. I don’t miss an opportunity. I’ve never been scared of walking through an open door.
I mean, fuck, I’ve rarely been afraid to talk to anyone about anything. Not even when I was a nineteen-year-old production assistant, facing a prick of a director who kept spit-screaming at me and the other PAs about moving apple boxes.
And Oscar is lonely? I never saw him as a lonely guy. He has the kind of die-hard, life-long friendships I thought only existed in cult, coming-of-age movies. And he’s constantly hit on, and in my presence too.
Irrational anger begins to simmer again, just revisiting the memory of Everly coming on hard to Oscar in the Louvre. I’ve gone on double-dates with Akara; I introduced him to some girls I knew from college. Did I care when Akara and Amber kissed at the end of the night?
No.
No question.
So why did Everly make me want to uppercut a punching bag? And I don’t even fucking box.
I was so quick to make an enemy out of her, and if presented with the same situation three-hundred times, I know I’d have three-hundred more.
Me, Jack Highland, the guy with no enemies.
I guess now I have at least one.
She has his number. Maybe they’ll meet up if she finds herself in Philly or New York. Maybe they’ve already met up. It’s not like I’ve seen Oscar in a while.
Two weeks.
Two weeks of no contact, and what’s wrong with me? I’ve never been so bent-out-of-shape over a short stint of no communication before now.
At least Oscar spent the last week in the Smoky Mountains. He was on-duty with security while the Hales, Meadows, and Cobalts retreated to the lake house. They usually go there on-and-off during the summer, and I heard they were linking up with Farrow & Maximoff at the end of their honeymoon.
