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14
With Steven recovering in the hospital, the house next door was quiet, and Chris had to find other things to do to fill up his time besides hang out with his neighbors and daydream of Bronte. Over the last week, they’d spent as much time as they could together, meeting for coffee or for a quick bite to eat before they stopped to see Steven. Twice, he had gone to her apartment to watch movies with her, but like they were two kids in high school; they never actually watched anything. Instead, they spent most of their time horizontal. They hadn’t moved past kissing and some heavy petting, though Chris was good with that. He normally skipped that part, the learning of each other’s bodies and the laughing together. It was nice and also needed.
Because if there was one thing he’d learned about Bronte, it was that she had to be eased into things. She might’ve been able to take a big leap with him, but he had to be there to hold her hand. So, they texted and talked. They chatted about everything except his work, which made him feel like a coward. Nevertheless, until she was one-hundred-percent comfortable with everything going on with her family, he wasn’t going to lay his world at her feet to create any stumbling blocks.
For a few hours a day, he forced the image of big blue eyes out of his mind and focused on reading scripts. He had it narrowed down to a few he would like to do; the only hang-up was if the directors wanted him. His agent, Tom, had warned him that his behavior the past few years made people nervous. They wouldn’t want to work with him. “Too much of a liability,” he’d said, which had led Wes to concoct this scheme, for Chris to remove himself from the spotlight and let the press move on to whoever the next train wreck was.
Chris was a good actor. He’d learned from the best, had a decent list of credits, and, until recently, a respectable reputation on set. He’d always come to work prepared and on time. It was when all the other shit got in the way—the benders, the racing, that foray in Vegas with the dancer, all the scuffles with paparazzi, the DUI—that studio heads said they required proof he hadn’t fallen completely off the deep end. He’d gone from being offered roles to now having to beg for scripts, back to auditioning. He only hoped he hadn’t screwed it up so bad that he couldn’t claw his way back to the top.
One morning, his phone rang, and he placed his laptop on the coffee table, closing the watermarked and numbered script from the screen before answering. “Hey, Pattie.”
“Chris, honey, we got good news. Steven is coming home from the rehab center today.”
“That’s great news.”
“Yes, but listen, are you going to be around this afternoon?”
“Yeah, why? What’s up?
“He’ll be released in a few hours. We’re only waiting for the papers, but—”
Chris stood up, anticipating her next question. “I’ll be home all day. I’ll help with whatever you need.”
“You’re wonderful, you know that?”
Opening his front door, he peeked outside over to the Hollingers’ house. The yard was full of leaves. “So are you,” he said and hung up with, “I’ll see you in a bit.”
He slipped on a coat and found a rake in the shed in the backyard then got to work. It took a while, but he got all the leaves from both yards pushed into a few piles next to the curb. As he was about to head back inside, a car parked next to him.
Bronte stepped out in a dark-gray pea coat, and he couldn’t help but want to take it off her, run his hands over her soft-looking sweater and those tight black pants that ended right above her ankle.
“They paying you?” she asked, her lips curling in a teasing smile.
He tossed the rake down, quoting her from their very first conversation, “I did it for goodwill, karma, and all that.”
“My dad’s coming home today.”
“I know. Your mom called me.”
She scanned the yard, then her parents’ house. “I came to see if I could do anything before they got home.”
“I was thinking about making them something for dinner.”
Her eyebrow rose skeptically. “Since when do you cook?”
“Since your mom hasn’t been around to do it, I’ve mastered a pretty good grilled cheese.” Back in LA, he had all his meals delivered, but there was no personal chef here—besides Pattie—to drop off food, so he had to take matters into his own hands, ready to graduate from pancakes and chicken to something more elaborate. “I need to go to the grocery store, though. Want to come with me?”
“Sure. I’ll drive.”
He ran inside to grab his wallet and phone, then hopped into Bronte’s waiting car. He buckled his seat belt, his eyes meeting hers. A guy could get lost in them if he wasn’t careful. Holding up his phone in front of her face, he forced them to the recipe he’d saved. “How do you feel about lasagna with turkey and spinach?”
“I hope you’re as good at cooking as you are at playing guitar.”
“Me too.” His laughter died down when his guilt crept up in the back of his mind. He resolved to tell her who he was soon. He only hoped, once he did, they could figure out how to stay together, because he wasn’t willing or ready to give her up yet.
The drive to the store was only five minutes. Four and a half of those were spent trying to find a radio station they both wanted to listen to, and he was in the middle of his Inigo Montoya impression when Bronte reached out for Chris’s hand. He paused only momentarily before weaving his fingers with hers. There was something to be said for taking it slow, all these small moments, like her smiling at him in the car or his fingertips caressing her knuckles. He could do slow and steady. He liked slow and steady.
Armed with the shopping list, Chris steered them through the aisles, picking out items, while Bronte fought with the cart. She kicked at it with the toe of her boot. “This wheel is wonky.”
