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Chris’s daysblurred together with table reads, training, and traffic, yet he trudged along in silence, detachment, and loneliness. When he wasn’t throwing himself into learning the script, he was at the gym or in meetings. That didn’t leave much downtime, but when he did have it, the ache resurfaced. Chronic and bone-deep.
He had assumed three thousand miles wouldn’t be a big deal. Not when he was head over heels in love. Yet those three thousand miles might as well have been three continents. Three hours didn’t seem like that much of a difference until it came time to talk. By the time he woke up in the morning, Bronte was already halfway through her day, and when he got home, she was already asleep. They had scheduled a date every Sunday night to watch a movie together, but a few hours each week wasn’t enough.
He missed her voice and her dimples, the way she slurped her coffee in the morning, and how her body felt wrapped up in his. He missed the piece of himself he’d left with her, and the only place he found comfort was work, where he could channel someone else for a while.
It was after rehearsal, on Wednesday at the end of January, when Wes showed up to Chris’s trailer in the backlot. Production was set to start the following week, and he came to check in. Wes took a seat across from the tiny kitchenette as Chris sat in a director’s chair with Jericho, the film’s head hairstylist, behind him.
“I’ve been waiting to get my hands on this man-bun,” he said with a menacing snip of his fingers.
Chris rubbed his palms together. “Do you worst.”
“Which will be the best.” Jericho smiled at Chris’s reflection in the mirror, a diamond stud winking at him, his teeth bright white next to his dark skin.
“How’s it going today? You feel ready?” Wes asked, lifting his ankle over his knee, his ever-present cell phone in hand. Chris had met Wes at a party when they were both practically babies. Wes had graduated college, interned with a few production companies, and was working his way up the Hollywood chain. Since things had slowly been unraveling with Chris and his family after he’d hit it big with the Travellers trilogy, he needed guidance and business advice, which Wes had in spades. Over the years, Wes had become business partner second, friend first.
“After Jericho takes care of me, that’ll be the last step to Roy.”
And that was when the man made the first snip. Jericho held up the small bun as evidence then dropped it in Chris’s lap. “Goodbye and good riddance.”
Wes gestured to the side of his own face, referring to Chris’s reflection. “The sideburns are coming in nice.”
“I’ll shape those up too,” Jericho said, spritzing Chris’s hair with water, a few droplets landing on the book in his lap. He wiped them off the cover with the sleeve of his hoodie, wondering what Bronte might be doing at that moment.
She was scheduled to have a faculty meeting after school and was probably sitting there now. Maybe in the dark-blue skirt that hugged her hips and the white shirt with the big buttons. Maybe her legs were bare, and maybe she was wearing her glasses with her hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail. Maybe she had her lips wrapped around the end of her pen, biting it…
Jesus fucking Christ, maybe he needed to fly to her tonight just to—
“What happened to the mustache you wanted?” Wes asked, skimming his finger along his own clean-shaven upper lip.
“I fought for it,” Chris said.
“And I vetoed it.” Jericho pointed to a few photos taped up along the mirror, some of real-life people, some of sketches or art from the period, all of them inspiration for the look Dante, Chris, and Jericho had decided on together. “When was the last time you saw a love interest with a mustache?”
Wes shot his arm out. “Tom Selleck!”
Jericho only rolled his eyes, and Chris laughed. “I was doing research and—”
Jericho pressed one hand into his hip, pointing his scissors at Chris in the mirror. “I did too, and Roy Callaghan would not be able to afford the styling products to keep his mustache groomed. You might be the one with his face on the screen, but I’m the one who’s supposed to make this face look pretty, huh? Don’t argue with the master.”
Chris held his hands up in surrender. “You’re right. You’re right. Make me look pretty.”
“Is that even possible?” Wes joked, his eyes on his phone as he scrolled. “Listen. One of the producers of the Oscars called me. She asked if you’d consider presenting.” Wes barreled on before Chris could say anything. “I told her you would be in production, and she was very interested to hear that. She reminded me the television audience would love to hear from you.”
Chris ran a hand over his face. “The Oscars? Seriously? They haven’t invited me since…”
“Since you made a scene at the Governors Ball.”
Chris grimaced, recalling how after he’d played Hamlet in Silence, he hadn’t been nominated even though he’d been highly speculated to be since he’d had such a great run with Rebel the year before. Although his costar, Mickey Little, had been nominated for Best Supporting Actor for his Polonius.
The problem was Chris thought Mickey was a pompous ass and didn’t ignore the attempts at flirtation from Mickey’s “assistant,” who everyone in Hollywood knew was really Mickey’s longtime boyfriend. Bad blood had been brewing before that, but when the story broke out about Mickey’s “assistant” and Chris, so did a small fight on set. It was one of Chris’s worst performances to date, though at the time, he wasn’t willing to admit it was his fault. He had blamed everyone and everything else, even if that meant doing so publicly after Mickey’s Oscar win, with a drunken tirade at the ball.
“It’s your big comeback,” Wes said, and since Jericho was a true professional, he didn’t even acknowledge the conversation.
“I’ll think about it.”
Wes met Chris’s eyes in the mirror. “How are you doing otherwise? How’re the paps?”
Chris folded his arms over his chest and stretched out his legs, crossing them at the ankles. “I don’t go anywhere now, so they don’t bother with me. I’m boring these days.”
