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Nic’s sitting hunched over his—my—whiskey, one hand cradling his head. Cute. Maybe he feels my pain.
I slide open the glass door and step outside. He turns at the sound. I give him a little wave. He’s on his feet instantly, wrapping me in a hug. “Fuck, Timothy. I’m sorry.”
There’s nothing to do but nod, because I’m sorry too.
“I should’ve tried harder with the choreography,” he says, holding me tighter, and I swear to god if he cries I’m going to push his ass into the pool. I can’t do all the emotional heavy lifting for my friends when I’m struggling under my own. Mina was there for me earlier, sharing the weight, but Nic’s been AWOL for four years.
“It’s not your fault.” I slap his back. “Just an accident.” It’s my fault as much as anyone’s. “You could have visited me.” Honestly, bigger things have been weighing on me. My recovery, my job situation, Mina. But Nic not being there—at all—stung.
Nic lets go of me and drops into his chair with a heavy sigh. “You had Mina.”
“You didn’t come,” I say more forcefully. The pool lights cast an eerie light show over his face as he stares straight ahead. We’ve known each other since we were boys. Grew up together. How did we grow so far apart?
“Itried. Couldn’t make it to the waiting room.” He makes a disgusted sound. “I’m sorry. I’ve been a shitty friend.”
It must be my turn to be the shitty friend—I forgot he hasn’t stepped foot in a hospital since the deaths of his parents. I’d lose it too.
I’ve been in and out of hospitals so many times I should have a loyalty card.
“Get up,” I say. “We’re hugging this out.”
He grumbles, but he knows he’s not getting out of this and he gets up and hugs me back just as hard. “I still love you,” I tell him.
“You too.”
We settle back into our seats like old men.
The first night in this house, we sat right here by the pool, drinking whiskey and talking about bright futures. Nic was getting better roles in bigger films. I was working my ass off. We were going to take the world.
And here we sit, scarred and battle-weary, fallen so far from those hopeful, optimistic pricks. I hate who we were, and I’d give anything to go back to it right now.
I crack the sparkling water, filling my glass. Whiskey would be better, but this isn’t my first rodeo. Alcohol does not mix well with head wounds. I pop the gummy dinosaur in my mouth and chew, staring out at the water of my pool.
I can’t shake the image of Mina’s eyes shining up at me in the dark.
You promised.
Going back into stunt work will hurt her. She might have turned me down, but she loves me. It was there in her eyes. So what if it’s platonic? She still loves me, and she’s not just some friend. The idea that maybe I won’t walk away the next time a stunt goes wrong—or maybe even right—scares the shit out of me when I think of her. I don’t want to leave her.
God fucking dammit.
“I’m retiring,” I spit out. The words taste foul, but just like that, I cut myself free from the stunt world. It’s official. I’m done. Lost in the fucking dark, no clue what to do now that I’m a shadow of my former glory. I never thought I’d be here. Maybe in my seventies or eighties, but not when I’m in my prime. But here I am. Retired.
“Me too,” Nic says with a dark chuckle.
Irritation with the situation rises and if it weren’t for lifting restrictions, I’d throw his ass into the pool. “I’m serious.”
“Good.” He holds his empty glass out and when I refuse to refill it, rattles the ice. I ignore him because it’s my whiskey and I’m not his servant. With a sigh, he grabs the bottle and pours it.
Suddenly I don’t want to talk about me. At all. Not even a tiny bit. “Why do you want to quit? Pissed you’re only the Second Hottest man in America?”
He rolls his eyes. “Seriously? You think I’ve enjoyed anything about the last four years? The last ten?”
Nic followed me out to LA and tripped into a modeling career, then stumbled into acting. He has a rabid fan base thanks to the Warwick role. They might love him, but critics don’t. No one casts him for his ability to act, and while I knew he didn’t love acting, I hadn’t thought about whether or not he was happy with his life.
“You’re such a surly bastard, hard to tell sometimes,” I say, leaning back and melting into my lounger. “What would you do if you quit?”Give me ideas because I don’t have a clue what to do with myself.
“Fuck if I know,” he grumbles.
