I paused, glancing at the neat rows of bottles I’d just arranged by label gradient. “It was bothering me.”
“And the coasters?” she asked, gesturing to the perfectly aligned stack I’d been straightening earlier.
“They were uneven,” I mumbled, going back to scrubbing.
She sighed, tapping her perfectly manicured nails on the counter. “Anna, you’re stress-cleaning.”
“I’m not stress-cleaning.”
“Step away from the sponge. You’re practically polishing the wood off this bar. What’s really going on?”
“Nothing,” I said quickly. “I’m just keeping busy. Like Luke.”
“Mm-hmm.” She was clearly unconvinced, but too polite to press the matter further. “Well, if you run out of things to rearrange, I’ve got some receipts you can alphabetize.”
I shot her a glare, but her smirk softened it.
“I mean it,” she added, her tone kind this time. “Whatever’s bugging you, it’s okay to admit it, you know.”
But I wasn’t ready to say it out loud. I didn’t want to voice the fear that Luke and I were drifting apart. Not yet.
Later, alone in my apartment, I opened my laptop again and stared at the story. The words blurred on the screen, their meaning hollow now, like something vital had been drained from them.
This is what I got for letting my guard down. I should’ve known better. I’d convinced myself that things could be different, that I could let someone in and not end up hurt.
But I was wrong.
Tears pricked the corners of my eyes, and I blinked them back. Superheroes don’t cry, and I didn’t have time to feel sorry for myself. Instead, I saved the draft, closed the laptop, and told myself I’d feel better tomorrow.
46
LUKE
I sat in my trailer,the script balanced on my knee, untouched. Gerald’s last note bounced around my head like a bad song stuck on repeat.
“You’re holding back. Again. I need more from you, Luke. You’re not a sad accountant who’s late filing taxes. You’re a man who’s just lost his family. Cry harder, darn it.”
Gerald was in a Hawaiian shirt covered in flamingos, paired with mismatched plaid shorts, and was holding a megaphone for no apparent reason, despite standing five feet away.
I knew he was right when he accused me of holding back. My performance felt hollow, as if I were going through the motions without truly engaging.
I felt something in New Orleans. Now, it was like I’d forgotten how.
I wanted to talk to Anna. No, I needed to talk to Anna. She had a way of making me believe I could do anything, even when I doubted myself. She didn’t need to do anything extraordinary to make me feel better. Just hearing her voice, her steady, calm voice, would be enough.
She got me in a way no one else ever had.
And I missed her so badly, it was killing me. It wasn’t just the big things I missed. It was the little things, like the way she’d hum when she was concentrating or the way she’d wrinkle her nose when she didn’t believe me.
She put herself out there in ways I never could, even if she thought she was failing.
But I felt like something was wrong. A few nights ago, we had been so busy on set that I didn’t get to call her. And she sounded sore when we finally got in touch. I hated the times when we fought.
I wanted to remind her how amazing she was, to tell her how much she inspired me, even if she’d roll her eyes and call me dramatic.
She picked up on the third ring, and her voice sounded harried. “Hello?”
“Hey,” I said, leaning back in my chair, trying to sound casual. It was the time we had arranged to speak, so I was a bit miffed that she sounded like she was in the middle of something. “Caught you at a bad time?”
