My curtains aren’t quite closed, so a sliver of bright light from the parking lot shines in, bathing my room in starkshadows. The bed shifts and creaks. I turn on my side and rest my head on my hand to see over the pillow divide. He’s doing the same, his position mirroring mine.
The window shines a cinematic blue-tinged backlight around him. It’s just like Sebastian to appear as though he’s got a lighting crew following him around, even in his real life.
I shouldn’t still feel it, this electricity at lying next to this man in the dark. But despite spending years ignoring the chemistry, the unspoken attraction, it’s always there. I’ve nevernotfelt it.
I tried to bury it in some secret crevice of my soul, but I could never kill the awareness of him as a man. I could never wish away the sheer magnetism. Because every time he’s near, a part of me feels as giddy as a schoolgirl.
It’s always pissed me off, honestly. Because there was never a point to the attraction. Despite our proximity, he felt as out of my reach as any other movie star on the screen, any rock star or K-pop idol.
He wanted the perfect assistant who would get the job done. And maybe the friend who was always there. But he never wanted me in the same way he wanted the Allegras of the world.
Now, that scared, hurt side of me is warring with the part that wants to listen to Sadie. Who is tempted to dust off my old hopes, to revisit my romantic fantasies, spinning tales about what could be behind his protective behavior since I passed out at the premiere. About the moment he called mebaby. And said he cared. And maybe almost kissed me.Twice.
The problem is, those hopes and fantasies never got me anywhere before. And I can’t help but worry that going back there could keep me from finally moving on.
I close my eyes, fighting my exhaustion, even as my fingers tingle to breach the pillow barrier, to see if his hand is also lying, palm up, on the other side of the great divide. And I wonder if hecan feel the electricity of me, just as I can feel the electricity of him.
Most people think of silence as a void. But this isn’t. It’s the opposite. It’s like a giant balloon filling the room, taking up all the oxygen until I’m struggling to breathe, until it’s all I can feel.
So I break it first.
“What was it like? Being homeschooled like that?” I ask.
He’s silent for a long time. “Mostly, I was set-schooled with a tutor. I loved it when I was younger, especially when I was filmingThe Family.There was a group of us kids, and I was the youngest. I idolized everyone. They were like my older siblings. And Mancini was…”
“Like everyone’s father?” I guess.
He laughs, a rough sound. “The irony.”
“What do you mean?”
He rubs a hand through his hair, ruffling the smooth black strands. “Just… I don’t know. It was my first actual show. So I didn’t understand that all shows end. I had no clue that we’d go from spending eight hours a day on set, often more, to suddenly nothing. That I’d go from having a huge, on-set family to being mostly alone.”
“That’s when Marie taught you to cook.”
He nods in the dim light, looking uncomfortable.
“Enough about me.” He changes the subject. “I want to hear about Little Miss Perfect. I’m sure you got straight A’s. And were the teacher’s pet.”
I blow out my breath. I’ve worked hard to give everyone that impression. So why do his words make me feel unseen? It’s not his fault that the one person I’ve spent most of my waking hours with for the last seven years knows only what I’ve chosen to show him.
We both stay like that, silent, me seeing him in silhouette, him seeing me by the narrow, shifting band of light from the parking lot.
And isn’t that representative of our reality? We can only make out the edges of who we truly are.
Because if I’m opaque, my background masked, I suspect Sebastian is even more so.
And maybe that’s also why I’m drawn to him. I sense a kindred spirit. His depths, his evasions, those brief glimpses into the layers beneath.
“You’re forgetting that I was raised by a drug addict,” I blurt out. My eyes widen at my admission, but I forge ahead. “You know my dad as this amazing counselor, but he came by his wisdom the hard way. He didn’t find his ministry and life’s purpose until he finally got sober. When I was a kid, he wasn’t stable. At all. It’s tough to be perfect when you don’t have hot water or a safe place to do homework.”
The instant the words are out of my mouth, I want to take them back. I hate him thinking of me like that. The shame of it still leaves a bitter taste. I worked so fucking hard for no one to see me that way ever again.
I hear his swift, indrawn breath in the darkened room. “I’m so damn sorry, Em. You’re right. I do forget. And I shouldn’t,” he says on a ragged breath. “I shouldn’t ever forget what you’ve gone through and how much you’ve overcome.”
His words reach that scared girl I once was with a poignancy that leaves me shaking. And maybe makes me brave.
What if I showed him who I was underneath? Would he—anyone—ever want me if I didn’t work so hard to always know the answer, to go above and beyond, every time? Could he ever be interested in the broken mess of a girl I once was as much as the put-together version of me now?
