Forrest sat down across from me and wrapped both hands around his mug. He looked like he'd been up for a while—he usually had, these days, though he never said why. Early mornings were his, the same way late nights had become mine since the trailer went quiet.
We sat for a minute without talking. That was fine. That was Thursday.
A mockingbird was working through its catalog somewhere in the cedar. The mist sat low over the paddock, soft and cold, the kind that burned off by nine. Redbird stood at the far fence with his back to us, indifferent to everything.
"She still in Austin?" Forrest said.
"Table read was yesterday." I turned my mug on the table. "She's meeting the DP today. Probably heads back tomorrow."
He nodded.
Neither of us said anything for a moment.
"Bishop moped all week," I said.
"I saw."
"Wouldn't eat right Tuesday."
Forrest looked at the paddock. Bishop had drifted back to the center, head down, pulling at the winter grass despondently.
“He knows,” Forrest said.
I frowned. “Knows what?”
Forrest scowled. Didn't respond.
“Knowswhat?”I repeated.
My little brother sighed, shaking his head. “Come on, man…”
"I don't know what you're talking about," I said.
Forrest looked at me with the particular expression he reserved for when I was being deliberately obtuse—flat, patient, faintly exhausted.
"Sawyer."
“It's just a fling."
"I know."
"It works."
"Does it?"
I turned my mug on the table. The mockingbird had moved closer, landing somewhere in the cedar just off the paddock. Bishop was still at the center of the paddock, still pulling grass, still pointed away from us like he had opinions he wasn't sharing.
"She's got a lead role in an Ellis Jones film," I said. "She's twenty-five. Her whole career is just—" I shook my head. "I'm not going to be the thing that pulls her off course."
"Did she ask you not to?"
"No."
"Did she say she wanted to stay casual?"
"We haven't talked about it."
"So you've just decided," Forrest said. "For her."
