Page 12 of Comfort Read

Frankie seems to warm to him slightly as coffee arrives and the conversation turns to privacy hazards. Sage, on the other hand, grows colder and more remote with every minute that ticks by. By the time Frankie says, “I’m sorry to harp on this, but it’s very important that you understand what you’re signing up for. I wouldn’t normally bring a random in for something like this—no offense meant, of course. It’s just that some amount of Hollywood experience is usually preferable for dealing with, ah. Sage’s level of…”

“Radioactivity?” Sage mutters, barely audible, into his cup.

“I was going to say exposure,” Frankie says, throwing him a look that rides the line between exasperation and concern. Kit knows it well; he sees it often on Allison’s face. To Kit, she says, “I’m serious, though: It can be a lot to take. Appearing in coverage and forever altering your digital footprint on its own is a tough pill to swallow, but this will follow you into your real life, too. Are you prepared to deal with that? Friends and family wanting special access? People you haven’t seen in years suddenly getting in touch just to pry for information? Former classmates selling embarrassing college photos of you to the press?”

Sage, Kit notes with interest, seems to have slumped halfway down the booth, sliding a little lower with every word Frankie said. Kit can’t exactly blame him—what Frankie’s laying out sounds, in a word, depressing—but he has to assume some of it is hyperbole, overstating things to see if he scares easily. For Sage himself, certainly, that concern would make sense, but Kit can’t imagine any reality where a press outlet would want photos of him in college.

As for the stuff about his friends, family, and neighbors: That part sounds great to Kit. Everyone he knows has already spent the last year and a half gossiping about him, their voices dripping with pity. It would be nice to have them instead talking about how he’s been secretly dating a famous movie star. Not quite as nice as not being talked about at all, but so much better than the current state of affairs that Kit would be a fool to pass it up.

“I am prepared for public scrutiny,” he says solemnly instead. Frankie beams at him, apparently completely won over; Sage scoffs, and mutters something under his breath that Kit doesn’t catch.

Frankie must hear it, though: “Oh my God, I can’t deal with you when you’re like this.” Standing up, she gestures at herself and around the table as she says, “This—everything happening here—it’s because of you, Sage. You lied to Wayne, and you picked this random nobody instead of taking any of my very reasonable suggestions, and you asked me to be here this morning! You did that! So if this isn’t what you want, then you can deal with it! I’m going to the bathroom, and when I come back, either you can have a different attitude, or I can see myself out.”

She storms off, and Sage sighs, running a hand over his face as he watches her go. “Sorry,” he mutters to Kit. “She and I have had a messy couple of years, and this is all just a bit loaded.” He drums his fingers on the tabletop and, just as Kit’s about to open his mouth and make a stab at saying something, adds, “Maybe it’s not such a good idea after all.”

“The Muppet spy movie?” Kit knows that’s not what Sage means, but he keeps his voice casual, taking care not to sound at all like someone whose heart has just crashed to the floor.

“No, the whole—thing.” Sage’s expression twists up in frustration, and his shoulders hunch as he directs the scowl that’s crept back onto his face out the window. “Maybe I should just tell Wayne the truth. This is crazy, you’re not…”

“I’m not what?” There’s an embarrassingly reedy quality entering Kit’s voice; he does his best to strangle it back. “Good enough to be your fake boyfriend? What could I possibly have gotten so wrong in the last fifteen minutes that you want to cancel the whole thing?”

“It’s not you,” Sage says, his voice tight. “Or, I mean—it is, in the sense that I’m not looking to destroy you. You have no idea what you’d be in for, how invasive the press can be, how difficult and messy and honestly screwed up the entertainment industry is. It’s too much to ask of an actual partner, and you’re just some guy with a bookshop! It’ll ruin your life!”

“Oh.” Kit wants to laugh so badly that it’s all he can do to contain it. “Is that all? No worries, then—my life comes to you pre-ruined, for your convenience. Haven’t you heard? I’m the saddest man in Cedar Falls.”

Sage blinks at him, startled, but their food arrives before he can ask any follow-up questions. Kit had ordered absently, too distracted by the actual events of the day to pay much attention to the menu. He’d selected Zinnia’s Sunrise Special because it was at the top of the menu with a little star next to it, which had seemed like a good sign.

The plate that is set before him, however, is a glorious, golden brown mountain of food. Cajun hash browns and deeply flavored sausage links; toast made from hearty, tangy sourdough that was obviously baked today; a perfect omelette down the middle, chives dusted over the top. Kit realizes after one second of looking at and smelling it that he’s ravenous, and after he’s eaten several bites of everything, looks up at Sage in surprise.

“This is really good,” he says, his tone almost accusatory. He lives here and he’s never heard of this place; how did Sage find it? Don’t all the magazines say that movie stars live on insanely restrictive diets, things like unseasoned chicken and raw greens? Then again, Sage’s plate looks almost identical to Kit’s—clearly he’s not on that program.

Sage shrugs. “Yeah, of course. I wouldn’t come here if the food was bad. What would be the point?”

“Who are you?” Kit wants to demand, but the question would be completely asinine. He’s Sage Ballard, one of the most famous men in the entire world. But Kit can’t square the train wreck from the tabloids with the man sitting across from him, who is closing his eyes in what looks to be borderline-worshipful appreciation of his potatoes. Which version of the story is true? Is Sage an out-of-control disaster, partying too hard and backing out of commitments without a care for who will be affected, or teetering on the edge of a breakdown? Is he the brilliant actor who brings so much life to his characters, or the creative visionary who dazzled Kit next to Sawyer’s’ mystery shelves, passionate and well-read and eager to tell the best possible version of a story Kit’s loved since childhood? Or is the Sage on the other side of the table—jumpy and paranoid, obviously jaded, afraid he’ll ruin Kit’s life, but also deeply committed to the art of breakfasting—the real one?

Frankie returns before Kit can figure it out, which is probably for the best. He suspects the answer is that all of those versions are the real Sage, and that’s too complicated to face on a Monday morning.

After Frankie has exclaimed in delight at her food, she and Sage exchange a look that is obviously a whole conversation. Kit can’t translate, so he focuses on shoveling his breakfast into his mouth as Frankie lays out what will be expected of him if they go ahead: a few public appearances; a handful of fake dates at which “spontaneous” pictures can be taken; some degree of presence on Sage’s social accounts. Dinner with Wayne, the investor, in December; a petering off of appearances after that, before a scheduled, low-drama breakup announcement in February or March.

Oh, and complete and utter silence regarding the true nature of the relationship, now and in perpetuity, with everyone he’s ever known.

This last condition, as it has every time he’s brushed against the thought of it for the past few days, gives Kit a moment’s pause, but it’s only a moment. Then the whole idea slips right past as though it never occurred to him, all the concern attached seeming to roll away, disappearing over the edge of a steep mental hill.

“We should talk about terms,” Frankie says, after she’s paused and eaten a few bites of French toast. “Obviously it would be more straightforward to just pay you a predetermined sum, but in some ways—taxes, mostly—it will make it easier to do it as a construction project. That’s especially true for Sage, since we’ve already done a few projects like⁠—”

Sage lifts a fist to his mouth and coughs, a small, sharp sound that would be easy enough to miss. But Frankie cuts herself off, then rolls her eyes at Sage and says, “The point is, we can set up the contract one of two ways. Assuming that you hold up your end of the bargain, we can have you select your own contractors and then cover their costs, or we can handle the whole thing ourselves—selection, hiring, etc.—with your final say on everything, of course. Either way, work would begin mid-December, after the dinner with Wayne. Based on the information we were able to gather, this is the figure we’re expecting the costs to fall within, and will be happy to cover barring any breach on your end.”

She pushes a small, folded piece of paper across the table to Kit, who opens it, chokes, and hastily slaps a hand on top of it. “Oh my God. Are you serious?”

“Is it too low?” Sage, impossibly, seems to be asking this question from a place of total sincerity. Kit gapes at him. “Because I asked around to confirm, and tacked extra on just to be safe, but if the quotes you got were higher⁠—”

“They weren’t!” Kit looks at the figure again and swallows a shriek. “This is way too much, I wasn’t quoted even half this figure⁠—”

“Then they weren’t going to do it right,” Sage says, with a shrug. “My guys would.”

Frankie, shaking her head, says to Kit in a whisper obviously designed to be overheard, “They will, you know. He has a whole complex about⁠—”

“Can we not,” Sage says, making a face at her, “with the armchair-psychologist routine today? Please?”