Page 33 of Comfort Read

It’s Kit’s turn to stare—he finds the question baffling, almost enraging. What the hell has Sage’s experience of other people been like, to ask him that question? Trying to peel most of the incredulity out of his voice, he says, “Because they’re decent human beings? Because they care about the truth? Because this is a needlessly shitty thing this guy has done to you? Also, my mother in particular will be thrilled to have a leading piece of gossip. It’s been awkward for her the last few years, since the main topic of discussion in the local community has been, uh… me.”

Sage’s smile this time is brief and wobbly; he won’t meet Kit’s eyes. “And you still think she’d be interested in helping me? Even though now, because of me, you’re bound to be at the center of a lot more talk?”

“Oh, yeah.” Kit says this easily; he doesn’t even have to think about it. “You’re not wrong, but ‘my son is dating a movie star’ is a big improvement on ‘my son has humiliated himself on the public stage,’ believe me.”

Sage clearly doesn’t believe him. As the car pulls to a stop behind a line of similar black limos, he lets out a humorless laugh. “You say that now. In my experience, it’s easier to say it than live it.”

“How do you mean?”

“Kit, I haven’t dated anyone seriously in more than six years.” At Sage’s side, his hand keeps closing into a fist and then opening again, the cycle repeating over and over. “I haven’t even dated casually for the last few—it isn’t worth it. It’s always the same: I meet somebody, I fall for them, I think maybe this time it’s all going to work out, and then, inevitably, I completely ruin their lives.”

Kit can’t help the disbelieving expression that slides across his face. “What? Look, I’m not trying to suggest that fame isn’t intense or whatever, but I’m sure you haven’t ruined anyone’s⁠—”

“Fiona Holmes,” Sage interrupts, ticking the name off on one long, tapered finger. “We were costars on Gowanus High and she was set to have a great career, was booking all kinds of roles. She spent six months with me being hounded by the press, constantly asked about whether I’d taken her virginity, and stalked by a woman who was convinced I was her soulmate and Fiona was stealing me from her. She left the industry entirely, moved back in with her parents in Santa Fe. I hear she’s a potter these days.”

“Jesus,” Kit says, his eyes wide. He’d always wondered what happened to Fiona Holmes; she’d been good on Gowanus High, though she’d paled in comparison to Sage. Then, the misery on Sage’s face spurring him to say it, he adds, “But that doesn’t sound like a ruined life to me? Santa Fe’s a great place to be a potter. And if the fame stressed her out so much, maybe she’s happier like this than she would have been acting.”

Sage smiles, but it’s a grim, almost pitying expression. He continues to tick off names as he talks. “Yvonne Wallace, who I dated in my early twenties—crashed her car being chased away from my house by paparazzi, permanent facial scarring, ruined her modeling career. Cash Alexander, my first boyfriend, had his phones tapped and his email hacked because my coming out as bisexual was such a big story. The whole thing made him so paranoid that he spent months at an in-patient psych facility after we broke up, and he never managed to get back into screenwriting.” Sage’s voice is getting tighter and more pained as he talks.

Kit can see why. “Sage, holy shit. I’m so sorry, that all sounds hard. But I still don’t think that counts as you ruining their lives. Sometimes bad things happen, no matter how hard we work to prevent them.”

“Well, the next person I dated was Tyler Bowman. He was more famous than me, at least back then, so I figured I’d be safe.” Both of Sage’s hands clench, and Kit winces, though he doesn’t interrupt; he knows this story. He thinks probably everyone does. “And after a year of being harassed by the paps, never getting a moment to ourselves, constantly being followed and having our secrets leaked, he had a full-scale nervous breakdown on stage at Madison Square Garden and never recorded or performed again. So, you know. Pretty sure my dick is cursed!”

Sage is breathing heavily by now, both hands still knotted into tight fists, panicky despair unmissable in those punishingly blue eyes. “After that I realized it’s easier for everyone if I just keep myself to myself. Give your mom time, that’s my point: I’m sure in the end she’ll find plenty of reasons to regret you ever met me, fake relationship or not.”

Kit sits in silence for a few moments, not sure how to respond to that. The only sound in the back of the limo is the harsh rasp of Sage’s breathing. Every bitter word he’s said seems to rattle around in the silence with them, dragging along the grim reality of Sage’s self-opinion.

Finally, because he can’t think of anything better to do—because it’s what he wants to do, and so obviously what Sage needs from someone, anyone, and Kit can’t help himself—he says, “Um. Sorry if this is weird or awkward or whatever, but. Well. Do you maybe, like. Want a hug?”

Sage whips his head around to stare incredulously at Kit. “What? Are you serious?”

“I mean, I’d want a hug,” Kit explains, embarrassed but ignoring it, determined to press ahead anyway. “If I were you, I mean. So yes, I am serious. But if you don’t want to, that’s fine, we don’t have to—oh.”

This last word is more a squeezed-out breath of surprise than anything, because Sage has taken him up on the offer, leaning across the gap between them to grab Kit and pull him close. He buries his face in Kit’s shoulder and Kit, feeling abruptly at sea even though this was his idea, puts his arms up and around Sage’s back, stroking a hand down it hesitantly. Sage clings to him, shuddering slightly, and Kit wonders how long it’s been since someone touched him like this. If he hasn’t even dated casually in years—if he’s so convinced he’ll rain down ruin on anyone he gets close to—he must be all but starved for contact.

He feels like that, pressed up against Kit, holding on so tightly that Kit’s sure he’s creasing the beautiful suit. It’s not important, but it’s the little detail Kit’s mind seizes on, just as it’s always seemed to find some tiny, inconsequential nothing to focus on in moments of high emotion. He says nothing, just holds on, until Sage gasps and seems to shake himself, pulling away. His hand lingers on Kit’s arm, and Kit’s hand lingers on his, as their eyes meet.

“Thank you,” Sage says quietly, more rasp than word.

“Sure,” Kit says, with an awkward shrug. “It was no problem. I⁠—”

But someone outside is opening the limo’s door before he can finish his reply. Sighing, Sage reaches over and takes his hand, pulling a mask of studied indifference over his scowl, and steps out into the light.

If you’d asked Kit beforehand what he thought walking a red carpet would be like, he probably would have used words like “exciting,” or, “glamorous,” or “fun.” The reality, however, is that it’s mostly loud. Loud and bright. Even as they’re climbing out of the limo, people are screaming at them, like the paparazzi encounter at the airport yesterday on steroids. By the time they’ve made it halfway to the theater where the event is being held, Kit’s gotten his bearings enough to pick voices out of the cacophony:

“Sage! Give us a smile⁠—”

“—who are you wearing tonight⁠—”

“—introduce us to your new boyfriend, we’ve all seen the pictures!”

“Sage, Sage, over here, I have to ask you⁠—”

“—just one quick photo with the⁠—”

“—and how long have you been seeing each other? Is it serious, or⁠—”

“Kit! It’s Kit, right? Big smile, that’s good, now tell us about how you met⁠—”