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Prologue: Last Scene: Book Three
I brushed my teeth, my eyes fixed first on her image, then back to my reflection. Thinking I needed to get rid of this stubble, I reached for the shaving cream.
She shook her head, touching the dark stubble on my jaw. “I like it,” she murmured, a glint of confusion sparking in her eyes. She stared at me as if trying to decipher my pensive expression, the request lingering. I was sure she sensed my urge to pin her down, to demand the answer to the question, do you love me, too? I wanted to be selfless with my love as I thought about my mom’s words to me, but damn it, I didn’t know if I had the patience to be left in the dark while I put my intention on full display. But then, wasn’t that love? Expect nothing in return. Yet somehow, that seemed counterintuitive.
We were rapt with the mirror image intertwining us, each of us caught up in the show reflecting on the glass, like watching from the audience, waiting for the characters’ next move. When our gazes intersected, it was as if I could read the question in her narrowed eyes: what’s next, Jake? Damn, if I weren’t aching to know how this story would go. More so, I needed for us to be peering into the same looking glass, seeing the same future, because I knew, I knew what that future could look like.
Her hand dropped from my chin as I bent forward, still holding the can of shaving cream. First, I checked that I had her full attention, her gaze on the mirror, watching me intently, apprehension stilling her expression as if she anticipated my next move. I knew that look so well, the way her jaw went lax—fuck, she wanted me to squirt this cream between her legs. She was expecting that the next step would be me shaving her clean. Damn it, why hadn’t I thought of that? But no, not tonight. I desperately needed her to know this was the beginning. I slowly—eyes peeled to hers—started spraying the shaving cream on the glass surface. Her lips popped open, forming a big O before a short gasp left her mouth, following the line of foam as I created a white cream heart on the glass.
Your turn, Rakell, I thought, never moving my eyes from her reflection. Following the movement of her hand, I watched as she reached for her cherry-red lipstick and drew a heart within my heart. We stood staring at it before she scooted next to me, her head nuzzling into my shoulder. Our eyes were magnetically consumed by what lay before us on the mirror, like we could remain there all night, staring at our hearts as one. I knew how fucking corny this was, aware that if another dude shared this with me, I wouldn’t be able to stop laughing, but with Rakell in this moment, it seemed profound, like we were both saying, here’s my slightly warped heart, but together our hearts are one. Shit, that’s not something I’d repeat to anyone. I took in her smallish red heart encapsulated by my foamy white heart, knowing that was what I wanted in life…to always surround her heart with my own, to protect it.
Fatigue taking over, I took Rakell’s hand, gently tugging us from the reflection. Finally, crawling into bed, I pulled her in close, her back to my chest. “Remember spooning?” I asked in a hushed tone. This felt real, like we were moving into a solid phase, that step forward where daily activities were lived out as a pair.
“Mmm…the boat?” she whispered.
“Yep, this is the home version,” I whispered back, right in her ear. “Sleep, Sweets, we’re getting up early.” For the first time since I’d locked eyes with this girl at the gym, I felt sated, cocooning her within my torso, knowing that this was love—the beginning of something life-altering.
A few minutes later, our breathing fell in sync. Just as we had settled, a familiar song came from her phone on the dresser. “Take the road less traveled, the long way around.” I’d asked her before about that song; she told me it was by an Australian singer and that she listened to that song every morning. We’d started shifting against each other when her phone rang a second time, the low male voice wafting into the air. I made a note in my head to ask her about the artist, so I could get a good listen to that song. She sat up, looking toward the dresser, swinging her legs to the side. “I should get that.”
“It’s almost eleven…do you think it’s your mom again?” I probed.
“No, it’s after six in the evening in Australia. She’d be too drunk to call,” she saidwithout affect, almost as a matter of course.
Damn, I was glad she had already jumped off the bed, that she couldn’t see the alarm twisting my features. Clearly, she wasn’t close to her mom, I thought, wondering what the story was. There was such a contrast; when she talked about her dad, there was a clipped lightness to her tone. “Huh, okay...” I reached over to the wall by my side of the bed and flipped on the overhead reading lights.
Grabbing her still ringing phone out of her purse, she said, “Ana, Ana, it’s late, but I know you were at that party tonight with everyone. What’s up?”
Rakell’s head bobbed up and down in an over-exaggerated yes, her lips stretching into an excited smile. She was practically bouncing on her toes. “Oh my, is he sure, or maybe he was drinking?” she blurted into the phone. Her eyes sparked, her face beaming with unmistakable excitement.
Her enthusiasm was palpable, so much so that I swung my legs over the bed to join her, my hands on her shoulders, ready to swoop her up in a big hug—was this the Hollywood break she was hoping for?
“Yes, yes, I can fly out…just a second.” She turned, smiling at me. “It’s happening. I’m first on the list of actresses for this film, but they want me there Monday to audition. I know you had plans, but I can’t…” Her hand was over the phone.
“I get it.” I choked down my disappointment, knowing our romantic Tahoe getaway needed to take a backseat, then forced a smile to my face.
“I can fly down tomorrow, audition Monday, and fly back…” she said pensively, her eyes entreating me, waiting for a response.
“I have recruiting meetings starting Tuesday. We could celebrate your birthday next weekend if that works for you,” I offered, infusing a nonchalant tone into my words.
She nodded, mouthing, “Thank you.”
“Ana, yes, I’ll fly to L.A. tomorrow. Oh, okay…is that…well, do directors and producers usually take potential actors to dinner, and, oh, okay, wow. How can they be so sure? You sent the audition tape two months ago.” Her chest heaved, like she was working to get a breath. Then she leaned into me, excitement buzzing off her body.
Ana’s rush of words boomed through the phone, and I could make out a smattering of what she was saying. I heard some nudity, comfortable, perfect look in Ana’s ramblings, and something about them taking Rakell to dinner.
“Ana, yes to all of it. I mean, look at the modeling I do, and that last photo shoot. I can do this…yes, yes, of course. Please tell Bernardo that I am so honored he would consider me,” she gushed, flipping the phone onto the dresser before moving back to join me in bed.
“Bernardo?” slipped from my mouth, distant anger seeping out from between my clenched jaw. Bernardo? NO!?
“Yes, you heard right,” she burst out, jumping into my arms. I’m guessing she was too caught up in the excitement to notice that my features were contorted in anger. She swung her arms around my shoulders, squealing, “Jake, Jake, I’m being considered for a lead role. One of the biggest, most established stars in Hollywood specifically requested that I audition for the role opposite him as the lead. Me…” She stopped abruptly, releasing herself from my body. “Jake…Jake, I promise, I’ll be back next weekend. I know you put a lot of effort into…”
It was as if a butcher knife had been plunged into my heart, and I had to resign myself to the fact that I would bleed to death. “I’m not worried about celebrating,” I squeezed out past the constriction in my throat, mustering every ounce of control I had. Goddamn Bernardo Cappuccino.
Chapter One
“Shit, looks like something out of a horror movie,” I groaned within the dimly lit bathroom. Shaking my head at my own pained expression, superimposed and clouded by the residual foam that had oozed down the mirror, seizing bits of red lipstick as it streaked downward along the reflective glass. The white and red swirled together into something resembling a painting I’d studied in an almost forgotten art history class. The Scream. Hadn’t it represented the artist’s feelings about the human condition?
Dragging a warm, wet washcloth to my face, I stared at what had once been two hearts, now just a mess of pinkish streaks on the mirror. “Fuck Bernardo Cappuccino,” I hissed back at my reflection, then used the cloth, erasing my desperate, boyish proclamation of love, aggressively stroking back and forth until the glass was coated with a milky film.
