Page 22 of Burn the Script

“A warning would’ve been nice,” I mutter.

She’s like a meddling aunt who springs her friend’s single nephew out of the bushes at a wedding. The thought takes me back to our argument earlier this evening.

“You knew I’d choose the party over the club.”

“Of course, I did. You’re predictable.” Her elbow jabs me in the neck before all her bright teeth make an appearance. “Smile. Yuri’s on his way back with our beers.”

“I’m sorry. Did you say beer?”

If I had imagined this night couldn’t get any worse, I was wrong. As Yuri weaves between bodies, heading our way, I can’t keep the disgust off my face. Graham wouldn’t deign to order me a beer. In our four years together, he never even offered, like he knew the flavor repulsed me without having to ask. Because he could read me, inside and out.

Ugh. I can’t go more than a few minutes without him invading my head, and now I’ll think of nothing else. The morsel of a social mood I’ve conjured vanishes, because this night has officially gone from worse to shit.

10

GRAHAM

THEN

March, Year One

A classic film flickered on the screen in my movie room. Miguel’s checkered socks drew my attention away from it when he wiggled his toes in my lap. Our physical relationship had evolved from goodbye kisses to handsy make-out sessions, but he was only willing to part with his shoes.

He had seen all of me. The first time I stripped down and dove into the heated pool, he had a moral meltdown and demanded I wear swim trunks for the sake of modesty. What could I say? There was freedom in being naked within the privacy of my home. Someday, I would persuade him to join my exclusive bare-bottom club.

I turned my head to ask about his thoughts on exhibitionism and found him watching me with a thoughtful expression. “I’m sorry if my perfectly symmetrical face is distracting.”

“Whoever told you that lied,” he said.

“And I should believe you because you dabble in symmetry?”

“Believe what you want. It’s your face.”

He leaned forward and swept popcorn crumbs off my chest. Because I was shirtless, it was obvious that my nipples hardened from his touch.

“You were mouthing the words again,” he said.

“Yeah, I tend to do that with my favorites.”

“How many do you have?”

I counted on my fingers. “A few hundred, give or take.”

He uncrossed his ankles, a movement I interpreted as an invitation to massage his feet. “I watched some of your old interviews. You never explain why you became obsessed with films.”

It was the question I refused to answer honestly in interviews, offering the standard response of being a kid who loved movies instead. While the truth stemmed from a deeper place, I never felt comfortable using my platform to earn sympathy points. My childhood struggles weren’t nearly as traumatic as what other kids had endured.

“My parents argued a lot. Not screaming matches or anything, but they bickered nonstop. I was too young to do anything about it, so I’d play outside or watch movies to drown out the noise.”

“Two things that bring you peace,” he mused.

“And back then, a break from the constant discord.” I dug my thumbs into the arch of his foot. “After a while, I’d watched enough movies to ruin the illusion. I started paying attention to everything but the actors. That’s when the continuity errors became obvious.”

An embarrassing ritual performed by ten-year-old me came to mind, and my face warmed. “It’s kind of silly, but I pretended to be the director called in to reshoot scenes and make them perfect. My bedroom was a soundstage, action figures were the cast members, and I kept journals of my edit notes.”

A soft smile graced Miguel’s lips, and he rested his cheek on the back of the sofa. “You became a student. I don’t think that’s silly at all.”

“Maybe not. When I got a video camera for my thirteenth birthday, I knew filmmaking was the career for me.” Stopping my story there, I grabbed his other foot and asked, “Do you have a favorite movie?”