Page 37 of Burn the Script

Shoes scuffed the pavement as Miguel picked up the pace. When he caught up to me, he cursed under his breath and whispered, “I’m not helping you steal a boat.”

“We’re not stealing it. I got permission from the owner.”

My manager lived in the neighborhood, and he offered to let us use his rowboat. A romantic, moonlit ride through the canals was the perfect way to launch my apology tour. The film I’d been working on for eight weeks was shot locally, but the long hours left little time for Miguel. Despite my hectic days and wacky sleep schedule, he stuck around. I preferred to keep it that way.

With the intricate knot figured out, I turned toward him, and my smile was instant. I liked that he dressed for every occasion. After I’d mentioned we were spending time at the coast, he showed up at my house wearing white linen shorts, tan boat shoes, and a blue floral shirt. The shirt was untucked for a change, and he was fidgeting with the bottom button.

“Why are you nervous?” I asked.

He shifted on his feet, eyeing the watercraft. “I’ve never been on a boat. Don’t we need life jackets?”

“The water’s shallow, and I’ve seen you swim dozens of times. But if we tip over, I’ll save you. Come on,” I said, holding out a hand.

He stared at it for several breaths and looked over his shoulder. “We could be seen.”

Most of the residents were probably asleep, and anyone who happened to be watching would think we were two friends hanging out. I even left my hat in the car to avoid looking suspicious and drawing attention. But Miguel wouldn’t risk the chance of someone discovering my secret, no matter how much I assured him we were safe in the dark.

Wiggling my fingers, I tried a different tactic. “I’m making sure you don’t fall in.”

He took my hand and stepped into the boat, yelping when he moved too fast and rocked it. I kept him steady until he dropped onto the stern seat and hugged his knees.

As we drifted away from the bank, I wrestled with the oars to get us pointed in the right direction, then rowed at a slow, even pace to get him acclimated. The patio lights on either side of the canal painted a colorful halo around his silhouette while he studied the houses. A crease marred his brow, a worrisome sight when he was usually giddy over unique designs. We were surrounded by them, which was the reason I brought him there. He should’ve been smiling, not frowning.

I gently prodded for the source of his concern. “Something’s bothering you. Is it my work? I know it takes up a lot of my time, and it’ll be even harder on us when the shoots aren’t local. We could be apart for months, unless you’re willing to fly out and visit me for a weekend.”

“Why do you put up with me?” he asked.

My mouth opened and closed, searching for an adequate response, but I could only come up with the truth. “I don’t understand the question.”

He grunted—a pained, frustrated sound—and stared at his knees. “While you were filming, I had a lot of time to think about us. About where our relationship is headed.”

My heart went berserk. Code red. The romantic high I’d been riding plummeted from the sky with no parachute. Nothing good ever came after the part where the boyfriend said he had time to think.

If he decided hiding with me wasn’t what he wanted after all, I would’ve been devastated. But I couldn’t blame him for coming to his senses. Several times, I’d been tempted to ask if he changed his mind but held back, afraid of the answer. Even now, instead of responding to him or pleading a case for our future, I kept my mouth shut and rowed, letting him steer the conversation.

His voice remained low, a trembling hush the water couldn’t carry away from us. “I’ve had one relationship. We met in college. Everything was good until he graduated and got a corporate job. Then he took me to a party to meet his coworkers and boss.” Miguel made himself into a tiny ball, resting his chin between his kneecaps. “That was the first night he told me I was too much. Too emotional, too flashy, too opinionated and high-maintenance. By the fifth time he said I’d embarrassed him in public, I believed him.”

I hated this ex-boyfriend for making Miguel cower from only a memory. As I watched his fingertips coast up and down his shins in a self-soothing motion, it took all my strength to stay silent and not reach out.

“I did everything to please him. Controlled my emotions. Kept my opinions to myself. Rolled over and”—he dragged in a shuddering breath—“rolled over and took it the way he liked without complaint.”

“Miguel,” I choked.

His hand shot up. And while he refused to look at me, his message landed hard and with finality. There was nothing more he would say on that subject tonight, possibly ever. Miguel spoke his most painful truth, answered my question about who hurt him. I had no right to explore the depths of his pain.

As much as I wanted to pull him into my arms and offer all the comfort his ex-boyfriend denied him, I didn’t. For his sake, I pressed my lips together, fought back the tears, and steered the boat into another canal.

I’d always equated water with peace. Even crashing waves could evoke a sense of calm from a distance. In that moment, the oars dipping in and out of the canal sounded loud, obnoxious. Each little splash threatened my sanity as I waited for Miguel to blow out a quivering breath and continue.

“For two fucking years, I reduced myself, trying to become an acceptable partner. I even started dressing like his coworkers. Can you imagine me in a polo shirt? Horrendous.” He scoffed, the fire in him rekindling, and I’d take his anger over his sadness any day.

“In the end, I was still too much. He left me with a shit-ton of insecurities and nothing else. My confidence was gone. My desire for sex was gone. The pride my family instilled in me was gone. I don’t know if I’ll ever gain all of it back.” As he hugged his knees, a tear fell from his cheek and landed on his forearm, followed by another. “My ex was right about some things, though. I’m needy and disagreeable and difficult—always have been. I’m not an easy person to love, Graham. Wouldn’t you rather have easy than this?” He flicked a few fingers, gesturing to himself.

I shook with fury and heartbreak, but managed to stow the oars without getting him wet. Scooting to the edge of my seat, I pried his hands from his legs and secured them in my grasp. He didn’t fight the connection.

“That asshole didn’t deserve you. He felt reduced by your individuality. Making you feel less than made him feel better. You’re not too much or too difficult, not for me. I already know I love everything about you, even the parts I haven’t seen yet. And I can’t stress this enough…I love you, Miguel.”

He turned his head away, but I wouldn’t be deterred from speaking my truth.