Page 47 of Burn the Script

When I think he’s fallen asleep, he speaks again. “Remember the day I met your family?”

I snort softly. “You thought my parents would warn you about hurting their baby boy, but my brother’s the one who cornered you in the kitchen.”

Graham smiles. “He threatened me with the might of the entire Marine Corps if I stepped out of line.”

“Ricky’s a teddy bear.”

My brother Enrique is five years older than me. When we were kids, he’d scare off anyone who looked at me funny. At eighteen, he enlisted in the military, and I lost my fiercest protector. We rarely see each other now.

Graham’s quiet grunt reaches my ears, followed by his slurred speech. “I didn’t tell you everything he said. He told me, ‘If there’s ever a day when Miguelito isn’t the first or last thing on your mind, show your ass out.’ Then he went on to explain all the ways he’d ruin my life.” There’s a long pause as Graham balances on the edge of oblivion. “I’ve never let him down, Miguel. Never will.”

Only a minute passes before his breaths even out. I should move and let him get more comfortable, maybe turn off the lights and cover him with a blanket, but I can’t. Not yet. Not when there’s no guarantee I’ll have the opportunity to care for him like this again. To watch him sleep peacefully. To pretend I have the right to love on him after breaking his heart.

After five more minutes of being selfish, I force myself to move. Carefully, I slip out of my spot without jostling him and place a light kiss on his forehead. “Que duermas bien, mi amor.”

His fingers latch on to my pants. “Don’t leave me again.”

A sob blooms in my throat, swift and painful. I choke it down and release a shuddering breath instead. Climbing over him, I wedge myself in the narrow gap between his body and the back of the sofa. Out of habit, he turns to his side and folds me in his embrace, our legs tangling together.

With my cheek pressed to his chest, I listen to the vitality of his steady heartbeat and breathe in his calming scent. Tears well in my eyes, and I snuggle closer, burrow deeper, until the comfort of his presence consumes me and he’s all I can feel.

And in the silent night, while no one is listening, I whisper a confession. “Soy el actor. Fingí ser valiente, pero te enamoraste de un cobarde. Lo siento.”

When I wake the next morning, alone under a blanket, a note has replaced Graham’s laptop on the table.

Saturday. Dinner and a cocktail. 7:00?

My hand trembles as I read the address written at the bottom through blurred vision. I cover my mouth, but the sob I kept buried all night rips out of me anyway. I’m going home.

20

GRAHAM

THEN

May, Year Two

“I refuse to live like this!” Miguel slammed the pantry door. “You can’t go to the grocery store because you’re famous, and I’ll starve to death before you remember to have the next order delivered. And…and!” He grabbed a crusty plate from the sink and thrust it in the air. “You, sir, are a slob. Get a housekeeper. You can afford it.”

I sunk lower in my seat at the kitchen table. “We’ve been over this. I don’t like having strangers in my home. And when I’m not working, I don’t want anyone disturbing us.”

Our first fight had come out of nowhere, if we could even call it a fight. On the spectrum of conflicts, we were having a simple disagreement. An argument, at most. Either way, I hated when he was upset with me.

The plate clattered when he shoved it across the granite counter. “This isn’t sustainable, Graham. You can’t expect me to come here and ignore your messes, and you damn sure better not expect me to clean them up.”

“I’m not that messy.”

“Really? I beg to differ.”

He stomped down the stairs to the foyer where his messenger bag hung on the coat tree. I trailed behind and winced at the sight of my backpack on the floor. After poking through the organized pockets of his bag, he wielded a small notepad like he was threatening me with paper cuts.

“Here’s a list,” he said.

I took the notepad from him, eyeing the elegant handwriting chasing harsh bullet points. “Wet towels on the bathroom floor. Dirty clothes draped over the hamper. Baseboards collecting dust. What is this, a rap sheet of neglected chores?”

“It’s proof you need help. Get someone in here while you’re not home. Then you don’t have to worry about an invasion of your free time.”

“But I’ll have to worry about making appointments and keeping track of who’s coming in and out of my house.”