Page 87 of Burn the Script

“I’m not⁠—”

Our smiles are strained. I take one of his hands in mine because touching him is a primal need. “Is it okay if I go first?”

He avoids my eyes, nodding to his brown boots.

“Since the beginning, I knew it was selfish of me to keep us a secret. You deserve an honest man who puts you first in every way. And I’m sorry for making decisions without you. My intentions were good, but my approach needed a lot of work. From now on, I promise not to make any moves without your input and blessing, starting with this one.”

Since I’m gripping his fingers for support, I unlock my phone one-handed. The social media post I’ve drafted includes a photo of us—my favorite of all time. I’m kissing his forehead, and he’s smiling, eyes closed, as we cling to each other like we always do. The simple caption reads “Love of my life.” Enough said.

“What have you done?” he whispers, snatching the phone from me to have a closer look.

“Nothing yet. But this is what I should’ve done a long time ago. Tear open my chest and expose myself to the vultures, career be damned. I want everyone to know my heart belongs to Miguel Espinoza and no one else.”

Seconds tick by as he inspects the photo, unmoving. My antsy fingers find my necklace. Have I miscalculated? Or misread his intentions over the past several weeks? I’m assuming so when he sets the phone down and squeezes the bridge of his nose.

His bark of laughter startles me. “Jesus Christ, you’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

“Whatever pleases you.” He steals his hand from mine and turns to face me head-on. “We agreed to live in private, Graham, but you think going public should be your decision alone. For an actor, you suck at following the script.”

I gesture toward all of Hollywood. “I’m done with this script, Miguel. It’s outdated. Fuck hiding who I am and who I love to earn approval and a paycheck. It’s time to burn the script written by an overly ambitious teenager and write a better one for the man I’ve become because of you. I’m ready.”

“Well, I’m not ready, okay? Never have been.” He slaps a hand over his mouth, eyes going wide.

The shock on his face has nothing on mine. I’m not sure if I’m breathing anymore, too stunned to do anything but stare back in disbelief.

“Fuck,” he whispers.

Miguel pushes off the steps and flees to the fountain. I watch him go, unable to move and chase after him. The past I’ve known and the future I’ve planned for us lie in tatters at my feet, obliterated by a single, jarring confession.

My erratic heart can’t decide whether to sprint or stop beating altogether, but after a full minute, I force my body into motion. Crossing the twelve feet of distance proves to be a difficult feat. I’m off balance and dizzy, as though the world has tipped on its axis.

Solar lights around the fountain’s base cast a spotlight on his thinned lips and the deep crease between his eyebrows. He hugs himself, glaring into the shallow water. When I reach his side, I stuff my hands in my jeans pockets and try to control my heart rate.

“Do you remember the night of the fine arts gala I went to?” he asks.

“How could I forget? Seeing you in a tux for the first time is a core memory.” My attempt at levity fails when neither of us cracks a smile.

“That night, I realized I’d break your heart one day. While you danced with Tate, my anxiety was off the charts. You kept looking at me, smiling at me, and I worried you’d give us away. So many times over the years, you were careless and almost gave us away.”

Frowning, I turn toward him. “But we’ve made it to the end goal. Being found out doesn’t matter now.”

“To you. It doesn’t matter to you.” As he faces me, the glassy sheen in his tortured eyes catches the light. “And we haven’t reached the end goal. You may not be acting anymore, but you still have to sell movies, including your debut. Are you willing to jeopardize that?”

“I’m not naïve, Miguel. I know the risks. I just don’t care anymore.”

“But I do.” He steps closer, looking both pained and frustrated as he pinches the front of my sweater. “I’ve tried to be brave, but the truth is your fame terrifies me, so much that it’s crippling. Our entire relationship, I was on edge, not knowing when you or someone else would force me out of my comfort zone without my consent.”

Stop pressuring me!

The memory of Miguel screaming those words knocks me back a step, and he’s forced to let go of my sweater. For weeks, I mulled over their meaning, but never understood them until now.

“I’m sorry. I—” My hand twitches inside my pocket, wanting to reach for him. I curl my fingers into a fist. “If I’d known your reasons for keeping our secret went beyond protecting my career, I would’ve been more careful.”

“You have nothing to apologize for. I had years to speak up but didn’t. And in the end, I was trying to protect you too.”

I scrub a palm over my mouth and study his expression. The remorse in his sad eyes. The guilt. Even worse, the silent acknowledgment of his hypocrisy. For years, I shouldered the blame after making unilateral decisions, even small ones, that upset him. I did so humbly and tried hard not to repeat my mistakes because he deserves a future with someone who puts his happiness first. Yet, he forgot to mention that a future with me was never a possibility.