Page 98 of Burn the Script

The small shake of his head kicks me into action. Rushing to the kitchen, I pour a glass of water and throw a sandwich together, keeping an eye on him through the window. Slumped forward with his head in his hands, he’s a mess, worse off than I’ve ever seen him.

I grab a blanket from the living room and haul my care package outside. He lets me wrap the blanket around him, but the pitiful dinner ends up on a side table, neglected. Claiming the chair closest to him, I’m on the edge of my seat while giving him space.

A stretch of time passes before he releases the grasp on his short hair and looks at me through bleary, bloodshot eyes. “I never asked what it was like for you after I left.”

“Hell.” My chuckle sounds broken and jagged, like the shell clenched in his fist. “I was confused, alone. Tate and Maisy were on tour, and I didn’t want to bother them because they had their own problems to deal with.”

I pry his hand open and dust his palm, letting the shell fragments fall to the braided rug. “Movies played on a constant loop. When it was silent, all I could see were your taillights. I rewrote the scene in my head, over and over, thinking if I had one more take, the night would’ve end differently. You wouldn’t have abandoned me the way you did.”

Fresh tears trail down his cheeks. “I’m sorry. I know my apologies aren’t worth much, not after all the pain I’ve caused you. I panicked and ran when I should’ve opened up. What’s worse, I let you and everyone else believe you were to blame. Even if you forgive me, our friends never will.”

“We won’t tell them. What happens between us is none of their business.”

He shakes his head, adamant. “I’m not asking you to lie for me. They also deserve the truth someday.”

“Then, what are you asking? Why are you here?”

When he scoots to the edge of the loveseat, our knees slot together. “Because I’m on the verge of making the same mistake twice. I can’t handle this alone. It didn’t work the first time around, and it won’t work now. I need your help.”

Every stiff muscle in my body relaxes. It costs Miguel a good chunk of his pride to ask for help, and he’s looking me in the eye while doing so. This rare moment of vulnerability is a gift, and my heart swells with more love for him, if that’s even possible.

I join him on the loveseat and pull his legs onto my lap. It defies all logic, but with any of his weight on me, I can breathe better. “Of everything, do you know what hurt me the most? Cut the deepest? Realizing you didn’t think you could tell me things without judgment or consequences. I’m not him, Miguel.”

“Baby, you could never be like him. I’ve known that since the day we met, but I didn’t trust myself enough to fully believe it.” Miguel leans forward and captures my head in his hands, his voice raw and fierce, determined. “I’m done letting my past take anything from us—from you. I want my life back. I want the future we dreamed of. What’s coming for us won’t be easy, and it will get ugly. The only way I’ll make it through the worst of it is with your support.”

My fingertips graze his right leg, the motion soothing for us both as I wipe off the sand. “I’ll give you whatever support you need. Just ask. But please, please never shut me out again.”

“Never,” he says.

God, I want to kiss him and feel those tender lips on mine, but we’re not done with practical matters. “Where do we go from here?” I ask, staring at his mouth.

“Forward, if you’ll have me.”

“And what does forward look like?”

“Like the past but different. Better.” His heavy sigh and drooping posture contradict his optimism. “Could we wait a little longer to come out? I know I’m asking for a lot, after everything, but I’m seeing a therapist.”

“That’s…”

Words elude me. Not only did he ask for my help, a significant step in itself, but he’s also seeking professional help? I’m flabbergasted and so fucking proud.

Dusting off his other leg, I say, “Maybe we can go together sometime. I could use some advice on how to be more patient and self-aware.”

Our year apart was agonizing, but I’m glad I didn’t chase Miguel down sooner. Without the film production forcing me to spend time in another state, I would’ve been insufferably persistent and risked losing him for good.

He grimaces and squirms. “Can we talk about couples therapy later? Seriously, Graham, there’s an entire beach in my underwear.”

I move his legs off my lap and kill the flame in the fire pit before extending a hand. “Let me take care of you?”

Giving me a watery, relieved smile, he slides his palm against mine. “Hell yes.”

42

GRAHAM

NOW

A cloud of steam surrounds us. Miguel’s head hangs low under the water, exhaustion weighing him down as the suds glide from his neck to his feet, disappearing into the drain. Once his hair is clean, I pour his favorite berry-scented body wash on a sponge and get to work.