Page 49 of Between Now and Forever

The decision is made for me when the door flies open. She looks at me like it’s Christmas Eve, and I’m Santa coming to prove everyone who doesn’t believe I exist wrong.

Her smile makes me forget why I thought about not coming here. All I can think about is that kiss.

Fuck.

I don’t even think that the word kiss is accurate. It was like magnetic puzzle pieces coming together.

Easy.

Perfect.

And so very hard to pull away from.

When our lips touched, I thought, “this is it.” I wasn’t sure if it was to her, the kiss, the moment or a cosmic collision of all three.

But whatever it was, it felt damn good.

“Hey,” she says. Her smile wavers a little, and I shake myself out of my indecision.

“Hey, yourself, can I come in?” I ask and put on my most charming smile.

She nods, and steps aside to let me in.

“This room is huge,” I say looking around the bedroom she’s using. It’s got two sets of huge bunk beds in adjacent corners and a ceiling that’s two stories high, and like the rest of the bedrooms has skylights cut into it.

“What’s wrong?” she asks in a quiet voice from behind me.

“Nothing. Why?”

“Well, you have misery written all over your face.”

I turn around to find her watching me plaintively and the denial dies on the tip of my tongue.

She’s been so open with me, I can’t bring myself to give her anything less.

“I had a fight with my parents.”

“Oh, really? Why?” She sits down and looks at me with genuine concern. I hesitate a little. She knows my name now. She hasn’t signed an NDA. She could leave here and callPeoplemagazine tomorrow and tell them about her twenty-four hours with the Boshes. But I know she won’t. I know she’s asking because she wants to share my troubles. And I feel like telling her.

I sit next to her and pick up her hand from where it’s resting on the bed. I open her palm and trace a pattern while I talk.

“My dad is my manager and we have a strong difference of opinion about my career,“ I say.

“You’re an actor, too? Oh my God, should I know who you are, too?” she asks, and I laugh at the mild panic in her wide eyes.

“No. I’m a pianist. You’re about fifty years too young to fit the demographic of my average fan,” I quip.

“My brother plays the piano. Not professionally or anything.” She smiles fondly when she mentions him. “Do you do concerts and stuff?”

“I do.”

“Do you like it?”

“Sure.” I’m tired of talking about myself and the vulnerability I’m feeling is chafing. So, I change the subject.

“So, what about you? Are you still in college?”

Her eyes dim before she turns away and walks over to the window.

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