Page 7 of The Fate Of Us

Dolly Parton? Sing louder, please; I’m overthinking again.

I remember the moment my agent told me that the studio had officially cast the manplaying Harry. My heart fluttered with the wonder of whether or not it would be anyone I’d worked with before, or someone new. Would it be someone I’d always wanted to act with? Would it be someone who I had on-screen chemistry with already? Would we clash? Would we become friends?

My mind was too busy trying to get over the unbearable thought that the words ‘NatePatricks’ had just left her mouth to answer any of those questions.

My hands go clammy like they always do when this crosses my mind, causing me toflatten my palms on the hardwood floor. My lungs jump, and my breath goes patchy. I don’t know why I torment myself with the memory; all it does is bring to life the nostalgic hatred that I spend my days trying to hide from.

Of all the actors, across this very, very large planet that they could have chosen to be myco-star, they had to pick the one I didn’t get along with. They had to pick Nate. Of course they’d pick Nate. I was way overdue for some karma from the universe, and this right here was it.

Sure, Nate and I had worked together before, we filmed theDefendersseries with noissues whatsoever. Was that because our characters barely interacted in the movies? Maybe. But it doesn’t take away from the fact that we survived it. We hadn’t killed each other. Surely that must mean we could survive this too?

The oddly shrill voice of the casting director, I think her name was… actually, I have noidea what it was; penetrates my thoughts.

Have you read the book? Oh, tell me you’ve read it, Ms. Moore! I’m a sucker for enemiesto lovers, throw in the fact that it’s got all the twists and turns of a thriller, and you’ve got me hooked!

Was this one of those life-imitating art moments? It was, wasn’t it?

The thought of how bizarre this whole situation is makes me straighten up from the floor,my feet tingling back to life, while getting a nice reminder from my body about my iron deficiency and nearly falling right back on my ass.

Once the grey clouds and white stars had faded from my line of vision, I got to my feetand stood there for a few seconds, letting the iciness of the hardwood floor shock some more feeling back into my feet, all the while racking my brain for how to keep itself from reminding me of the inevitable. When it hits me.

My secret weapon.

I ditch my living room, darting down the hall to retrieve my laptop from the office,narrowly avoiding my hanging plants and tangles of fairy lights as I do, before cannonballing into my fluffy bean bag that’s nestled up right next to the window wall and opening it to the half-completed manuscript of my latest story.

It’s no secret that I’m an avid reader. My stacked bookcases in this office, organised byauthor, genre, and, most importantly, spice level, prove that point very well. But what still remains my biggest secret? It’s that I’ve also written books.

I’m a writer. A secret, unpublished writer.

I discovered pretty early on that writing was my passion. I also found out that it was abeautiful way of expressing how I felt, growing up under the heat and pressure of thousands of cameras and spotlights.

Picture this: I’m seven years old, just got home from my third callback audition of theday, and have just spent an hour on a car journey with my parents, who had spent said car journey reminding me about the six other auditions and one more callback I had that week. I get into my room, and instead of screaming into a pillow or listening to the Avril Lavigne CD I’d borrowed from the girl across the street, I grab my notepad that was covered in holographic Lisa Frank stickers and pick up where I left off from whatever story I had going at the time.

Writing was a way for me to say every word and express every feeling my seven-year-oldself could understand that I couldn’t project out loud. Express what I was too scared to say. I wrote several, probably not grammatically or punctually correct, stories, about girls who were living lives they were pushed into, trapped and scared and saw no way out, who were then magically saved by a handsome hero (who, most of the time, was inspired by the naughties heartthrob Tom Welling) or found her confidence and told the baddie to back off for good.

As I grew up, my stories became a lot more complex, to the point where I’d spent myentire sophomore year of high school writing a romantic fantasy series about lost kingdoms and fairies and maybe a chapter or two of R-rated content.

And I loved it. I truly fell in love with making up worlds and their histories and creatingcharacters that were so brutally broken but found the strength, either within themselves or with the help of a friend turned-lover, to face up to their problems and regain their life back.

If only their confidence were contagious.

Every heroine I created, I lived vicariously through. I dreamed that I was a princess whosingle-handedly knocked down her tower, or the heiress to an ancient kingdom who was being forced into a marriage that would eventually make her queen, who would also find her voice with the help of her arranged fiancè, and put an end to this outdated and dehumanising rule.

I hoped that the more I wrote, and believed that I was those women, that I’d wake up oneday with the strength of all of them combined, with the power to march down the stairs and tell my parents why I never wanted to step foot into an audition room or set ever again.

But clearly, my manifesting skills weren’t fully developed at twelve, or seventeen, ortwenty-five… At least my writing helped get all of my built-up angst and anger out in a healthy way. Or at least in a way that wouldn’t get me grounded.

And it helped me. Helps me. Even now.

Although, I still keep all twenty-three of my books a secret.

There are only three people on the planet who know about my books; myself, Nate, andmy little sister Goldie, Marigold is her actual name, but I can’t remember the last time I ever called her that.

As I settle into the beanbag and find a comfy place to exist for the next few hours, myeyes fall back onto the paragraph I’d left my story at the last time I needed a writing session. I feel my heart flip when I realise I’d bookmarked my chapter smack bang in the middle of a sex scene, internally squealing at the butterfly-inducing but still ethereal way I’d described how intense my heroine’s orgasm was.

God, I’m good at this.

But just as my brain starts piling up with the hundreds of ways this scene go, barelytyping more than a sentence, my tapping is halted by the buzzing of my phone that’s in my pocket. I arch my back to grab my phonebefore looking down at the black-and-white picture of me and Goldie that’s lighting up my screen and swiping to answer without a second thought.

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