Page 38 of Doing It for Love

He takes my hand, and I trip up a couple of stairs before I get my bearings. He’s laughing, and I’m scolding him for making fun of me, but at least he seems in a better mood.

Buster must’ve heard my very graceful promenade, because he barrels from the guest room and whacks us both with his bulky tail as Landon pulls me into a bedroom at the end of the hall. He better keep his distance, because I am not going to be his new hump pillow.

“My old room,” he says. It’s now the makings of an office…I think. There’s a desk, a computer, and a bookshelf, not much else.

He opens the closet and ducks inside. I hear him slump on the floor.

“There’s room for two!” he shouts, and I nudge the door wider. The closet is barely a walk-in, but I slip inside and sit on the floor across from Landon. Buster’s tail smacks the side of my head, and I shove his large puppy butt away as he settles between us. Landon slides a box out from behind him with one hand and rubs Buster’s belly with the other.

“This stuff used to cover my walls,” he says, handing me a large poster. I bat Buster’s paw off my arm and unroll the long sheath of glossy paper.

“The Nightmare Before Christmas…I’m not surprised.” I smile and peek over the poster to the box. There are about six or seven more, along with a bundle of Sundance tickets, article printouts, and lots of Tim Burton knickknacks. I let out a chuckle and set the poster down. “I have a boy band collection. You should see my signed One Direction poster.”

“Aren’t they a little modern for you?”

“When was the last time you saw a BBMak concert?”

“Never.”

I give him a look and reach for the box, but Buster whines and kicks at me to get a belly rubbing. I oblige only because I imagine him sitting on my lap and crushing my legs if I don’t.

Landon sweeps a hand across a Big Fish poster, staring at it with a sort of nostalgic glimmer, and I suddenly see someone ten years younger, chasing after a dream that seems unimaginable, before he became the man whose dreams are within arms’ reach.

“Tim Burton always painted what was different. He celebrated it, embraced it, made not only a story, but art. When I saw this movie”—he nods at the poster in his hands—“I saw myself. I felt like a big fish. I looked around and saw elaborate stories, people’s lives, and I wanted to create them, too.” The corner of his mouth picks up and his eyes flick to mine. “I wrote a book, thinking it meant I wanted to tell stories.”

“You wrote a book?”

He rolls the poster up and fishes around in the box. I scoot closer, Buster’s warm belly mashing against my leg.

“Weeds,”Landon says, jostling a thick binder in his hands. “Took me a year.”

“How old were you?”

“Sixteen.”

I hold my arms out and he sets the heavy binder in my hands. “Instead of making out in your secluded tree house, you were playing the part of tortured writer, huh?” I go to flip it open, but he stops me.

“It’s awful.”

“You won’t let me peek?”

He shakes his head, and I bat at the bill of his cap. Buster whines and presses a wet nose to my knee. I sigh and shift the book so I can continue to rub his tummy. Landon’s fingers occasionally knock with mine and we scratch the pudgy pup.

“I was going to say…after writing it, I never had that spark again. I didn’t want towritestories. But I did want to tell them.”

“Is that when you got your grant?”

“I made the movie first. I signed up for film studies and shotWeedsin movie form. It’s still so rough, I don’t know how or why Mr. Nickerson saw something in it. But he did, and yeah, after it won state in film, I got a grant to make the next one.”

My chest swells, making my lips turn up and my toes tingle. I love hearing about his dreams coming true. Most of my adolescence consisted of Spin-the-Bottle, what to wear to my next date, if I’d get a date, if Mom and Dad would ever extend my curfew, what Jessie Hopkins was going to say about my new haircut, and if I’d botch my play auditions.

Now Landon, he found out what he wanted to do, and he did it. Gah…sex under a baseball cap that man is.

“It still feels unreal,” he says, eyes moving back to the Big Fish poster. “I’ve done so much, gotten so far, yet it seems unreachable at the same time.”

“It’s not. Your zombie movie will kick film festival ass.”

A wide smile sets on his lips, and he pushes the posters out of the way, tries to nudge Buster—who doesn’t move, and takes my left hand.

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