Page 86 of Romance Is Dead

“That must have been kickass.”

“Yeah. . . it kind of makes me sad now, though,” I admitted. “Thinking about those things.”

“Why?”

“It’s gone, isn’t it? That magical sheen that makes everything sparkle when you’re a kid, that makes it seem so perfect even when it isn’t.” To my horror, my voice was thickening and catching in the back of my throat. “Once you grow up, that’s gone. And it makes you sad knowing that either things weren’t as magical as they seemed at the time, or that you’ll never feel that happy again.”

“You’re not happy?”

I hesitated. “Maybe. But growing up means everything looks a little grayer, don’t you think?”

“No. Not everything.” Teddy’s voice was resolute. He picked up my hand, twirling our fingers together. “I see color in you.”

We both fell quiet then, and something about the moment was too real, cut too deep. I wanted to tell him that to me, he was technicolor. But I couldn’t.

He rubbed his thumb along my shoulder. “Why does your childhood look grayer now?”

The familiar feeling of resistance starting to rise, the urge to clamp my mouth shut or change the subject. But then it did something strange. It started to crumble. To weaken.

“I’m quitting horror movies,” I blurted. “After this one, obviously. But then I’m not going to make any more.”

Teddy was quiet for a long moment, his fingers slowing on my shoulder while he processed. “I thought you loved them?”

“It’s so many things. Like the tabloids spreading rumors and publishing my personal business. Or putting every fiber of yourself into an audition only for a director to say you’re doing it wrong, even though you spent two months analyzing your character’s background and motivation. For every high there’s a dozen lows, and the constant rejection is so draining. Not to mention I don’t even have an agent anymore.”

“She obviously screwed up.”

I smiled, grateful. “Thanks. But the reviews are demoralizing, too. You don’t believe the good ones that say you did a good job. But the bad ones? Those you believe. And it’s hard not to internalize someone saying my ‘angular features are better suited for character parts than a leading lady.’”

“What does that even mean?”

“That I’m not classically pretty enough to lead a film.”

“I. . . Sorry, what?”

I shrugged, not sure what else to say.

“That’s complete bullshit.” He huffed out a laugh. “You’re gorgeous.”

I squeezed his arm. “And to make it all worse, I haven’t even told my dad.”

“Seriously? Aren’t you two super-close?”

I sighed. “It just never seems like the right time. Every time we talk, he’ll bring up my career, or ask me what I’m planning to do next, or tell me how proud he is of my work. And how am I supposed to tell him then?”

“Ah yes, the dreaded proud parent,” Teddy teased. “Do you think he’ll be mad or something?”

“Not mad, exactly. Just disappointed, you know? Horror movies are our thing. They always have been. How can I tell him I’m quitting the thing that’s always brought us together?”

“I get that.”

“And what if he gets upset and then our entire relationship changes?” The anxiety was swelling again, the thought of ruining things, of things never being the same.

“Did you get mad when he retired from making movies?”

“No, of course not.”

“Well, there you go. It’s not like you can’t still watch horror movies, right?”

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