Page 67 of You and Me, For Real
He puts the dishes in the dishwasher, talking as if we are discussing the weather. “Moved out. Left the state. Eventually got remarried. Started a new life with a new family in Florida.”
“Oh.” As he walks back into the living room, I say, “I’m sorry.”
He shrugs. “It’s okay. She seems happier, I guess. My career took off, and my dad stuck around so things turned out okay.”
“Do you talk to your mom often?” I’m so full of questions, ones I don’t want to answer myself.
“Sometimes. Here and there. She’s busy with her other two kids. They’re in high school.” He sits next to the couch on the floor, facing me.
“Do you call her much?”
“Not really.”
I bite my lip, thinking of Cecily and how we probably could have mended things a long time ago with a simple phone call. “Maybe you should call her more. I’m pretty sure most mothers would love to hear from their children.” With the exception of mine.
“Yeah. I could.”
His fingers trace up and down the couch seam, inches from my thigh. Just the thought of him touching me sends goosebumps along my skin.
“What about you? Where are your parents?”
My insides tighten. I stall, taking a drink of water. I point to my mouth, expanding my cheeks.
He chuckles. “You don’t have to answer if it’s too personal.”
Is it too personal? I just asked him the same thing. It’s only fair I share too. We’re becoming friends after all, right? Isn’t that what friends do? Get to know one another?
I swallow hard. “My mom lives here in California, but we don’t talk much.”
He nods slowly. “And your dad?”
I lick my lips, uncomfortable talking about the business mogul who’d amassed such wealth that he secured a wife almost half his age. “He died shortly after I was born.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“It’s okay. I was only a toddler. I don’t remember much about him, aside from a handful of pictures of us together.” I redirect the conversation, eager to shift away from me. “Since your dad’s your agent, I guess you get to see him pretty often?”
His arm lies on the couch cushion, resting against my bare leg. The touch isn’t uncomfortable. I withhold the desire to angle closer, leaning into his touch.
“I talk to my dad almost every day, but he speaks to me more as a client. Not so much as my father.”
I recall briefly meeting him at the shelter the day I met Griffin. “That’s right, the busy guy with a schedule to keep.”
He finger-guns me. “That’d be the one.”
“You’re not close, even though you work together?”
“We see each other often, but we neverjusttalk. You know? Everything is always business—pushing me toward the next contract, the next big role, and making sure I’m following my health and fitness regimens, along with skin and hair care routines.” He rests his forehead against his fist. “It can be…I don’t know…”
“Stifling?” I finish for him.
“Exactly. I’ve been acting since I was eight and following whatever role my father deemed the right fit. I’ve never felt like I had complete control of my career.”
“You didn’t like being onMalibu Shores?”
He takes a drink from his water bottle. “It’s not that I didn’t like it.” He sighs. “More like I felt stuck. I want to shift my career focus to film. I don’t want justanyrole anymore. I wanttherole.”
I nod. Since meeting him, I’ve recognized my own life has been in a frozen status. Where he feels stuck, I’m immobilized by my own fears. Fear Mom would find me, fear of tabloids remembering me, fear I’d fail at starting a rescue. Griffin and I both want change. For the chance tochoose—to grab—the life we really want.
