Page 74 of Reckless Hearts
I have to clear my throat before I can answer. “Tropical thunderstorms usually don’t last for very long.”
“What causes them?”
“The rapid rising of warm, moist air. When it collides with the cooler air above, the sudden mixing creates instability and results in a thunderstorm.”
“Kind of like us, then,” Marcus says. “Two very different systems colliding.”
I reject a few replies in my head before I decide to go with a lighthearted response.
“Which one of us is the hot air?”
He laughs.
“I work in Hollywood, remember? We practically invented hot air.”
I actually don’t want to think too much about the thunderstorm metaphor to describe Marcus and me.
Thunderstorms are intense, fleeting, and potentially destructive.
Instead, I snuggle into him, my head on his chest, listening to the steady thump of his heartbeat. His fingers card through my hair, occasionally trailing down my spine in a soothing caress.
But we don’t go to sleep. Instead, we talk, catching each other up on seven years of life.
He tells me about being a model and switching to acting, what it’s like on set, the egos, and the politics behind the scenes. He talks about the cutthroat competition for roles and recognition. The constant pressure to maintain a certain image.
He talks about his agent Jake, who he credits with his career but who also pushes him to be the best, and his drive to prove he’s a worthy actor and doesn’t get parts based only on his looks.
He shares funny anecdotes about overzealous fans and bizarre Hollywood parties, but beneath the glitz and glamour, there seems to be an undercurrent of loneliness to Marcus’sstories. The way he describes his life sounds more like a performance than a reality.
In return, I tell him about fairy terns, how the New Zealand subspecies has been on the brink of extinction for decades, how there are only forty known individuals left in the world, and how it feels like we’re in a race against time, trying to save these creatures before they become just another statistic in the annals of extinction.
At around two a.m., he gets out of bed and goes to the minibar, and we eat Pringles and M&Ms and Skittles, creating ridiculous flavor combinations and debating whether it counts as a balanced meal for biologists and movie stars.
Our worlds are so different. It’s like Spock attempting to mind-meld with a Jedi, but it doesn’t stop our conversation from falling into an easy rhythm.
It’s as if the last seven years were just a commercial break in our story.
Eventually, light starts to creep in through the crack in the curtains, casting a shaft that highlights the empty snack packets on the bed.
“We’ve talked all night,” Marcus says quietly.
“Well, I guess we’ve scientifically proven that time flies when you’re comparing Hollywood drama to bird mating rituals. Or maybe we’ve just invented a new Olympic sport: Extreme Catching Up.”
Marcus laughs, which is probably more than my joke warranted.
“Do we get a gold medal in Synchronized Snacking?” he asks.
Okay, so maybe even being a Hollywood star doesn’t make you immune to bad joke telling.
We grin at each other. But then Marcus’s playful expression fades, and guilt creeps over his face.
He rakes a hand through his hair. “I promised your sister I wouldn’t do this.”
“Wouldn’t do what?”
“Hook up with you.”
I blink at him. “What? When?”
