“And all those nominations weren’t just for Gods of the Gates,” she added. “There was that Stoppard play too, and the astronaut role.”
Starshine. He’d played the only survivor of a catastrophic incident aboard the International Space Station. Maybe the indie film hadn’t done as well as he’d hoped in theaters, but yeah, for that red carpet, he’d probably strutted a bit, truth be told.
She stepped in closer, until they could communicate in near-whispers. Until she could study him up close, her attention sharp as the hero sword he’d never actually swung in his Gates battle scenes.
“But in all honesty, probably the most demanding and impressive role you’ve played isn’t any of those.” Her chin was firm, her tone still determined and confrontational for reasons he couldn’t fathom. “Is it?”
He frowned at her, lost.
Maybe that time he’d played Posthumus in an adaptation of Cymbeline, given the language issues, but—
“I’m not sure which role you mean,” he told her.
When she arched a fiery brow, he knew he was in trouble.
“It’s you. Marcus Caster-Rupp. The performance of a lifetime.” She laid her palm on his chest, over his heart, as if she were taking its measure. Maybe she was. “The vainest, dimmest actor on the planet, who’s actually neither. Seemingly shallow and shiny as a puddle, but deep as the Mariana Trench.”
Deep? Him?
What the actual fuck?
“Explain it to me, please.” She spoke politely, but it wasn’t a request. It was a demand. “Sooner or later, the paparazzi are going to find us again. Before I watch your next performance, I need to understand.”
That flaming hair should have warned him. Somehow, she was his crucible, burning away everything but the truth. Forcing him to speak it aloud and purify himself before her.
He opened his mouth. Closed it, unsure what to say or how to begin.
Her hand gave his sternum a gentle but firm pat. A warning. “Don’t bother pretending you don’t know what the Mariana Trench is, either. I streamed Sharkphoon, and those chompy bastards came rocketing up from that trench into the cyclone. You told the president about the danger in your white lab coat and safety glasses, to no avail.”
Stupidly, he couldn’t help wondering whether she’d watched the movie in 3-D, because the scene where the mother shark ate that cruise ship in three giant bites was really enhanced by—
Nope. Not the point right now.
He let out a slow breath. Closed his eyes.
Why had he ever imagined she might simply accept his change in demeanor without remarking on it? Without asking what it meant?
The woman standing before him was Ulsie, the beta reader who challenged any inconsistencies in his stories.
The woman standing before him was April, who made a living out of comparing surfaces to what lay underneath.
The woman standing before him was the woman he wanted. That simple.
So at long last, he opened his mouth again and gave her what she wanted.
The truth.
Enough truth for now, at least.
1 WHEEL, 2 REAL
EXT. THE MEAN STREETS OF PORTLAND – MIDDAY
EWAN looks at the beautiful, quirky girl with the bright pink hair sitting beside him, his unicycle propped against the back slats of their bench. Suddenly, he realizes she knows everything about him, but he knows nothing about her.
EWAN
What’s your name?
PIXIE
It doesn’t matter.
EWAN
Of course it matters.
She crinkles her nose adorably and laughs, idly juggling as she speaks.
PIXIE
It really doesn’t. Right now, what I want, what I need, what I think, my goals, and even my name are so much less important than you, Ewan. Your story. Your life. Your redemption.
Near tears, he tries to smile and presses a quick kiss on her mouth.
EWAN
I’ve never felt so understood before now. If someone like you had been in my life earlier, I think—
PIXIE
What?
EWAN
Maybe I wouldn’t have gotten mixed up in that unicycling gang to begin with. And now, I’m starting to think maybe—maybe—
(he takes a shuddering breath)
I could switch from one wheel . . . to two.
Pixie beams at him. This is the happiest moment of her life.
15
THE FOGGINESS OF THE MORNING HAD BURNED AWAY BENEATH the sun, and Marcus glowed golden in its rays. In that light, given the right cinematography, he could have been the demigod he’d played so ably for years. He could have been a figure of myth, or the stalwart, knightly hero of young April’s fevered imagination and current April’s most fevered fics.
But no camera was filming him, and this wasn’t a story, and he was no invincible half god. Not if she looked more closely.
His mouth had pressed into a tight grimace, and he directed that famous blue-eyed gaze anywhere but at her. At the sidewalk beneath their feet, at the businesses they’d already passed, at the sparkling water they’d begun to approach. If he suddenly sprinted from her and dove into the Bay to escape this conversation—perhaps sprouting a tail like the one he’d sported in Manmaid, his tragic film about a half-human sea creature cursed to love a woman allergic to kelp—she wouldn’t be shocked.
He didn’t run, though. Instead, he just looked . . . lost.
Then that knife-edged jaw firmed, and his eyes speared her. She stilled her caffeine-induced fidgeting, even as her pulse still pounded in her ears and his heartbeat thudded under her palm.
“When I was fifteen, I gave up.” That rich, low voice was flat. Devoid of all the emotion he’d poured into the words of countless screenwriters. For these, his own words, he allowed no jagged edges, no half-crumbled handholds for her to grasp and pull herself closer to him. “I was going to disappoint everyone. Disgust them. It didn’t matter how hard I tried, or how often I apologized.”
Careful. Careful. No inflection or sympathy or anything he could misinterpret. “Everyone?”
“I told you my mom homeschooled me. Until I finished my schoolwork, I didn’t go outside, and my parents weren’t big fans of organized sports. I didn’t see other kids a lot. When I did, I didn’t know what to say.” One shoulder twitched upward, a casual movement turned convulsive. “My parents were my world. They were everyone.”
“You gave up.” She repeated his own words, breath held against the possibilities contained in that phrase.
“I’d always been a good mimic. I’d practice to myself in my room. I had my parents down cold by then. That pompous guy from all the historical documentaries my parents loved too. The actors from the Royal Shakespeare Company, whenever their performances came on public television and my parents made me watch.” His smile was thin and brittle. “Without even having to think about it much, I knew him. What he’d say. How he’d say it. His posture. What gestures he’d make.”
Her frown of confusion must have caught his attention.
“My first and longest-running role. The Worst Possible Son. Vain and lazy and stupid and careless and everything else they hate.” With a casual sweep of his hand, he flicked back a lock of sun-streaked hair. A demonstration. A reminder. “It was easy. So much easier than before.”
She closed her eyes.
Behind her lids, he shrank into a lanky, lonely boy. Angry. Hurt.
Not hard, not the diamond she’d once named him. Already golden, she guessed, even as a teenager. Like gold, so soft he could be gouged and warp under too much pressure—unless he shielded himself somehow. Unless he wedged something flinty and immovable between himself and the relentless, grinding weight of his parents’ displeasure.
The Worst Possible Son, he’d said. Vain and lazy and stupid and careless.
If they despised him then, they didn’t despise the real him. They couldn’t hurt the real him. They couldn’t even see the real him, if they ever had at all.
It was defiance, a middle finger held up to the heavens. It was armor. It was . . .
Jesus, it was enough to make her throat burn, her hand on his chest curl into a fist.
Once all threat of tears had disappeared, if not her lingering helpless rage, she opened her eyes again. Met his.
She got it. She really did. The origins of his act, the catalyst for his longest-running role. But he was a man grown now, so why? Why was he still playacting?
He was watching her carefully, his tone so remote it frightened her. “I didn’t intend to keep up the act once I left for college, or after I dropped out and moved to LA. I had no idea what to say or do unless I was in character, but I tried. And eventually, I got a bit more practice talking to everyone, especially once Alex moved in with me. He helped me feel more comfortable around other people.”
Shy. Dammit, he was shy.
How had she not realized that before?
Also, note to self: Don’t tell Marcus you originally wanted to have dinner with his best friend instead of him.
“Before Gates, I didn’t have to deal with many interviews. Then I got the role of Aeneas, and . . .” His throat worked. “Suddenly, there were so many questions, and so much more of an audience for whatever I said, and I wasn’t prepared. Alex and I had run through likely questions, but we never thought anyone would hand me a fucking book and ask me to read a page about Aeneas aloud.”
Fuck. Fuck, she knew which interview he meant. That infamous two-part segment on a morning news and entertainment show, her mother’s favorite.
Her mom had even mentioned it during a phone call later that day, so many years ago. “Didn’t you used to read those books? You can watch the interview on mute, though. That boy is handsome, but not exactly a sparkling conversationalist.”
April had streamed it on YouTube that afternoon, complete with sound, despite her mother’s warning. She’d played it again less than two weeks ago, before her dinner with Marcus, as mental preparation for their planned date.
Both times, she’d studied Marcus as the host handed him a book with small text and asked him to read a steamy bit aloud. On live television. Without warning. With—as she now knew—dyslexia, which he’d been taught to consider a defining weakness and source of shame.