Chasing Stars

by Cody Ryder

  "I have a gut feeling about this. I think he'd be able to do it. Would you look into his book for me? The Lying Kind. It's under a pen-name, remember."

  "Got it. Pulled it up now. Mitchell Baker. I'll check the book out. I need some new bathroom reading, anyway."

  "Hey," Christopher said, feeling defensive over Jackson's work. "I'm sure it's more than just bathroom reading, okay?

  Pamela laughed. "Honey, I've read everything from Shakespeare to E.L. James on the shitter. I'll be in touch."

  Great, Christopher thought as he set down the phone. Now I just need to convince my reluctant author.

  Twelve

  Christopher had been the one who’d punched Dad in the nose.

  There were tons of photos of the incident, and more than a few videos too, all from different angles. He watched someone's Snapchat video from behind the railing at the Oscars event where it'd happened, a shaky vertical recording of Christopher storming up to his father, who was giving an interview, and socking him right in the face. No hesitation, no remorse. He could see the fury painted on Christopher's face.

  At first, Jackson felt a twinge of anger at Christopher. He didn't like seeing Dad hurt, but knowing the reason for the punch, he knew that he absolutely deserved it. And that hurt even more. He was faced with the absolute confirmation that his dad would not support him as a queer man, that he would go so far as to try and shut down a gay movie. He knew he had some harsh opinions, but… This was different.

  It made him sick. Sick, and sad and angry. It forced him to suddenly confront the reality he'd been denying for a long time, that his dad was the kind of person who did these things. He was the kind of person who told his son he wasn't good enough, wasn't smart enough, wasn't capable. He'd excused it as tough love, or just the way he was. He’d wanted to believe he was a good person who was just misguided. But now he had no illusions about it. It was the way he was, and that wasn't ever going to change.

  He wanted to cry. He thought about all the other people who his dad must’ve put down, hurt, mistreated, and worse. He remembered Helen Allen. This was why he hated Hollywood. This was why he hated the family business.

  God, what would he say to Christopher? He couldn't just keep this from him, could he?

  But maybe keeping it to himself was the best thing to do. He'd received an update on the road situation and would be able to leave within three days. They'd go their separate ways, so why ruin this?

  It just didn't feel right to keep it from him. He couldn't deny he cared about Christopher. He had a real connection with him, and it didn't matter they'd only known each other for such a short time. He wasn't going to distance himself from him just because of this. He just hoped Christopher would understand.

  But how would he tell him? "Oh, by the way, my dad is Gregory Wardlow. Hope that's okay. Can we make out again?"

  He’d have to wait for the right moment, whenever that might be, and hope he'd have the courage to do it.

  Thirteen

  Christopher knew he'd told Jackson to come over when he'd finished writing, but it was evening, and he was getting hungry. He could've just ordered something for himself, but why eat alone when he could eat with Jackson?

  He brought Lady outside to go to the bathroom. With the rainclouds covering the sky, it'd gotten dark a lot earlier than normal. And it was still coming down, though not as heavily as before. If anything, it seemed like the worst was over. Or maybe that was just wishful thinking.

  Afterwards, he walked to the lobby restaurant and ordered two plates of creamy seafood alfredo, and had the chef put them on a room service cart so he could take them to Jackson's room.

  "Surprise!" he said with a grin when Jackson opened the door. "I brought you dinner. I hope you haven't eaten, because I've been starving waiting for you."

  "I haven't," Jackson said, surprised.

  Christopher pushed the cart inside. "I sort of like barging in on you," he said. "Getting a lot of work done? You've been here the whole day, so I hope to take that as a good sign."

  "Well… no," Jackson said.

  "What? What have you been doing?"

  Jackson scratched his head. He looked uncomfortable, a flash of the awkwardness he'd seen in him when they'd first met. "Just working," he said. "I guess I'm still stuck."

  "That's okay.” Christopher took Jackson's hand. It felt wonderful to feel him again. It'd only been a few hours, but God, he’d really missed it. "You'll keep trying."

  "I dunno."

  "Don't worry so much about it. Anyway, there's something I wanted to talk to you about. Let's eat. C'mon, aren't you hungry?"

  "Starving," Jackson said. He hurried over to the laptop on the desk, shut it, and slid it into his bag. Christopher pushed the cart over and pulled the silver lids off of the plates.

  "I hope you like seafood and pasta, because I got us seafood pasta."

  Jackson nodded. He looked like a great big ball of stress. Christopher eyed him, concerned. "Hey, don't be so hard on yourself. Eat something, it'll make you feel better."

  The two bottles of wine he’d brought earlier in the day were still sitting on the counter, and he picked one of them up. "Some wine wouldn't hurt, either. Responsibly." He poured them two glasses and set them on the table.

  They ate dinner, not talking much. Jackson kept looking out the window, and he absently rubbed the stem of the wineglass with his thumb and finger. Christopher watched him, unsure what to say. He wondered if this was normal behavior for Jackson when he was stressed. Maybe he was the type of person who got very deep into their heads when working. Creative people all had different methods of focus. Maybe he’d interrupted his concentration.

  "Hey," Christopher said. "I hope I didn't disturb you. I'll leave you to your work, if you'd like."

  "Oh," Jackson said. He looked like he'd come back to reality, and he smiled apologetically and reached across the table to touch Christopher's hand. "No, no. I'm okay. I'm sorry, I've just got a lot on my mind. Um, book stuff, you know?"

  "Okay," Christopher said. "Just tell me if I'm getting to be too much. I can sometimes be crazy overbearing."

  "No," Jackson said. "Thank you for bringing food over. You really didn't have to do that for me."

  "And here's where I reveal my ulterior motive," said Christopher. "I know you said you weren't fan of Hollywood culture, but I wanted to propose an idea to you."

  "Okay…"

  "Look, I need a writer for my movie. Someone who can relate to the struggle of growing up queer. And I know it'd be adapting someone else's idea, which you said you didn't want to do, but… You're a writer. And since you're outside of the industry, you don't have to deal with the bullshit politics of it all."

  Jackson blinked. "Wait, you want me to write your movie?"

  "You'd be perfect for it, Jackson. I know you would."

  "What? But you haven't read my work. I've never written a movie before. How do you even know I won't fuck it up?"

  "You wrote a published bestseller. I think you've got some writing chops. And movies aren't that hard to write. Back in the old days, authors would come to work for the studios to churn out scripts for easy money. If you can write a good novel, it's a guarantee you can write a good movie." Christopher had no idea if this was true or not, but he had to convince him somehow.

  "I don't think that I can do that for you," Jackson said in a rattled voice. He stood up and started to walk in nervous circles around the room.

  "Why not?" Christopher asked. "We can work together on the story. The only guideline is the theme, but everything else can be original. Your creation. And proof to your dad that you can write your own work. It might not be a novel, but movies are impressive too. And this would end up being a big movie. It'd be both of our big debuts, me as a director, you as a writer."

  "My dad…" Jackson muttered. "Ugh. I don't want to be a movie writer, Christopher. I don't want anything to do with the movies."

  "Can we at least talk about it? It'd be such
a great opportunity."

  "No," Jackson said. "No, no. I'm sorry. I can't. I just can't. We haven't even known each other for that long, and… This is too much to ask of me. It's just too much."

  Christopher could see that he’d gone too far, gotten too worked up in his own excitement. Jackson was right. How could he just put something so big onto someone he was just getting to know? He'd been desperate for a way to solve his problem, and it'd made him manic.

  He backed off. "No," he said, softly. "You're right, I'm sorry. I got carried away. That wasn't fair of me to suddenly drop something like that on you."

  "I wish I could help you," Jackson said. "I really do. But I just… I can't work in film." His voice was strained, and he said the words slowly, like he was forcing them out.

  He should've just dropped the subject right there, but Christopher wasn't the type who could just let things go. "I know it can be a garbage dump," he said, "but why are you so against the industry? What happened?"

  "Nothing happened," Jackson said.

  "Clearly something happened," Christopher said. "Did you say that your family was involved in the business?"'

  "Is this normal?" Jackson snapped suddenly. "Because, I don't know, you've probably done the whole hotel fling thing a lot more than I have. Do you always get so pushy with someone you don't know?"

  "Whoa. Okay. Hey, I'm sorry. Letting it go now, I really am."

  Jackson sighed and sat down on the edge of the bed. He took off his glasses and pushed his face into his hands.

  Christopher stared, his heart pulsing quickly in his chest. His curiosity was stronger than ever. But he didn't have any right to demand reasons or explanations. A night of intimacy didn't grant him that kind of privilege.

  "You're right," Christopher said. "This isn't the first time I've done something like this. But I'd like you to know that you're different."

  Jackson looked up at him, and Christopher kept talking.

  "Spending these past two days with you has given me something that I'd forgotten I had. I feel so comfortable with you, Jackson. It's been… well, a shock. I guess, I don't want you to just leave my life after you go home. I want to keep seeing you, and I guess that was part of the reason why I was so eager to get you to work with me."

  He wanted to say so much more. He wanted this to become a real relationship. He thought that if Jackson would keep seeing him, if he could have him, maybe things would be okay.

  "It really has been amazing," Jackson said. "I wish it could go on forever. I really do. But… I don't know how…"

  "We can keep seeing each other after this. It doesn't need to be a public thing. We can keep it out of the public eye."

  Christopher wasn't used to this desperate feeling, of wanting someone so badly and feeling them slipping away. He never put himself in this kind of situation. He never chased. He hadn't even planned for the conversation to go this way, but the situation with the film had gotten him emotional, and all of his feelings were starting to spill out in a messy way.

  Then, Jackson started to silently cry. He covered his eyes with one palm as tears began to drip down his cheeks.

  "Hey…" Startled, Christopher sat next to him and wrapped his arm around his shoulder.

  "I really like you, Christopher," Jackson said. "I really, really like you. But I can't be with you. It just could never work."

  Christopher felt those words impact against him with more force than he could've expected. He hadn't realized just how far his feelings for Jackson had developed.

  Fourteen

  Jackson wiped his eyes with the heel of his palm. The sudden bout of tears had taken him by surprise. He'd just been so overwhelmed by everything.

  "Because I'm a celebrity?" Christopher asked. Jackson could see the wistful expression hidden behind Christopher's expression. He seemed calm and collected on the surface, but he was breaking character. He hadn’t realized Christopher's feelings for him were this strong. Up until now, he'd figured it was one-sided, and that he'd been the only one wishing things could continue.

  And maybe they could've, if only things had been a little different for both of them. But here they were, in the most insane circumstances.

  He wanted to tell Christopher the full truth, but he was afraid and ashamed. "Basically," said Jackson. "Yeah."

  Because my dad is Gregory Wardlow. Once Christopher knew that little tidbit, he'd want to have nothing to do with him. He'd hate him.

  "I just wish I could know why," Christopher said.

  No, he thought. You really don't.

  Christopher stood. "I thought that maybe by the end, I could watch you leave here and just let you go and be fine. I don't think that's the case, though. So maybe it's not the best idea for us to continue spending time together."

  He sensed Christopher was hoping he'd say something to change his mind, to tell him that even if it was a terrible idea, they could still spend the rest of their time here together. But he couldn't say that.

  "You're probably right," Jackson said, sadly.

  Silence passed between them. Christopher stood motionless, a statue of a beautiful man. Jackson could hardly bring himself to look at him. He hated that it had ended up like this, but it was inevitable, wasn't it? He wouldn't have been able to just act normal, knowing what he did.

  "Okay," Christopher said. There was a slight tremble in his voice. "Well, it was really nice meeting you, Jackson."

  Jackson couldn't summon any words. He didn't want him to leave, but staying was impossible. Christopher lingered for another moment, and then was gone.

  Silence and emptiness filled the room. Jackson stared blankly over at the desk where their empty dinner plates still sat. Why'd it have to be like this?

  He squeezed his eyes shut, the hot tears returning with full force. This was his whole life, marred by the ever-present influence of his family. Of his dad. His shoulders shook as he cried. He wanted to be with Christopher. He could feel how good they were together, and in his imagination, he’d seen glimpses of the relationship that might’ve blossomed between them. It could've been so good. He saw the adventures they could've had, the comfort, the laughter. Christopher could've been his first boyfriend. He could've fallen in love with him. Just two days, and he'd felt all that.

  Jackson's relationship with his dad had never been one that could be considered normal. He loved him out of duty as a son, but never saw things eye to eye with him. He could say he disliked the way his father did things, and he sometimes dismissed his feelings as typical parent-child angst. But for the first time, Jackson absolutely hated that he was his son.

  Fifteen

  Christopher’s eyes stayed level, focused straight ahead as he walked briskly through the lobby to the stairs. He kept his body rigid and his steps wide and purposeful, the practiced way he moved in airports and hotels and other public spaces when he was in a hurry and didn't want to be bothered by anyone. A white flashbulb of lightning illuminated the lobby windows, followed by a low rumble. The storm was back.

  He was angry, partially because he wanted to know why Jackson refused to explain anything, but mostly at himself for getting to the point where he cared that much. It was ridiculous. He felt ridiculous.

  "Ooh! Hello! Hello!" He saw the elderly couple approaching him with their fake, overly friendly smiles printed on their faces. They both carried a glass of wine. "Christopher!"

  He wished Pamela could've been there to make them go away. He didn't have the patience to deal with these people right now. In fact, he couldn't think of anyone—aside from Gregory Wardlow—he wanted to see less at that moment. He remembered how they'd acted before realizing who he was, and the furious, dirty looks they'd given him when Lady had shaken herself off in front of them. "You need to watch your dog, young man."

  "Christopher!" the husband said, catching up with him. He stopped. Normally, he might've been able to put on a fake smile of his own, but neither of them seemed to notice his scowl. "Jane, ah, my wife, and I were wonderi
ng if you'd like to join us."

  "It'd be so lovely to chat with you," said the wife. "We love your movies." She looked around. "Oh, no dog? We have a dog, you know. A little bichon. He's three years old, and he loves playing with his bone."

  "I'm sorry," he said. "Thank you, but not right now." He moved to leave.

  "We just cracked a bottle of the merlot," said the husband. "Y'know it actually makes this situation we're in bearable? We're all in this together, right? Have a glass with us. Just a couple. How many chances will we get to spend time with a Hollywood movie star?"