“That’s not too bad,” I try to soften the blow but yikes. It took him five months to write an entire ninety thousand-word novel.
He laughs. It’s mocking and full of disdain. “They were awful. I didn’t like what I wrote. I’m thinking about asking for them back.” He shakes his head and irritably uses his turn signal. “I’ve turned in five chapters in two years. Two years. I gave them my outline on July twelfth. It’s all crap. They know it. I just think they’re hoping I’ll get my shit together soon and refocus.”
July twelfth? My birthday?
I squash my curiosity. I’m sure there’s no significance there.
“What’s holding you back?” I ask, watching his expression.
He angrily shakes his head, pulling into the parking lot of Ritiro di Lover. “I can’t get the words out. The structure is there. The points are there. The story is there. I just…I don’t feel it. I have nothing else to give them.” He pulls up to the valet, waiting in line for someone to pick up his truck, and he turns to me. “I want to be inspired again.”
“What did it before? How did you find a way to finish Somewhere Only We Know?”
All I can remember is sleepless nights, crazy mood swings and relentless fits of passion between the two of us.
He blushes, looking down at his lap. He hides his smile and, to anyone who doesn’t know him, his strong jaw and twitching jowl might make you believe he was mad I asked at all. I know better. “It was…” he says, “it was easier then.”
Someone taps on his window and August moves his eyes to the valet, accepting a piece of paper with a number on it. He shoves it in his pocket and slides out of the truck, walking to my side to open the passenger door. His calloused hand slips into the cab and I accept it before grabbing my clutch.
The front of the restaurant is magnificent, unlike any other place in town. Ritiro de Lover only opened a month ago and getting on the waitlist to eat here was far too much for me to even attempt. Being friends with a famous author has some perks. “Sweet Lord. We’re in some high cotton, August.” Constructed of mostly glass, the building shines against the setting sun. I’d reach for my sunglasses, but they couldn’t fit in my clutch.
August scratches his scruff with his hand. “In high cotton. I haven’t heard that phrase in too long.”
I smile. He’s been away far too long.
“So, Jennings and his wife, Whitley will be here. Along with Sophia. The director, Curtis Darby. He’s an older gentleman, full head of salt and pepper hair. You can’t miss him. As well as the producer and hell, I can’t remember his name. It’s supposed to be a small gathering. The most important people.” He rolls his eyes because he’s considered important. “It shouldn’t be too overwhelming.”
I lick my lips and take a deep breath. “Let’s get the show on the road, Wyatt. I’m growin’ old here.”
August squeezes my hand and leads me through the elegant gold and glass doors.
Inside, a tall, lanky woman with high cheekbones and deep red lipstick greets us.
“Welcome. Name?” She doesn’t look up from her podium. We’re clearly not of importance to her, which is okay with me and, by the looks of it, it’s okay with August, too. Probably means Jennings and Sophia are already here and the hoopla has since died down.
“Adam Beastly.”
I sputter into my hand, coughing, and the lanky woman looks up unamused. August turns to me with wide eyes, his mouth tight because he knows why I’m laughing at his fake name.
In Beauty and the Beast, supposedly the Prince’s name was Adam. Later, it was proved not to be factual, and only I’d know that, but Adam Beastly is just too good to let slip by without some sort of giggle or snort. I might claim to be classy, but I’m not one to ignore a sputter-worthy joke.
Even now, after all this time, he still uses our inside jokes. That does something funny to my insides.
The woman checks her list of names, her long manicured finger scanning the paper. “Adam Beastly, here you are. Oh,” she stops to look at August for the first time. “You’re with the movie. Here,” she says, ushering us to a private room off the bar, her heels tapping on the granite floors. “Have a wonderful dinner.” She opens the door and from the outside the walls look like mirrors. If I hadn’t been led here, I would have thought nothing of it, but inside, masked by two-way mirrors, the entire party is situated, drinking wine and eating appetizers.
“August!” someone cheers. “Finally. Now the party can start.”
August holds my hand tighter, as if I’m anchoring him, and pulls me along the back side of the table toward…Oh my God, Jennings Cohen.
I gulp, my throat feeling like sandpaper.
“It’s so good to see you again, man,” Jennings says, pulling August into a dude-hug. August keeps hold of my hand. “Who’s this beautiful lady?”
Jennings swoon factor is at an all-time high. Sweet Lord have mercy. His dark blonde hair falls into his eyes and he pushes it back to show his one green eye and one blue. Usually in movies they’ll pick a color and stick with it, but seeing them up close is almost breathtaking.
August lets go of my hand and smiles. “This is my best friend, Campbell Potter.”
His best friend? I’m so good with that. I’ll take that title gladly.
“She’s Brooke,” August adds.
Sophia stands up straight, not waiting for an introduction. “Our Brooke! Come,” she says, waving me over. “Come sit next to me. I’d love to pick your brain.”
I look over to August and his grin is fully intact. In fact, I’d say it’s there to stay, watching these people somehow fawn over little ol’ me. He winks. “Go. Have fun.” He pulls me into him, kissing me on the cheek.
I take in a lung full of air and turn for the other side of the table, making my way to Sophia.
“Oh my goodness!” Sophia squeals, opening her arms. “You’re absolutely gorgeous.” She pulls me into her embrace and when she’s done, she grasps my shoulders, getting a good look at my face.
“It’s great to meet you, Sophia,” I say timidly because if she thinks I’m gorgeous, I’d love to know how she feels about herself. She’s all dark brown hair and chocolate colored eyes. Unlike mine, her eyes are hypnotizing. She’s got the perfect hourglass figure and curves in all the right places to boot.
“You bite the inside of your cheek when you’re nervous,” she notes. “I’ll have to remember that.”
I chuckle and pull out the chair next to her and take a seat, my eyes scanning the large, oval table.
A woman with exotic gray eyes and beautiful short blonde hair reaches across the table and I take her hand. “I’m Whitley.”
“So great to meet you, Whitley,” I say as Sophia bounces in her chair next to me.
Whitley rests her elbows on the table, clasping her hands in front of her. She inches closer. “Oh my God, your story, Cam…” She fans herself. “I can’t get over how perfect it is.”
“Was,” I whisper, my mouth tightening.
Whitley’s eyes fall. “Oh. But you guys are still friends?”
I nod, my smile coming back. “Yeah.”
“That’s what’s most important. I can see the love he has for you.” She winks and turns to Jennings who is in deep conversation with August. The boys somehow missed our entire exchange.
“Curtis Darby,” a short, round man with black and white hair says, shoving his hand in my direction. “Good to meet you, Cam. August has said nothing but wonderful things about you. We’d love to have you on set when you can. Your input would be so much appreciated.”
“Of course,” I attempt to say humbly. Because AHHH! “I’d love to visit.”
Curtis grins wide. “Wonderful.” And, just like that, Curtis’s attention is snapped back to Jennings and August.
“The producer couldn’t make it,” Sophia says, chewing on her straw. “His flight got canceled. Won’t be here until tomorrow.”
August catches my eye from across the table and he
smiles, mouthing, “Doing okay?”
My lips pull up and I nod. “You?” I ask him silently.
He winks and turns his blue eyes back to Curtis, discussing the location of the first shot of the movie.
“So, Cam,” Jennings says, grabbing Whitley’s hand, setting it on his leg. “What do you do now? You graduated college?”
“Yep. Graduated, now I’m an antique appraiser at The Museum of Southern Art. It’s just down the way from here.”
“I’d love to visit your museum,” Whitley offers. “I love history. I taught it for a little while back in L.A.”
“Totally. We can set that up. We could close for a while, if you’d like.”
“Nah.” She laughs. “If Jennings can come, I’d take you up on that, but people don’t care about little me.”
“They totally do,” Jennings says, kissing her temple.
She rolls her eyes, but I see the blush working its way onto her cheeks. “No. Maybe next week? I could come in and we can do lunch?”
“Sounds great,” I reply, digging into my clutch. I’d hoped I could see fine without my glasses, but my eyes are starting to blur. Opening my glasses case, I slide them on, everything becoming so much clearer.
“There she is!” Sophia says. “I was a little sad you weren’t wearing your glasses. Rush loved them in the book.”
I lick my lips and look down at my hands. One of August’s favorite things about me has always been my refusal to wear contacts. Not because I don’t like them, but because I think my glasses make me who I am. They’re a part of me.
“I still love them,” August offers from across the table.
I clear my throat, feeling warm from August’s kind gaze.
My phone buzzes and I look down at it.
It’s Lily.
Lily: Turn on the TV. My channel.
I quickly text back.
Me: Can’t. I’m at dinner. I’ll call you in a bit. Xo
Another text message comes in and it’s a link to a website. I instantly click on it, and photos of August and I holding hands and rushing inside the restaurant flood my phone’s screen.
Campbell Potter and August Wyatt Back Together! Click To Read The Story!
In dark, black font, the headline roars up at me. I didn’t even see any paparazzi outside. They’re sneaky little devils. I lift my head to August who already has a confused look on his face.
I deflate and remember this is probably what it’s always like for August. I roll my eyes, flashing the screen his way.
Jennings, Whitley and August all read the headline.
“Well, look at that,” Jennings says, shaking his head. He knows good and well what it’s like to be gossiped about.
Sophia grabs my phone and shrugs her shoulders. “It was bound to happen.”
Curtis gulps. “It’s good for the movie. Think about it like that.”
Not so good for me, though. I have a life to live. Once this circus has up and left town, I have to figure out a way to keep going.
“It’s official,” Whitley says, turning her eyes to August.
He looks to me, his eyes worried but I smile to take some of his burden away. It does some, but I can tell he doesn’t like having me in the spotlight already.
“What’s official?” I ask.
Whitley gazes back at me, a smile creeping on her face. “You’re one of us now.”
Cattywampus
“You’re not one of us,” August assures, seeing the anxiety in my eyes as we head back to my apartment after dinner. “I mean – I guess you are – but you don’t have to be. You did amazing in there. Totally natural. You even talked up Curtis and everyone is afraid of him. This dinner was as far as it goes, though. You know, if that’s what you want.”
I look down at my trembling hands, grasping my phone. Do I want to be one of them? Is it just inevitable? Am I resisting because it scares me or because it involves August?
I’ll need more than a car ride to figure out this nonsense.
I sigh, looking out into the darkness around us. It’s well past midnight and everything in Bradshaw is closed by now. Townspeople are asleep and the night is the only other occupant in the truck. “I don’t mind being one of you. It’s not a bad thing. Everyone was so wonderful. Once I got away from the insane beauty of Jennings, Sophia and Whitley, they all just sort of seemed normal. Tonight was great.” I look over to him, hoping my worried expression is gone. “You…you were great. Seriously. You can schmooze the pants off a nun, August. I was quite impressed.”
August’s cheeks grow hot and he hooks his thumbs together on the top of the steering wheel. “Thanks, Belle. You gotta know how to play the game. I’m getting good at it.”
Readjusting the seatbelt across my chest, I turn my body toward him, remembering a time almost six years ago when he refused to play by the rules of the publishing world. “I think it’s great, but don’t lose yourself in it, yeah?” I shake my head because that didn’t come out right. “I mean, you’ve always been able to see the right and wrong of a situation, but playing the game can change a person. That world becomes fake and it’s hard to find something to hold on to.”
“Like Abbot.” August falls silent and the furrow in his brow increases.
Abbot Dysart was one of the biggest independent authors in the world. His historical romance hit the New York Times Best Sellers’ list for two entire months, which was completely unheard of at the time. Sadly, soon after, he lost himself in the money. In the fame. In the celebrity. Publishers were hounding him. Producers wanted to buy the rights to his book. He found the key to this unreachable lock, strictly designed for published authors and worked his way in. Abbot played the game so well, the game became him. He hasn’t been able to write another word since. The insecurity to write another great novel broke his spirit.
I’m concerned that could happen to August. He’s seen so much fame in his short time.
Even after everything that transpired between August and I, my worry has never decreased.
“You’re not him,” I say with conviction, hoping he listens. “You have something Abbot didn’t have.”
“What’s that?” he whispers, his words barely falling from his lips.
“You have an entire community behind you. You have your family. Your mom. Your dad. You have all of damn Bradshaw cheering you on. You…” I gulp. “You have me.” I breathe in. “Abbot was alone. His fame defined him. You, August, you defy fame.”
He turns onto my street and instead of stopping in front of the building to drop me off, he pulls into the resident parking in back, stopping his truck in an empty spot. He shuts off the engine, unbuckles his seatbelt and turns toward me. He takes off his glasses, pulling them from his face and rubs the bridge of his nose. Closing his eyes, the pads of his fingers find their way to his lids and he massages them, sighing deep. When he’s done, he pushes them back onto his face, the lenses overtaking his tired eyes. “That’s the thing, isn’t it? Abbot had nothing. I have everything. Everyone is depending on me. Sure, I have the fame, some would say. I have the credibility in the publishing world and I somehow found celebrity outside of it, but that’s just more pressure on my shoulders. There’s so much to be done, more money to be made, more books to sell.” He laughs a humorless chuckle. “You know the Mayor of Bradshaw called me yesterday?”
My forehead wrinkles.
August rubs the side of his jaw angrily. “He wanted to make sure I knew the impact my book and the movie has on the town. He said I have the ability to put Bradshaw on the map and to not let everyone down.”
My mouth drops open and I begin to speak but he cuts me off.
“How is one person supposed to take that sort of responsibility? I’m just a guy from a small town in Georgia who wrote a book about a girl he loved. That’s it.” He swivels his head to look out of the windshield. “That’s all that should matter.”
I rub my lips together, feeling the chapped skin and promptly take out my honey bourbon lip b
alm. Applying a coat, I shove it back into my clutch, but it doesn’t seem like enough time to retort. I had no idea his status affected him so much. “It does matter. You have a say in the movie, right?”
He nods, his eyebrows still pulled down. “I mean – yeah. I got a good deal. I wrote the script and get producer credit.”
“See? There’s absolutely no way it’ll flop.” I scoff. “The Mayor needs to shut his pie hole. You’re already making the town proud – hell, you’ve made me proud. You did that four years ago when you published the book and again when it hit the Times’ Best Seller list and you’ll do it again when your movie comes out.”
August blinks and doesn’t say a word. The longer he stares out the windshield the more I worry I said the wrong thing. He’s insane if he thinks this movie will be anything but wonderful – his greatness is already all over it – but I can understand why he’s concerned. He’s always wanted the recognition as a good writer – every creative mind does – but I don’t think he understood the price he’d have to pay for it. Not that I blame him. No one humble thinks they’re going to be a big deal. He made a splash – a big, massive wave, even.
“Maybe that’s just it,” he begins, pulling his eyes from the front of the truck, lifting his arm to lay it across the back of the bench seat. “Maybe I’m destined to do better things.” He smiles a sadistic grin and rubs the back of his neck with his free hand. “But…I don’t want things to change more.” The word more seems dirty in his mouth. “The obligation and fandoms. Lack of privacy and worrying I’ll disappoint. It could get worse. Life could get even more insane.”
“Or, it could get better. Sure, the fandoms and paparazzi will hound you. You already lack privacy. That won’t go away, but once you hit that certain status, you can’t disappoint.”
He laughs, the dimple on his chin more pronounced. “I know you’re just saying all that bullshit to make me feel better, but I appreciate it.”
I slap his hand. “Hush. Look at George Clooney. The man is a legend. He could make the worst movie on the planet and you know what?”
“What?”
“People will still love him.”
Who Needs Air Page 6