Hollywood Ending

by Tash Skilton

  I lightly touch his thick blond hair. I’m close enough to notice the way the light catches the fine hair at the very nape of his neck, turning it golden for just a second before it disappears into his pale skin again.

  “Do you have a water spray bottle?” I ask, mentally replaying Sayeh’s tutorial.

  “Sure,” he says. He gets up and brings me a small green one from next to the plants on his windowsill before sitting down again.

  I spray down his hair, darkening it a few shades. I run my hand through it, bringing the uneven edge to the end of my fingertips.

  “You sure about this?” I ask.

  “Yup. Do your worst.”

  “My worst would definitely involve a beheading. Battle of Signon–style,” I muse. “Actually, in between apartment hunting, that’s what I was working on,” I say, indicating my laptop on the couch.

  “Beheading memes?” he asks.

  “No but . . . that’s an idea. I’ll bring it up to Sean. I was on my old Neener96 account.”

  “Ack! You’re writing new fanfic?” he asks, practically jumping out of his stool and almost getting stabbed in the head in the process.

  “Easy there, cowboy,” I say. “Speaking of which, we are going to have to have a deep discussion about the whens and hows of those pictures.”

  Sebastian looks around at the catalog images, which I still haven’t taken down, and groans. “I’m going to kill Sam . . . but, hold up, don’t change the subject. What were you writing?”

  “Oh, you know . . . my specialty.”

  “Jeffcan?”

  I grin. “Yup. Let’s just say the enthusiasm of the fandom has fanned the flame.” I don’t tell him that I even opened up Final Draft and wrote one of the scenes in screenplay format. Not that I’m ever getting anywhere near the real CoRaB writers’ room but it still felt a little thrilling to see my Jeff and Duncan dialogue written out in Courier New font.

  “I will need to read this.”

  “Obviously. Now, hold still.” I gently move his head down so that he’s looking at the floor, and using the scissors, start trimming the ends of his hair in a vertical line toward my fingers. We’re silent for a moment, giving me time to realize that touching someone’s hair—someone I’ve known for so long and so well—is somehow very . . . intimate. As many times as I’ve sat next to him, or hugged him, or playfully touched his arm, I’ve never done this before.

  I clear my throat and grasp for another topic of conversation. “By the way, I am apartment hunting. I hope to be out of your hair within the week,” I say, as I move over to a different section of his head and trim. “Literally.”

  “Oh.” I can’t see his face, but I feel his body shift. “Or you could stay.”

  “What?”

  “I mean, I need a new roommate anyway. You need a new roommate. You already know my bad habits. You already even know the neighbor. It seems like a no-brainer.” He turns his neck now to grin at me.

  I smile back haltingly. In some ways, he’s right of course. But we’ve also just gotten back into each other’s lives and this seems like it might cross a line somehow. Too much, too soon.

  Sebastian must sense my reluctance, because he turns back around and casually says, “No pressure, of course. Just a suggestion. Hey . . . you’ll never guess who my scene partner was today.”

  “Uh . . .” I give his hair one last brush with my hands. It’s evened out at least. “Milo Ricci?”

  Sebastian snorts. “If only. I have so many questions.” Milo is Roberto’s little brother and for about five minutes, seven years ago, he tried to launch an unsuccessful teeny-bopper career (which included an ill-advised cameo on his big brother’s hit show). Duncan’s urchin little cousin, Lance, made one appearance in one episode, was immediately called out for being a strong indication the show was about to jump the shark (the Medieval Cousin Oliver effect, it was dubbed), and then promptly disappeared, never to be spoken of again. This somehow also stalled poor Milo’s career, and he’s been relegated to starring in VH1 “celebrity” dating shows ever since.

  “You’re done by the way,” I say, flicking a strand of Sebastian’s hair.

  He places his hand behind his head, brushing my fingertips for the quickest of moments. “Thanks,” he says, and then turns around to face me. “It wasn’t Milo. But it was . . . Heather.”

  “Heather . . .” I say. “Heather Heather?”

  “Yup. Like salmon swimming upstream, all actors end up in Hollywood eventually.” He smiles at me. “We had fun. I think we might go out on a date soon.” He gives a pregnant pause and suddenly I realize what he’s doing: confiding in me about a girl—the girl, in fact—the very thing I said I wanted him to do.

  If I don’t recognize this for the reboot that it is, then I deserve to have my imaginary Writers Guild membership revoked.

  I slap on a big smile. This is my second chance, right? This is one step closer to us becoming real friends. And if he has a girlfriend soon—and I have a boyfriend—maybe I can even take him up on his offer to become his new roommate.

  “Tell me more!” I exclaim. “What was her part? How is she doing?”

  He hops off the stool. “I will. Over dinner?” He goes over to the bags and starts unloading more groceries. “How do you feel about avocado and bacon sandwiches with garlic aioli and pomegranate seeds?”

  My stomach groans in response. I laugh. “Is that enough of an answer for you?”

  He smiles and indicates the stool. “Go ahead. Take a load off.”

  “Oh, I plan to pull my own weight.” I head to the corner of the living room where I dropped off a small bag after work today. With a flourish, I bring out a bottle of Kingdom of Six cabernet.

  Sebastian gasps. “A tie-in wine?”

  “It’s a prototype,” I say happily.

  “Avocado, aoli, and merchandised cabernet. This might be the most LA meal there ever was.”

  I rummage around in the kitchen until I find a corkscrew, pop open the wine, and find us two glasses.

  “Did you know it’s illegal in the state of California to go an entire day without eating an avocado?” he says as he’s slicing one up. “I’m just saving you from a life behind bars.”

  I grin as I hold a glass out to him. “To freedom, then.”

  “To freedom,” he bellows in a terrible Braveheart accent.

  He takes his glass and clinks it with mine. I take a sip. And nearly choke before swallowing it.

  “That is . . .” I hack away. “Absolutely disgusting.”

  Sebastian’s face is lined with repulsion. “Yup,” he says. “Is this meant to be poisoned or something? Is this specifically a season three prototype?” He picks up the bottle and starts perusing the label.

  I look over his shoulder with concern. “How seriously does Hollywood take its tie-ins?”

  “Very,” he says as he puts down the bottle. “I think it’d be best to . . .” He takes both of our glasses and dumps their contents down the drain and then does the same with the whole bottle. Then he reaches into his bag and takes out another bottle of wine. “Two-Buck Chuck to the rescue.”

  I hold out my glass as he pours.

  “What shall we drink to this time?” he asks as he positions his glass an inch away from mine.

  “To reboots,” I say firmly before we clink them.

  CHAPTER 15

  SEBASTIAN

  I wake up on the couch with a crick in my neck and a smile on my face. Nina and I negotiated for half an hour last night about who should take the bed and who should take the couch. I insisted she sleep in the bed and she eventually agreed, with the caveat that we’d alternate nights.

  I have no intention of honoring that agreement.

  The point of her staying in my apartment was so she’d be more comfortable than her other situation; I’m not booting her from the bed just because my boss returned early.

  Logistical problem of sleeping on the couch: morning wood in the living room. Please don’t let he
r walk in, I pray, flinging the sheet off and making a ponderous yet mad dash in my boxer shorts to our shared bathroom. I splash water on my face and through my shortened locks, my hand jerking outward in memory of where my hair used to be. I pivot between mirrors, admiring Nina’s handiwork. I’d walked in wearing a tragedy on my head, and while her fix isn’t perfect, it has the distinction of at least looking deliberate. The memory of her fingers moving through my hair, soft and fragrant, pulls at me and for a moment I close my eyes and revel in it.

  When my eyes snap open, I’m a man with a plan: move the bulk purchase that arrived last night (my monthly subscription of cleaning supplies) into the entryway, and busy myself in the kitchen. I can’t retrieve my clothes from the bedroom until she wakes up, but I don’t want to wake her if she’s tired, so I gather ingredients as silently as possible, ticking items off my mental list. Eggs, butter, parmesan and cheddar cheese, tomatoes, salt, pepper. I undressed so rapidly last night in an effort to claim the couch before she changed her mind that I didn’t think to “pack” today’s clothes, so I’m shirtless when I put the burner on and a toss a thick slab of butter into the pan for omelets.

  I’m so focused on cooking that I don’t hear her glide up behind me until there’s an audible thump, followed by a wail. “Ahh! Oh, no!”

  She’s tripped over the enormous box and crashed into me. Instinctively, my arm goes around her back. With my other hand, I turn off the burner and then steady her, gripping her upper arm until she finds her balance. She wears a “Yasss Kween Lucinda” tank top and plaid boxer shorts, she’s sleepy-warm, and her hair smells like milk-and-honey shampoo.

  We’re practically hugging, and I move my pelvis backward so our hips don’t touch.

  She avoids my gaze, and her words come out in a rush of embarrassment. “Sorry! Apparently, I can’t walk until I’ve had coffee. That box was not here last night. Was it?”

  My hands move from her arms to her face, which is about a centimeter from my naked chest. I love the way her warm, shallow breaths hit my skin. I gently cup her cheeks and wait until her gaze slides up to meet mine. “Are you okay?”

  She clears her throat and backs up. My hands fall to my sides.

  “That was definitely not there last night, and neither was—this.” She motions in wide circles in a vague encapsulation of my upper body.

  I grin. “My chest wasn’t here last night? Where did I put it?”

  “No, I mean your chest wasn’t this . . . chesty in college.”

  “Chesty?” I shouldn’t tease her, but it’s flattering, the way her eyes sweep over my pecs and abs.

  “Chest-like.”

  “If my chest wasn’t chest-like, what was it like? A bowl of fruit?”

  She puffs out a laugh and waves in the direction of Sam’s apartment down the hall. “Same with him. When you crossed the state line into California, did your T-shirts automatically cease to fit?”

  “They tore right off.”

  She snaps her fingers. “I knew it.”

  “Actually . . .” I lean closer and cup my hand to the side of my mouth, as if imparting a secret. “It takes a little more effort than that.”

  “Right, I can see you’ve—worked hard to achieve . . . that.” She shakes her hair out and rolls her eyes at herself. “Apparently, I can’t walk or talk before I’ve had my coffee.”

  “Let’s rectify that. Beans are in the cabinet above the grinder. I’ll get dressed.”

  “Sounds good.” She moves to the side, giving me a wide berth.

  I duck my head and walk quickly to my room.

  Pushing, sweating, and straining my way through hundreds of early-morning workouts over the last year was worth it for five minutes of Nina’s ogling.

  Even if it doesn’t mean anything.

  I shave, brush my teeth, and pull on a collared shirt, khaki shorts, and Vans. By the time I emerge from my room, Nina’s made coffee for both of us. Sunlight coats her in a hazy, angelic hue as she lifts my mug toward me.

  “Do you still take it with cream, no sugar?” she asks.

  “Good memory.”

  She pours the exact right amount of cream in my mug and swirls her spoon through it before setting it on the island for me. I unpack the box that sent Nina careening into my arms and finish making our omelets.

  Her eyes go round when I set the plate before her. “This looks fantastic, but you know you don’t have to cook for me.”

  “I was making it for myself anyway, no big deal.”

  “In that case, I accept.” She points her fork at me. “But don’t make a habit of it.”

  She slides one of the omelets onto the plate I’d set out for her, and we tuck in, our forks clinking against the plates.

  “So, Worthington, is there something you want to tell me?”

  For a horrible second, I think she means about my feelings for her. The confusion/horror must be evident on my face, because she swings her leg and points with her cute bare toes at the box, stacked high with 480-count packages of baby wipes. “About your secret baby?”

  “Ah. Right. Let me explain how we keep Chateau Worthington clean. Dare I say dazzling clean.”

  “Now that you mention it, I am dazzled. Please enlighten me.”

  “Do we use spray bottles? Harsh chemicals? Scrub brushes? A bucket and mop? No, we use wipes. Wipes are safe for every surface. Wipes bring joy to every heart. Wipes are life. They arrive in bulk the first of the month, and we use them for mirrors, floors, countertops, bathrooms, tables, dressers, windows, and, for my new roommate, should she desire it: makeup remover.”

  “I didn’t know you performed infomercials in your free time.”

  “Look, Matty was disgusting and wipes were the only solution. Did you know he had two piles of clothes on the floor of his room at all times? God forbid he use his dresser. One pile was fresh from the laundry, and the other pile was dirty. Every day he’d pick his outfit from the clean pile, iron it, wear it all day, and then place it in the dirty pile before bed. Sometimes he’d forget which pile was which.”

  Nina shudders theatrically. “I’m a significant improvement, then.”

  “You have no idea.”

  “Are those the only house rules? No clothing piles of dubious origin, and when in doubt, use wipes?”

  “That’s about it. Oh, and I allow myself one emergency cigarette per week on the balcony, but if that bothers you, I can take it farther away.”

  “I can live with that, but since when do you smoke, Worthington?”

  “Since I became a ‘Cowboy, Baby,’” I sing, complete with hip swivel and whip crack. She laughs and my heart soars. “I’ve cut down almost completely since then. One pack lasts me six months.”

  I gather our plates and utensils for the sink, but before I can grab the sponge, Nina’s beside me. I yank the water on, as though that will dispel the fact that my apartment suddenly feels warmer, smaller, and more cramped.

  “I can wash up,” Nina tells me, nudging me sideways. “The cook should never be on dish duty.”

  “Tell that to Sam and Matty.” I shift to the left to give her space but continue washing. She picks up the sponge and gets to work as well.

  Our elbows touch amid the suds. I never considered my elbow an erogenous zone before, but apparently, I’ve been missing out for twenty-seven years. Nina’s proximity is torturous. Her sleep-tousled hair, her soft-looking skin, the way we’ve fallen into step with each other so effortlessly . . . it’s cruel and unusual and I want to keep it going as long as possible.

  “I meant to ask, did you sleep okay on the couch?” Nina says.

  I ignore the pinched nerve in my neck. “Definitely.”

  She grabs a dish towel and efficiently dries both our plates. “Don’t fight me tonight, okay? I’m taking the couch, end of discussion.”

  I open my mouth to refute her statement when a voice calls to us from the hallway.

  “Is Nina decent?” Sam shouts. “Can I come in?”

  �
�I’m never decent,” Nina yells back.

  I open the door and Sam walks in, surveying the kitchen.

  “I knew it,” he grouses. “Nina snaked my breakfast.”

  “First come, first served,” I reply.

  “Are you at least on for dinner this Sunday?” For Nina’s benefit he adds, “We’re supposed to binge Crash Landing on You. I’ve seen it twice but I’m trying to enlighten this heathen. You in?”

  “Sure. What’s on the menu?” Nina asks me.

  “Bangers and mash, in’it?” I say with a terrible Cockney accent. If the assistant director could hear me now, he’d probably say, “Was that so hard?”

  “Bangers and mash?” Nina’s face lights up. “Will we be dining at midnight? Will there be shortbread?”

  Sausages and mashed potatoes were our comfort food junior and senior year, prepared in the shared kitchen of Emerson Hall at ungodly hours, and scarfed down in the lounge while cramming for exams.

  “Here’s my list, by the way.” Sam places a torn-out notebook page on the kitchen island. “I’m off to record my new ’cast, live from the Wiltern. Hey, Seb, did you catch yesterday’s? What’d you think?”

  I’m now fourteen episodes behind. I will never catch up.

  “Mm,” I say vaguely. “Did you hear back from the podcast network yet?”

  He slumps. “Yeah, they want me to gain an extra five k listeners before they’ll add me. As though it’s that easy.”

  “Sorry, man.”

  “Anyway, gotta go.” He shoots a friendly smile at Nina, all K-Pop charm and (agggggh!) the dreaded words, “See ya, favorite ex.”

  “See ya,” Nina replies, and while I’d give a month’s paycheck for Sam to never call her that again, my heart twitches happily when she doesn’t repeat the honorific.

  As quickly as he arrived, Sam exits into the hallway, the heavy door slamming shut behind him.

  “I checked out his podcast,” Nina says. “He updates every day?”

  “He does.”

  “And you listen to all of them?”

  “That’s what friends are for, right?”

  “What’s this?” She picks up the piece of paper Sam left on the island.