Audible Love: A Young Adult Romance

by Maggie Dallen

  But I resist.

  “I like old movies.” I refuse to sound defensive.

  “What’s your favorite?”

  When I glance over, I see him peering at me in the dark. He’s not even pretending to watch TV, and I know without a doubt that I’m being tested. The problem with this test, however, is that there’s no right answer.

  If I name something renowned like Citizen Kane, I’m a cliché who doesn’t know anything. If I name a film that’s critically beloved but not as obvious like The Third Man, then I’m a pretentious snob.

  Really, there is no winning in this conversation because whatever I say will be judged by the worst possible light. I take a deep breath. The only option is to tell the truth. “Breakfast at Tiffany’s.”

  I know by his smirk that I have failed the test. Of course, I have, this test was rigged. But whatever. I don’t care if he thinks I’m some trite, shallow starlet. I love Breakfast at Tiffany’s. I always have and always will, and I won’t lie about it or defend it.

  Okay, maybe I sound a little defensive in my head. I take a deep breath and try to let go of the tension that’s creeping up my shoulder blades and into my neck. That tension intensifies a million times over as he gives me a sneer that makes me squirm.

  “Let me guess, it makes you swoon with its epic romance,” he says.

  I hate his tone so much I’m considering smacking him. Hard. I will not defend myself, I will not let him get to me, I will not—

  Too late. My mouth is opening. “Not really,” I say, my tone filled with condescension. “I mean, it’s a story about a gay man who loves a call girl, so not exactly the rom com of my dreams.”

  His head snaps in my direction and he doesn’t try to hide his surprise. “You’ve read the theories about that?”

  I shrug. “I’ve read the novella.” About a million times. But again, I wasn’t going to defend myself to him. I’d read the novella, along with pretty much every article written about the film. But I would not tell him that. Nope.

  “You’re a Capote fan?” He’s not asking out of casual politeness. The way he stresses “You’re” makes it sound like the craziest notion he’s ever heard.

  I shrug again. Truth is, I’m not much of a Capote fan. I just happen to like that one novella. I first read it when my mom moved us to New York so I could audition for Broadway and commercials and was struck by its descriptions of the big city. I’d been too young to get much out of it at the time other than the surface level descriptions, but I’ve gone back to it again and again, more out of comfort than a deep and abiding love of Capote.

  “Don’t look so shocked,” I say with more than a little snark in my voice. I can’t help it though, he’s freakin’ pushing my buttons. “I’m not illiterate, just an actress.”

  He looks away from me and I know I called it. This guy thinks I’m dumb as a rock, and now a bitch to boot.

  Cool. I love making a great first impression. It’s what I do. Some call it a gift, really.

  I watch him as he watches the TV. He’s disaffected, he’s smug, he’s the kind of guy who’ll hate me on principle…

  But he’s also the only person who’s actually spoken to me all day. Aside from teachers, I mean, but they’re paid to talk to me. All of the other students here have stared and whispered, and I find myself wanting to at least attempt to forge some sort of friendly acquaintance, especially since we’re going to be working together.

  “I know it’s a little cliché, but—” I start to explain.

  “A little?” he says with outright disdain.

  I forget my original explanation. “But then, so is this whole hipster look you’ve got going on, yet I don’t see that going out of style anytime soon.”

  His head swivels in my direction so quickly he must get whiplash. His eyes widen in surprise at my sarcastic tone, and I half expect him to get all huffy and storm out of here.

  Most would.

  He doesn’t.

  After a heartbeat of shocked staring, he falls back into the couch with a low laugh that warms the whole room. I’m serious, it’s like the temperature rises twenty degrees as the frost thaws in his whole demeanor.

  He adjusts his glasses as he gives me a lopsided smile. “I’ll have you know this is my alternative look,” he says.

  “I see,” I murmur with a straight face that makes him laugh again.

  I love his laugh. There’s something so friendly about it. Well, duh. I suppose that’s a given. Laughs are generally friendly. What I mean is, there’s something familiar about it. I notice it now when he starts talking again, too. Without that harsh note of scorn, his voice is oddly familiar. Soothing, even.

  “So…what?” he says, the disdain replaced by a teasing tone. “You relate to Holly Golightly, the call girl, or her gay best friend?”

  I roll my eyes. “Neither.” But then I add, “But there is something fundamentally relatable about the story. About being an outsider looking in.”

  I feel his eyes on me, but I can’t bring myself to meet his gaze. That had sounded too personal. Way too intimate.

  I blame his voice and his warm laughter and the fact that we’re in relative darkness for my slip into the too-personal. I try to backtrack with an awkward shrug. “I mean, I’ve seen a lot of girls come to New York and Los Angeles hoping to start over and make it big…”

  He’s watching me so intently through the flickering glow of the TV that I can’t even hear the voices from the TV anymore. They’ve faded into background noise as the sound of my own heartbeat pounds in my ears.

  I am alone with a guy. In the dark. On a couch.

  One would think I’ve been in positions like this before.

  One would be wrong.

  Aside from movie sets and TV soundstages, I’ve never even been kissed. Not for real. And while this is so not a romantic situation, there’s a part of me that is hyperaware of him. I’m insanely conscious of my own body—of my breathing, which suddenly feels erratic. Of my hands, which seem to have taken on a life of their own as they tug and pull nervously at the hem of my hoodie.

  And that’s when I realize what I’m wearing—an oversized hoodie and flannel pajama pants. My hair is up in some weird half ponytail, half bun deal. There is nothing sexy about me right now. No one in his right mind would be thinking about kissing me, especially not the guy who seems to actively dislike me.

  Oddly enough, that thought is reassuring. I let out a loud exhale and shrug again, “Whatever, it’s a good movie.”

  He gives me that cute grin as he nods. “Howard Hawks did an amazing job capturing New York.”

  Howard Hawks was the director, and it is immediately clear that this guy has not only seen the movie, he’s analyzed it. I squint my eyes at him in the dark. “You’re a fan, too.”

  He nods slowly and I laugh, shaking my head in feigned disdain. “You’re such a cliché.”

  His laugh is so low it’s more like a rumble in the dark. “Okay, I deserved that.”

  The next few minutes are beautifully drama free. We talk about the movie, and it’s hands down the easiest interaction I’ve had in the past forty-eight hours. Maybe the past week. I was surrounded by strangers in Japan and thanks to time zone changes I haven’t had a chance to FaceTime with Gabe since I got here.

  Maybe it’s the fact that we’re talking about film—a topic I know well—or maybe it’s the fact that we’re sitting in the dark so there’s a feeling of relative anonymity. Or maybe it’s that weirdly familiar feeling when he talks…whatever it is, I find myself speaking easily. Openly. As if we’re friends.

  We talk about the horribly racist portrayal of an Asian person, about the score and Audrey Hepburn’s wardrobe. We talk about the first time we each saw the movie, and I find myself telling him about how I watched it that first winter in New York, when I was home alone in the studio apartment my mom and I were sharing while I auditioned every day and went to acting, dance, and singing classes in between. “Obviously, when I was a k
id, I didn’t get any of the innuendos or deeper meanings. I just knew she was a girl in New York trying to make it.”

  I can’t bring myself to tell him that it wasn’t that I identified with Holly Golightly, it was my mom who bore the resemblance. When I read the novella about this woman who’d married too young and moved to New York to escape, to start over…yeah, it was my mom I saw in my mind’s eye. And somehow that made it easier to understand her. Picturing her as Audrey Hepburn made her more sympathetic during those times when I questioned what on earth we were doing.

  His glasses glow in the dark thanks to the reflection from the TV, so it’s impossible to see his eyes. “I’d say, by anyone’s standards, you’ve made it.”

  I let out a sharp, surprised laugh at that blunt statement, then I shift uncomfortably. I should be used to it by now, but I still hate talking about my success. Gabe once explained it to a fan like this: imagine every day was that big family event where your mother announces to everyone how you got an A in algebra and now all eyes are on you.

  Typically, it’s a moment that passes, right? Not for me. Not for Gabe. We’re forever dwelling in that oddly embarrassing spotlight. Some people love it inherently, some people like Gabe learn to embrace it…but then there’s me.

  I hate it. I always have and always will.

  Normally I’d keep quiet, but tonight my inner filter seems to be set to off. “I guess it depends on your definition of making it.” And immediately I hate myself. “Sorry,” I say with a little groan as I shift in my seat. “That makes me sound ungrateful. Forget I said it.”

  He doesn’t respond, and I can’t tell what he’s thinking. He’s probably judging me for being a self-pitying brat, and I can’t say that I blame him.

  He shifts so he’s facing me head-on, and I wonder how well he can see me in this lighting. Can he tell that I’m blushing? I hope not.

  “Being rich and famous isn’t everything it’s cracked up to be?”

  I force a smile. “No, it is.”

  He smirks. “For an actress, you’re a pretty terrible liar.”

  I laugh again, and this time it’s genuine. He’s no longer being so antagonistic. We’ve been almost friendly, even. So his criticism now lacks bite. It’s more like teasing. It reminds me of being with Gabe—someone you’re close enough to that you can call them out on their crap.

  “You do know that pretty much everyone in this school would trade places with you in a heartbeat, right?” he continues. “I mean, you are where everyone here is dying to be.”

  “Including you?”

  That seems to give him pause. But then he cracks a smile. “Acting is not really my thing.”

  I take note of the fact that he doesn’t exactly say no, but I’m more intrigued by the smug tone. “Oh, so you’re too good for us actors, huh?”

  He shrugs, and I have my answer.

  I find myself returning his smile because I honestly can’t tell if I respect his ego or hate it. Either way, it makes me more interested in him. In what he’s doing here and why. But before I get the chance to ask, he’s back with his questions.

  “Seriously,” he says, shifting in his seat. “What’s the downside for you?”

  I can hear the challenge, but I refuse to rise to the bait. Either I’ll sound way too pathetic or like the spoiled princess I am. No, thanks. So, I don’t tell him about how I’d trade my soul for anonymity some days, or how being able to score the best scripts doesn’t make up for not being able to make my own decisions, or how loads of money in the bank doesn’t make it any more fun to be on a diet every day of my whole damned life—

  As if on cue, my stomach grumbles. My stomach clearly heard the word ‘diet’ in my inner monologue, and it chose that moment to rebel.

  Loudly.

  Even in this lighting, I see Seth’s brows arch up. “Hungry?”

  “Always,” I mutter. I put a hand over my belly like that’ll help to keep it quiet, but instead, it lets out an outrageous, angry roar that is so not even remotely sexy and definitely not cute.

  Seth laughs, but he comes up to stand. “Come on, there’s a vending machine at the end of the hall.”

  I pad along behind him, and for the life of me, I feel like I’m doing something wrong. Well, I am, I suppose. I should be sleeping, and I definitely shouldn’t be wandering the halls with some guy I barely know.

  But as I inhale my candy bar under his watchful gaze, I have a hard time worrying too much about the fact that I’m breaking the rules—my rules, if not anyone else’s. Because for the first time since I got here, I’m having fun.

  Sort of.

  Well, at least I’m not entirely alone.

  But as soon as I think that, Seth starts backing away from me. I think he’s heading toward the common room again, but he stops in front of a door with one hand on the handle. “I should head to bed,” he says.

  “Yeah.” I nod a little too eagerly to cover my disappointment. “Totally.” I glance reluctantly toward the common room before adding. “Me too, I guess.”

  He’s already cracked open his door before I remember what I’d been meaning to ask him. “Hey, when do you want to meet up to talk about our film project?” I ask.

  He eyes me oddly, like he’s seeing me for the first time. His small smile is rueful, at best. Do I detect a hint of disdain again? I’d thought we’d gotten past that.

  He gives his head a little shake. “Don’t worry about it.”

  Then he slips into his room and shuts the door closed behind him with a click, so I’m standing there staring at a closed door.

  Don’t worry about it.

  Don’t worry about it?

  What the hell does that mean?

  Chapter Four

  Seth

  “Dude, have you seen the new girl?”

  I don’t look up. There’s only one person who’d barge into our room without a courtesy knock, at the very least. And as if that sudden entrance didn’t give it away, there is only one human in this school who refers to me as dude.

  “Hey Trent,” I say.

  “She’s even hotter in person, am I right?” Trent’s faint British accent bothers me on the best days. We’d been assigned as roommates last year, and presumably, since neither of us complained about it, we got the same room and each other.

  I’m normally fine with it. I mean, Trent might be an insufferable ass, but we work well together as a team in a weird symbiotic sort of way. He doesn’t seem to notice that I hate him, and I put up with his bragging and inconsiderate ways, which would drive his actual friends insane after two days.

  In return, I make money using his name.

  Is it entirely ethical? Not really, but Trent doesn’t care as long as he gets a cut. See, Trent is one of the mighty and powerful. His mother was a supermodel back in the day, and she’s currently living with some producer hotshot in Hollywood. His father is the British icon, Tom Wagner—you know, the one who starred in all those spy movies back in the 80s and 90s? So now Trent, his mini-me, rides on daddy’s coattails and flits from project to project and dream to dream like some sort of handsome, demented orangutan.

  With his big burly build and his excessively long arms, the thought of his swinging in the trees cracks me up, and I find myself grinning down at my textbook.

  Unfortunately, Trent seems to take this as encouragement to keep talking about Avery. “Seriously, dude, the girl is a hottie, am I right?”

  I don’t answer. He doesn’t really expect me to. Most of our conversations are one-sided. They are excuses for Trent to talk about whatever it is he wants to talk about. Girls, typically. Who he’s hooked up with or who he wants to hook up with. What party he’s going to and which girls will be there. All variations on a common theme. How, where, and with whom Trent will next get laid.

  It’s not a shocker that he’s brought up Avery. It was only a matter of time, really. Everyone is talking about her, and I imagine only a quarter of what they’re saying is true.

 
At least, I hope it’s not all true, otherwise the girl should really be checked into a drug rehab facility instead of Trudale.

  To say that the gossips have been going wild over the arrival of an A-list star would be putting it mildly. Her name is everywhere. I should be used to it, but I still find myself staring at my textbook without actually reading anything. Or thinking anything. Not thinking is key these days. Two days have passed since that weird midnight run-in, and I’m still trying to figure out if it actually happened.

  I haven’t told anyone about it because, honestly, who would I tell? I’m not exactly surrounded by friends here.

  And neither is she.

  Dammit. There it is again, that pang of…something.

  Something close to pity, which I definitely do not want to feel for some spoiled, famous TV star who’s been handed the world on a silver platter.

  Except…it’s impossible not to notice that she’s been walking the halls alone and that I haven’t seen her in the cafeteria since that first day when she’d come in, grabbed a piece of fruit and walked back out again.

  “She thinks she’s too good for us,” Vanessa had informed the rest of us after she’d walked out. Her friends had nodded in agreement.

  I’d thought she was right—a fact I was loath to admit in general and would never ever say to Vanessa’s face. Avery had seemed like a stuck-up brat. The epitome of a spoiled princess. Those were all names I’d heard thrown about when she’d walked out.

  But then I’d seen her that night. I’d talked to her.

  And ‘spoiled princess’ was so not the vibe I got from her. She’d looked lonely and sad and at times dorky and awkward, but not overly entitled. No more so than the other students at Trudale, at least.

  So these past two days I’ve kept my mouth shut but I’ve watched her, and yeah…I get why people are turned off by her. I get why they think she lives on a different planet and breathes the rarified air of a different atmosphere, even though she walks in our midst.