by Olivia Dade
Book!AeneasWouldNever: What kind of story?
Book!AeneasWouldNever: Ulsie?
Unapologetic Lavinia Stan: Summer Diaz is so talented. She’s also gorgeous.
Book!AeneasWouldNever: Yes. Both of those.
Book!AeneasWouldNever: I’m sensing a “but” in there somewhere.
Unapologetic Lavinia Stan: Lavinia is supposed to be ugly. Not just plain, or dressed in unflattering clothing. UGLY.
Book!AeneasWouldNever: This is true, at least in Wade’s books.
Unapologetic Lavinia Stan: That’s the fundamental beauty of the Lavineas relationship, BAWN.
Unapologetic Lavinia Stan: She’s a woman who’s been insulted and devalued her whole life because of how she looks, even though she’s smart and brave and kind. Then Aeneas comes along, and he has his own baggage, but he sees her. He SEES her. He recognizes that everyone considers her ugly, but
Unapologetic Lavinia Stan: He sees her value. He grows to love her and desire her, even as she learns to trust him. Which is hard for her, but she does it, because she loves him too.
Unapologetic Lavinia Stan: That’s the crux of the Lavineas story. As much as I adore Summer Diaz in the role, I can’t help but think casting her was a fucking waste of a meaningful story that people needed to see on their television screens.
Book!AeneasWouldNever: I understand what you mean. I’m not sure any other actor could embody Lavinia’s intelligence and determination quite so well, but—yes. You’re right. It’s yet more potential wasted.
Book!AeneasWouldNever: I imagine the actors see all that too. Even Summer herself.
Book!AeneasWouldNever: Aeneas’s story . . . I just
Book!AeneasWouldNever: I just have the feeling the heart of his story will be destroyed too. A man questioning his relationship to the values he’s been taught by his parents and making his way in the world. Finding his own moral code. Falling in love and learning to value both himself and that love more than his past and the duties imposed on him by others.
Unapologetic Lavinia Stan: That’s a lovely way to put it.
Book!AeneasWouldNever: And in the final season, the showrunners will lay all that to waste. It’s going to hurt, Ulsie. The way it plays out will hurt me, and it’ll hurt you too. I’m so sorry.
Book!AeneasWouldNever: I mean, that’s what I guess will happen.
Book!AeneasWouldNever: But the Lavineas relationship is always there on the page, if not on the television screen. And I’m always here too, on your computer screen. Anytime you need me.
Unapologetic Lavinia Stan: I’m not sure I deserve a friend like you, BAWN.
Book!AeneasWouldNever: You don’t. You deserve so much more.
14
“I’M NOT ENTIRELY CERTAIN THE WORLD NEEDED A COCROFFINUT.” April popped the last bite into her mouth, sugar crystals sparkling on her lips. “However, I can now feel individual electrons orbiting the nucleus of every atom in my body. If that was the creator’s intent, mission accomplished.”
Marcus had to laugh, despite his preoccupation with her mouth. “I love it when you talk science-y to me.”
She smiled at him, freckled cheeks pink in the sun, and God, he’d never been happier to ignore Alex’s advice and his own best judgment. Never.
When she’d written him Monday evening, apparently willing to let him emerge from the hole he’d inadvertently dug for himself, he hadn’t hesitated or thought twice. Not given the misery of their days without contact.
The absence of April in his life had hollowed out each and every day. For an hour or two at a time, maybe, he could distract himself from that emptiness. With writing, with reading the scripts his agent sent, with binge-watching British baking shows alongside Alex. But in the end, there he was, always, alone in his echoing LA home. Lonely. Missing a dear friend and—more. Whatever else they were becoming together before he’d tripped one of her personal land mines.
So, yeah. Good judgment be damned. Despite all the complications of the situation, any chance to be with April, he’d take.
“Funny you should say that. The people at my new job have a group T-shirt, I found out this week.” With a careless sweep, she brushed crumbs off her chest and onto the sidewalk, where curious birds were edging closer. “It says Talk Dirt-y to Me.”
Apparently science people enjoyed puns too. Good to know. “Nice.”
In the sunshine, her hair resembled a flame, and Marcus couldn’t resist huddling closer to the heat. He shifted until they sat hip to hip on the wooden bench. As she watched him, brown eyes intent behind her glasses, he stroked his thumb along her plush lower lip to tease free those clinging crystals.
Her neck arched, just a little.
Without breaking eye contact, he licked the sugar from his thumb, and she took a shuddering breath.
No. He wasn’t going to kiss her actual mouth for the first time on a park bench in public, not where everyone could see and document the occasion. Again.
After a fraught moment, he managed to look away. Clearing his throat, he fumbled with the paper menu he’d grabbed inside the shop and took his time reading aloud the description of the item she’d just finished.
“The coco—” He sighed. “Shit, this one is hard. Okay, let me try it again. The cocroffinut—”
She clapped. “Well done.”
“Save your applause until we find out whether I can do it twice.” One syllable at a time. “The cocroffinut, the world’s first and most delicious coffee/croissant/muffin/doughnut hybrid, contains the caffeine equivalent of four espressos.”
She glanced down at the empty box on her lap. “Damn. Four espressos?”
He reread the description. “Yup. Well, that would explain your newfound sensitivity to orbiting electrons.”
Getting to her feet, she rolled her eyes. “Hipsters, man. Hipsters.”
He grinned up at her. “You said it was delicious.”
“It was,” she agreed, gathering their trash. “I also thought the glazed doughnut we shared at our last place, the one the size of my head, was delicious, and it cost approximately one-tenth as much as the croco—”
“Cocro—” he corrected automatically.
“—muffinut or whatever the hell I just finished eating. It also didn’t leave me in possible need of a defibrillator.” Once she’d thrown their trash in the nearest recycling and waste bins, she laid a palm over her chest. “I think my heart is doing the jitterbug in there, even though I actually have no idea what the jitterbug entails.”
He sat straighter. “If you need to see a doctor, I can take you.”
“Nah. I’m just being overly dramatic, probably because of all the caffeine.” She waved a dismissive hand. “Don’t mind me.”
Whew. He’d really prefer their third date not necessitate medical intervention, if at all possible. Especially since he had hopes for the evening.
High hopes. Turgid hopes, to use one of TopMeAeneas’s favorite adjectives.
“Being a drama queen is my job, lady. Hands off.” Leaning back again, he rested his arms along the top of the bench. “Speaking of my job, I actually learned how to jitterbug for a historical miniseries. I could show you.”
Lindy Hope, the inspirational—if entirely fictional—story of how swing dancing turned the tide of one World War II battle, hadn’t exactly broken viewing-audience records, but at least he’d gotten some decent moves and a decent paycheck out of it.
“Why don’t we walk while you tell me more?” She held out a hand. “I’m too caffeinated to sit still.”
He accepted her hand and got to his feet, interlacing their fingers as they headed toward the water. “Um . . . what do you want to know?”
Normally, he’d steer the topic toward hair care or workouts, or mention only the most superficial things he’d learned over the years. Before showing up at their first doughnut shack a couple of hours ago, though, he’d already disposed of that particular shield.
She was meeting him as he really was today, like it o
r not.
The possibility that she might not like it had his own heart skittering a bit. As did the possibility that he was tossing his reputation into the garbage alongside their cocroffinut detritus, because if she ever revealed him as a faker to the world before he was ready, before he could explain—
She wouldn’t. She wouldn’t. He trusted her that far, and he trusted his own ability to do sufficient damage control if she proved him naive.
His fanfic alter ego, though . . . no amount of PR and damage control could stop the knowledge of that from destroying his career.
Eventually, maybe he could tell her he was Book!AeneasWouldNever.
Not now. Not yet.
“Okay, fun stuff first.” She was swinging their hands in a huge, swift, jerky arc, and yes, he could definitely tell she’d had more than her usual share of caffeine. It was fucking adorable. “What’s the most memorable movie you’ve ever been part of?”
He snorted. “That’s a tougher question than you might think. I’ve been acting for over twenty years now. There are lots of possibilities to consider.”
For some reason, the bad roles were so much easier to remember than the movies whose premieres he’d attended with sincere pride. Probably more entertaining to hear about too.
Her stride was becoming an uncharacteristic sort of half jog, half skip, her hair swinging around her shoulders with each hyperactive, bouncing step. “Then tell me all of them.”
“Since that could take weeks, I’ll choose a representative sampling.” Damn, he needed to hustle faster to keep up with her. “My worst film overall was probably, um . . . Hounded, I guess.”
Her brow crinkled as she thought. “You were a perfumer in that one, right? Wrongly accused of a terrible crime?”
“Yes. A master perfumer, nicknamed the Hound for my extraordinary sense of smell.” After an exaggerated inhalation through his nose, he continued, “Which I then employed to hide from the authorities while locating my wife’s real killer.”
“As one does.” Her voice was as dry as the California hills in October. “And of course his wife’s murder served as his motivation. Of course.”
“Fridging at its most banal. Eventually, I discovered that my business rivals had formed a secret cabal, hired an assassin, and framed me in hopes of removing me from the perfume industry permanently.”
“Spoiler alert,” she chided him, lips quirked.
He huffed out a laugh. “My scenes mostly involved sniffing. Turns out, it’s hard to make sniffing attractive or interesting to an audience. Which is some explanation as to why the movie flopped.” God, the reviews. Those reviews. Not to mention the phone call from his parents after they’d seen one of the sparse local showings. “It did inspire an X-rated parody, though, from what my costars told me. One with a particularly clever name.”
As they walked, he waited, confident she could come up with it.
She bit her lip for a few moments, then brightened. “Pounded!”
“Brava, April.” Lifting their joined hands above their heads in triumph, he grinned at her. “That movie apparently involved a lot of sniffing as well. Among other activities. It also made more money than its inspiration. Probably featured better acting too.”
He’d wanted her to giggle, but she didn’t. Instead, for no reason he could fathom, her eyes had turned solemn, and he shifted his shoulders under the weight of her regard.
“You’re joking about it, but you must have learned a lot about perfumery for the role,” she finally said. “I may not know you well, but I can already tell you’re a professional. You care about your craft.”
Why that twisted his heart until it ached, he couldn’t have said.
“Uh, yeah, actually.” He squinted into the distance, where the water awaited them, blue and cool and comforting. “I visited a perfumery school in France. A world-class perfumer can identify over a thousand different scents, mostly by associating smells with specific memories. I worked on that a little. Learned about the history of perfume. Watched one woman grind ambergris with a mortar and pestle too, just for kicks.”
“What is ambergris?” she asked. “I’ve always wondered.”
He smirked at her. “Hardened whale feces that washes onshore.” “You set me up for that.” Her eyes narrowed, but her mouth was twitching. “Shame on you. Now I have to go through my perfumes and find out just how much whale poop I’ve been spraying on myself for dates.”
Her perfume today smelled primarily of roses. His nose wasn’t particularly sensitive, as he’d discovered during that idyllic week in France, but he could also detect a trace of musk. And . . . other stuff, which real perfumers could no doubt pinpoint in a flash.
Where exactly she’d sprayed that perfume, he shouldn’t consider in public.
“Anyway, so that was one memorable role. The absolute worst script I ever had was probably for 1 Wheel, 2 Real.” At her confused glance, he clarified. “The uplifting coming-of-age story of a troubled unicyclist. I think it got released directly to the DVR of one guy in Tulsa.”
When she laughed, she slowed down a fraction. “Holy shit. You can unicycle?”
“Of course,” he informed her loftily, nose in the air. “Like any serious thespian.”
Well-Groomed Golden Retriever Marcus would never use that term, of course. Even as himself, it sat oddly on his tongue. Too grand. Too lofty. A thespian, as opposed to an actor, demanded respect from the world at large, not simply others within the entertainment industry. A thespian possessed talent, not merely the capacity for hard work and a pretty face.
Pulling him to the edge of the sidewalk, she came to a dead halt. “But you are a serious thespian, Marcus.”
All that caffeine had clearly gone to her head. She sounded . . . angry, almost.
He lifted a shoulder, offering her a placating smile. “I’ve tried to be. I don’t know how successful I’ve been.”
“You’ve been up for a bunch of awards. You star in the most popular television program in the world. When you left Dido behind and spotted that damn funeral pyre from your ship, I nearly required medical intervention for my weeping-related dehydration issues.”
She spoke slowly, as if to a blockheaded child, and he bristled instinctively at that familiar tone. At least until the actual meaning of her words sank in. Then he flushed hot with embarrassment and kicked at a crack in the sidewalk.
“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