Chapter Twenty-Three

An alarm wakes me up at a time that I just know in my bones is much earlier than I want it to be. And true to form, my nervous system's immediate response to such a surprise is to startle like a fish out of water. Complete with a sound that doesn't quite form the word what as I move smack into Maeve. Our heads hit. Hopefully hers hurts less than mine does, but it's not exactly what I was going for after the night we had.

I rub my forehead.

"I'm sorry! I forgot to turn off my alarm from yesterday," she says as she turns to silence it. She rolls back over and surveys me. Then she starts laughing. "Babe, are you okay?"

I laugh. "You hit my ego harder."

She pulls me in to a hug, nuzzling into the crook of my neck. "Your ego's too big, so consider it a blessing."

I kiss the crown of her head. "Says the fucking academic." I glance over at the clock on my nightstand—7:00 a.m. "What were you doing at seven?"

We scoot back apart to talk. But I take her hand, running my thumb over the soft skin between each of her knuckles.

"I try to run and get some writing done before nine most mornings."

I smile. "I learn something new about you every day. We should go running sometime."

"Do you usually get up this early, though?"

"To see your face, I would wake up at any hour." I pull her hand to my mouth and kiss it. My heart speeds up as she blushes. I make Maeve Arko blush. It still blows my mind every time it happens.

She scoots in a little closer, raising her free hand to run her thumb along my jawline. "Thank you for last night."

I chuckle. The comment, despite everything, makes me blush. "I think I'm the one who should be thanking you."

Then she frowns. The smallest micro change in her expression and my chest tightens. "No, it's—" She sighs. "It was one of the things Fiona did to me. I always leaned toward switch, went more back and forth with the girls I dated in high school. But when I tried to tell Fiona I didn't want to bottom all the time, she'd just laugh and say bottoming was what I liked doing with men anyway."

The ache tugs from deep inside me, pressing my heart against my ribs. The type of pain she's describing can't be soothed by massaging it the way you would with most parts of the body. It's trapped behind her rib cage, deep in her heart. I settle for squeezing her hand tighter. "Maeve, I'm sorry—"

Maeve cocks her head at me. "What're you apologizing for?" She pauses a moment. "You know, I'm not the only one who has some relationship trauma. If there's ever anything I can do to make you feel better, please know I want to."

"No, there's—" I exhale. "Emily was a lot like Fiona. It wasn't about sexuality, but there was a right and wrong way to be. I avoided bottoming for so long because when she would do it to me, it would be more about her doing something to me than me actually enjoying it. But you make me want to try new things again. I felt safe in what you were doing."

"That's awful that she let sex be something so selfish. You're so generous in so much of your life. The least I can do is make you feel heard."

There's a moment of silence between us. "Do you hate that I'm a celebrity?"

She sits up, really staring at me a moment, the sleepiness gone from her eyes. "No, of course not. It goes hand in hand with the work you do. Work that is, by the way, incredible. I do, though, worry about the mental toll it must take on you. Anyone, really."

"My loved ones?"

She kisses me on the forehead. "I'll be fine," she mutters, burying her face in my skin.

"I love you," I say. "I love that you're bisexual. I love that you're a switch, that you have a PhD, that you're Jewish and kind of tall and have really pretentious movie opinions."

She nuzzles into me. "Val…"

"Nope, I love it. I love every infuriating thing about you too."

"I love you." She sighs, her body rising and falling against me. I swear I can feel her smile against my skin. "I love your charisma, the way you light up every room you're in. Your suaveness, the nerdy way you share your passions. Your PhD, your mixed faith, your gayness. The friendship I see you give, how cute your dog is, how athletic you are, and…" She pauses. "How you understand the bad stuff in our pasts."

I understand.God, it's like the ten-thousand-pound weight that's been on me for years is gone, those words have carried it away. Tears well and fall from my eyes. There's a twist of embarrassment, but I can hardly feel it. It's just me and Maeve, making heavy, intense, borderline religious-experience eye contact. A moment of perfect empathy.

I don't know if the moment passes so much as at some point during our silent meditation, my stomach growls so loudly that we start giggling and decide it's time to get out of bed.

"Wait, so are you off your celebrity diet?" Maeve asks as we head downstairs.

The smell of coffee has permeated the first floor. I wonder which beefcake Charlie has taken home this year. That's the nice thing about Charlie—he picks out these really airheaded pretty boys for hookups, so conversation is always easy and amusing the morning after. Personally, I hope Charlie eventually marries someone with more substance, but I'm glad he hasn't had to deal with the pain and anguish I've gone through with some of my partners.

"Yeah," I reply. "And I'm kinda mad I gave you fridge leftovers between rounds instead of properly wining and dining you."

She shrugs, smirking. "We were busy." She licks her lips. "But assuming you didn't throw away any of the groceries we bought last week, I can make us something special if you want."

Seeing that playful smile on her face has mine lighting up. "Like what?"

"Bananas foster French toast is my specialty."

I can't thank Jewish God enough for giving me this woman who can make me orgasm in two distinctly different ways. "Please."

Maeve goes into hyperfocus mode, gathering her cooking ingredients as I size up Charlie and Mr. Wonderful. Mr. Wonderful, who turns out to be…Jordan from last night. His light brown skin and perfect teeth glow in what I can only assume is happiness after a great night with my best friend. But one look at me and his joy turns to horror. He's full-on avoiding eye contact with me as he squeaks out a greeting.

"Hey, Val," he says.

"Hey, Jordan," I reply. Well, this is a pleasant surprise. The last time I rode with Jordan, about a year ago, he told me he was driving rich people around while working on a master's in social work. Definitely more substance than a Hollywood beefcake. I move my gaze to Charlie, who just seems…lighter. So much lighter than I've seen him in a long time. "How was the after-party?" I ask him.

He shrugs. "Eh, like any after-party. Trish and I talked for a while."

My heart leaps. "Is she thinking of poaching you?"

Technically, managers and agents aren't supposed to start promising clients jobs until after they've formally left their other representation, but the industry is pretty cutthroat.

Charlie shrugs. "She seems more interested than she has before. She was genuinely angry that Star Trek got canceled too. She says there's a slowly growing market for queer male lead roles in sci-fi, but that the reboot was the best there was."

I frown. "Still, if she could get you on one of the new shows. Where they don't dick around for two seasons before letting you kiss Casey…"

But it is interesting that Trish is angry about Star Trek. She doesn't get angry about anything getting canceled or dying in development hell. It's all business to her.

"Thank god there's even an option for you to take a role like that," Maeve says as she combines a bunch of spices, sugars, and rum into a pan. It sizzles and smells fucking amazing. I swallow as my mouth waters.

Charlie groans. "Ugh, tell me about it." He turns to me. "Did you talk to Trish last night?"

My heartbeat speeds up. I vaguely remember my phone ringing, but without any follow-up, I figured it wasn't a big deal. Was it? "No, why?"

"She just seemed eager to talk to you. I dunno, maybe call her back after breakfast?"

I clear my throat. "Do you think I fucked up the Oscars?"

Maeve sets down her wooden spoon to look at her phone. "According to the internet, you put Charlie back on the map and are now the savior of the gays."

Charlie and Jordan laugh.

I glance at Maeve and smile. "Hardly," I say.

"Well, you're the savior of"—he puts his arm around Jordan;oh my god—"these gays." He motions to Maeve with his chin. "Because whatever she's cooking smells amazing."

"Bananas foster French toast," Maeve replies.

Charlie's jaw falls open. "Oh my god, I haven't had that since I was little. Bless you, Maeve Arko."

This is sweet and all, but now I'm worried about what Trish wanted. I check my phone; one missed call from her but no message. I don't know what to think.

Jordan laughs. "Where are you from?"

"My family lives in Ohio and is from New York," Maeve says. "I only learned how to make Southernish food from a cohort member in grad school who was from Louisiana."

I glow with that comment. After this morning, I'm so grateful for every good person who entered Maeve's life after her abusive ex. I'm grateful that I get to (hopefully) be one of those people too. Maeve sticks several slices of egg-and-cinnamon-covered brioche onto my griddle. She's humming to herself, and her body language tells me she's completely at ease. Even though I'm currently trying to keep my fingers from drumming on the table worrying about Trish, joy still zings through me.

"You're amazing," I say to Maeve as she cooks.

"Wait until you taste this," Maeve teases.

Sure enough, when I eat the French toast, I can't tell what tastes better: Maeve's cooking or her.

I could go on, and fully planned to wax poetic about Maeve's culinary genius to Charlie and Jordan. But as I'm midway through trying to be cute by feeding Maeve, my phone rings.

There Trish is.

I look at Maeve. Charlie huffs. "Val, pick up the damn phone before she shows up here!"

"Go," Maeve says, smiling. Like she knows what Trish is going to say.

I sigh, swipe my phone, and head to my backyard to take the call.

"Hey," I say.

"The lady of the hour finally emerges," Trish says.

I blush but steal a glance inside at Maeve. She's laughing at something Charlie's saying. "Hardly. I nearly died at the Oscars."

"Well, I don't want to bore you with the PR update. You're doing amazing, people loved Maeve, your flub was the most entertaining part of the show, et cetera. Great." She pauses. "And…Oakley in Flames has been accepted to compete at Cannes!"

I know I hear her words. But it's like they dig their way into my brain and knock themselves around like a pinball game, like they're more a physical manifestation of pain in the shape of words than sounds that have actual meaning. Cannes. The Cannes. I don't even remember Trish taking European festivals seriously considering the genre of the movie. My movie. Oakley in Flames. Got in. They don't make sense together.

"Val?" Trish says.

Until they do. Until they really do.

My stomach churns; I swallow on instinct. "Yeah?" I say.

"You there? You hear what I said?"

"Yeah." I swallow again. The sweetness in the back of my throat has turned bitter, acidic. "Hey, uh, when is Cannes?"

"First week of May."

Fuck. No. No, no, no, no. The last week of classes. Right when finals prep begins and Maeve has her evaluation for the grant. You can't just fly across the world for the weekend. Between the schmoozing, press, and screenings, I'd have to be there for two weeks minimum. The time difference is an entire day and some.

My head's spinning. Sound cuts in and out, and when I can hear there's a ringing that won't stop. The sun's suddenly too hot on the back of my neck.

Because maybe I can't. I knew about this possibility in December, and it's March. I've lied about this for months, and she just made it clear how much she trusts me, and look what I've done. I could ruin her whole career. I can't just get out of Cannes. I can't just—

My stomach lurches.

"Great, thank you, we'll talk later," I say as the acrid taste of partially digested French toast hits my throat.

I hang up seconds before just managing to not puke my guts into a planter in my backyard.

Once I stop shaking, I slide back into the kitchen, into the warmth and laughter and sweet smells that I can miraculously stomach.

"What'd Trish want?" Charlie asks.

"Just some positive leads on a couple of projects I wanted her to chase after for the next Oscar role," I reply. I straighten out of the hunched position I sat down in. Sourness still tinges the back of my throat.

"I can't believe you manufacture it like that," Maeve comments.

"Welcome to Hollywood," Charlie replies.

I manage a weak smile. Guess the lies will just keep coming.