Chapter Seven

Even though I'm emotionally drained from the equivalent of a full high school day of meetings, less than an hour after I get home, Charlie drags me into my home gym. Eustace naps on my Pilates mat as Britney Spears croons her greatest hits from the speaker. Charlie sorts through the couple of medicine balls I own, picking the heaviest one. He chucked his shirt before stretching, and I'm in a sports bra, as if we're silently begging each other for validation. You're so hot, babe. I'd hire you in a fucking action movie. In fact, if I swung the other way—

"So how're the auditions going?" I ask him as we do our first exercise—obliques and core, passing each other the ball after each rep.

"Nothing much to report," Charlie replies, passing me the ball. "It's a ton of self-tape work. I thought I was done with that."

"I wouldn't get discouraged. We all have to do self-tapes sometimes."

Still, I can't imagine what I'm saying is much help. Right before Star Trek, he was on a pretty great roll. A lead in a moderately received adaptation of Hadestown, a part in the ensemble of a limited series that had a cult following—all the benchmarks of success a working actor strives for. And to lose that…

Charlie throws the ball back to me a little harder than I expect. "You just took like seven meetings on the Warner lot with producers begging you to be in their projects. No offense, Sulls, but don't pretend you can relate. And you don't have to try to empathize."

Shame cuts through me, but once that fades I just feel angry. "And you don't have to be a bitch to the only person who's been actively propping you up since this setback happened."

We get through another rep each before he answers. "That doesn't mean it feels any better knowing that you've been working consistently for over five years without so much as a lull. Don't forget I was scraping for yogurt commercials while you were in England thinking you were going to be a professor and being called a shallow idiot by Emily. And your career still took off before mine even got started. I don't mean to take a dig at you. I'm just telling you the facts. Your career has been perfect up until now."

I throw the ball back to him. He nearly loses abdominal control, but manages to stay upright. "Well, wonderful, Charlie. I don't know what pointing that out is doing to help either of us. I think it hurts you more than me, actually."

"It's—I'm just airing my thoughts. Honesty. That's always been our policy, hasn't it?"

"Yeah, well, it's not the right time. It's been a long day, and I need more than an hour to decompress, and it's been harder to do with—"

The words catch in my throat as the ball returns to Charlie's hands.

He stops exercising. "What? Are you saying you don't want me here anymore?"

When did this even turn into an argument? I just wanted to know how his auditions were going. Why am I so angry right now? Charlie's just complaining. Yeah, I do have privilege when it comes to my career. It's not something I have to get pissed about. Charlie has an easier time maintaining his body because he has a better metabolism and doesn't crave carbs; I have borderline wet dreams about Pizookies and will lose my abs within a week of laying off the routine. We both have cis and white privilege. The lists could go on forever.

Am I really letting this Maeve stuff turn me into a raging lunatic? I'm sure from Charlie's perspective, I should be grateful for this gig. I mean, what is it about Maeve that's getting to me right now? Is it feeling academically inferior, frustration over how fame is affecting my actual relationships, the fact that I can't get hot queer women despite the objective game I have? Hope?

"No," I say. I reach for my water bottle and take a long couple of swigs. "I just—I hate seeing you so directionless. This"—I motion vaguely to us—"isn't healthy for either of us."

Charlie grabs a set of dumbbells and starts doing bicep curls. I massage out my aching sides.

"I don't like that I'm couch crashing. But it's also fucking weird that you're, like, my landlord. How am I supposed to pull myself out of a funk if I can't even hook up with fellow losers off Raya without feeling like I'm violating your space?"

Back when Charlie and I lived together the first time, the walls were so thin that we were well aware of when the other was having sex. It was just something we had to deal with. We were both doing it and were too bad at communicating to really set boundaries. But now—yeah, I do appreciate that he hasn't brought a random Raya dude to my house. And not just because the idea of a stranger having my address is deeply uncomfortable. Maybe it's jealousy, even if I don't want to call it that right now. Yet it's not like Charlie has had many more boyfriends than I've had girlfriends. He was secretly dating another closeted gay actor for a few years, but they've been broken up for nearly a year. And it's not like I'm interested in anyone in particular. It's not like I'm disappointed that I can't have Maeve because I would never want someone so pretentious and judgmental in my life anyway. Especially not someone who's apparently rather kind but is choosing to withhold that side of their personality from me.

"Well, we can do something about the staying-with-me thing," I say. "Do you want to do, like, chores?"

Charlie sighs. "What exactly would I be doing that your housekeeper doesn't do?"

My phone rings, startling Eustace. "I will let you pay theoretical rent if you keep my team away from me and read my script options for me and tell me if they suck. No joke. And you can secretly inquire about any roles you want that you find through it. Just tell them I hired a personal assistant again."

Charlie squints at me. "Before I give you my answer, the job you described is literally less important than an intern's. But I'll do it." He grimaces as he says it.

"Look, if you can find some way to legitimately pay for a room in my house, I'll let you do whatever you want in there. I'll try to treat general common space more as common space."

There's a long pause as I wait for Charlie's reply. He exhales. "Okay. I'm sorry I snapped at you."

"I'm sorry for being a bitch too." I give him a tiny smile. "I'm sure I've been annoying you with my Maeve bullshit anyway."

"No, I live for that shit." Charlie grins back, rolling me a set of free weights. "What's going on there?"

I sigh. "I have to nail these next two classes to impress her, but I have no idea why I'm trying to impress her so hard when she's being such a dick."

Charlie shrugs. "Maybe she's not being a dick?"

I glare at him. "We're not arguing about that."

"Then, and hear me out on this, maybe your clit's the one running the show and it doesn't matter if she likes you as a person if she'll get naked for you."

"And how pathetic is that?"

"We respect horniness in this platonic living situation."

"Charlie," I say, looking him in the eye. "I'm not gonna sleep with her."

"You also said you weren't gonna sleep with your PA, so…" Charlie laughs as I turn red. "Look, fine, just say your most gay lizard brain thing, and I'll say my gay lizard brain response, and then we'll stop and finish this workout. Cool?"

I exhale. "Fine."

"Go."

It spills out like a badly rehearsed presentation in middle school. "Maeve's not only gay, but she's seen Needlepoint."

Charlie grins. "Spicy. Well, now you can freely touch yourself to her and know she's probably done the same."

"She might not even think I was hot in that." And she might not think I'm hot in her classroom.

He looks me up and down, a smirk on his lips. "Trust me, Val, there's no way."

And just like that, the conversation ends. We return to our workout. Leaving me with only my thoughts.

Thoughts that carry me up to my room, through a shower, into pajamas before dinner. My brain feels foggy, except for one thing: I want to watch Needlepoint. It's been years since I've seen it. I'm not one of those actors who can't watch their own performances, but that's just one of those movies I can't really watch with company. The tightness in my stomach returns as I shut and lock my bedroom door. Slide back onto my bed. Flick open my laptop and pull the movie up on a streaming service.

I don't even manage to click Play before I set the laptop to my side. All it takes is looking at the banner for the film. I inhale sharply as I stare at it. A moonlit silhouette of a woman arching her back in ecstasy. Me: a younger, lither, more tortured version of myself who watched movies where two girls kissed with that same arched-backed body. I slide my fingertips down shower-damp skin under my waistband, and the motion tugs at memories nearly as old as this banner.

Maeve watched this movie. Maeve sat in a luxury movie theater and watched me be kissed, be touched, be fucked. I can imagine it so clearly. Maeve thinking she's seen a billion erotic indie films that've been analyzed to death in her grad school career, but then this one is different. Maeve crossing and recrossing her legs, thinking she's fidgeting but really she's just trying to get pressure between her legs. She tells herself it's just the general eroticism of the film, but she's looking into my eyes through the silver screen. She thinks that the feeling will dissipate once she's in the car, but curiously, the feeling doesn't just go away. It sticks in her head until she's back behind a closed bedroom door. My heartbeat flutters as I tease circles on my skin. It's been so long since I did it like this. So long since I wanted someone and wasn't just chasing plastic-induced pleasure. My fingertips feed a sensation that almost feels new.

Does Maeve touch herself like this? Is she still proper and elegant in her most private moments, when she's set alight by thoughts and fantasy? She seems like she'd light candles. Bourbon-vanilla candles and her perfect red nails sliding around slick skin thinking of me. Fuck. My stomach jerks at the thought, winding a tighter and tighter grip on me as I think of it. Her wanting me. Her gaze, the way she stares at me in class. The way her eyes travel up my legs and across my necklines and over my lips. I'm trying not to pay attention, but her gaze is like hot wax.

God, I want that timbre of her voice in my ear. Her hands on my jaw, my neck as she leans in to speak. I saw your movie, Val, she'd say to me, hot breath making the fine hairs on my neck stand up. Do you really sound like that? My muscles clench as my circles grow faster, tighter, harder. My wrist cramps, but fuck it, the pain feels miles away. I want to be across from her again I want her to cross her legs I want her to let me run my fingers up her skirt I want to cradle her jaw god I want to kiss her. I want my lips on hers. I want to stop with the academic debates and I want us to just be honest and for her to tell me I drove her crazy in that movie.

Tighter and tighter I go, my breath catching in my throat. I arch my back, muscles taut and ready from my thighs to my abdomen. Everything's sore, I'm sweaty, I'm hot, everything's on fire. The breath knocks out of my chest as the pressure builds to a crescendo. Tell me I drive you crazy, and I'd say it right back. I can't think straight knowing how much I need you, Maeve Arko—

The pleasure rips through me like a bomb, and a high-pitched sound barely stops at my teeth. The feeling simmers on my nerves, and my muscles heave softly, weakly, from too much use too soon. My vision's even a little blurred around the edges, heart hammering, but my anxiety is gone. I just feel the electric buzz of euphoria. I even find myself grinning as I stare at my laptop's abstract screensaver and pull my sore fingers out of my shorts.

I manage another two minutes of happiness before the reality of what I just did hits me.