Chapter 14

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

You're always

one decision

away from

a completely

different life.

-Mel Robbins

Lennox

Somehow, we survive filming. Three scenes shot, no injuries. No major issues. Other than the internal battle going on in my head. Which is fucking fantastic because even on day two, I know that Jamie is getting more and more concerned about time.

And Reed?

He keeps steady on what he's supposed to do. His expression focused. He's aware of his cues and how to work through a scene. It's like he's been doing this for as long as the rest of us, and before I know it, we're all stuffed into a booth at Randy's, talking too loud, scripts and notebooks and empty milkshake glasses everywhere, but none of us are working anymore.

"One of the greatest movies of all time," Jamie is saying, and I'm trying to pay attention. I really, really am. Jamie's next to me. Reed on the other side of him, sitting next to Indy, his hat pulled low, his finger tapping against the bottom of his empty strawberry milkshake.

He's been quiet.

I think I have been, too. My socks are still wet from walking back here in the drizzle, my hoodie muggy across the back of my shoulders. I twist to shrug it off and toss it over the side of the cart parked next to our table. When I turn back, Reed's eyes flicker over to me.

I sweep back my hair and then focus on the conversation.

Umar raps his knuckles on the table. "You can't claim a movie is good because it's bad. That's like the complete opposite of how things work."

Jamie laughs. He's ready for a movie debate. "I can claim anything I want to claim," he says. "Sometimes being awful is just that good . That's what makes it so fantastic. You need to get on board with this."

Umar rolls his eyes. "Alright, fine, then give me the worst, and I'll watch. And then I'll decide. But I doubt you're going to convince me." He points a finger at Verity. "Ver, I know you've seen some shit."

She taps her chin. "I'm gonna have to go with Chopping Mall . Definitely. Killer robots never go wrong."

Indy tears off an unused corner from a piece of scratch paper and snags a pen that was marking a spot in her script.

"I'm writing them down for you, Umar," Indy says. "You have serious homework. And I'm gonna add…" She pauses with the pen in the air. " This time, the beaver eats you ."

Jamie grins, nudging her elbow with his. " Zombeavers never get old."

"I know, right?" She smiles as she jots it down.

Past her, Reed's fingers are still pressed against the bottom of his milkshake glass, a slight furrowing of his brows under the brim of his hat, his head tilting like he's?—

"Lenn?" Jamie turns to me.

Shit. "Yeah?"

"That one with the killer jeans?" Jamie looks so happy right now. He even had a milkshake too, only drinking half, but I'm not sure I ever remember him ordering one before. "In the department store?"

" Slaxx ," I recall with a laugh. "Ohh, fuck. I forgot about that one."

"God, I remember," Lucía says. "That might be so bad that it's actually bad."

"No way." I shake my head. "The killer jeans dance sequence should not be missed."

" Dude , spoilers." Umar shoots me a horrified look.

"Sorry." My eyes move over Reed again, and whatever smile I had disappears. Seeing him in the light feels different. It's almost difficult to imagine it was really him in the dark. The way his tongue teased mine, the clutch of his hand around my neck, pulling me flush against him. It was an awareness like I'd never felt before.

I rip my eyes off him and glare at the edge of the formica table directly in front of me, banded with reflective silver, my image in it wobbly and stretched.

I shouldn't be thinking about it.

It didn't fucking happen.

I won't walk down this path.

" Pizzacide ."

My head darts up, my eyes narrowing at the tone of Reed's soft voice.

"You can't miss Pizzacide ," he says gruffly.

" Just one more slice ," we all reference, almost in unison. A classic.

I can't believe he's seen that one. Not that I didn't expect him to be into horror movies, but that one's pretty niche.

He looks cooly at me. "Better than Slaxx ."

"Well, I wouldn't go that far," I bite back at him. "At least there's no killer pizza dance sequence."

"No, but there's a one-way ticket to topping limbo when anyone gets sauced." His brows rise slightly, his elbow leaning on the table, looking at me from under the backstrap of his hat.

Fuck, I'm coming alive. Just this little exchange between us, not more than a few words, and the hairs are rising on the back of my neck, my pulse ticking. "Delivered straight to your door, dead in thirty minutes or less."

Reed's lip ticks up.

Jamie points at him. "Holy shit, you're one of us."

Reed's lips press subtly. "Am I?"

Jamie waves a hand. "Of course you are. But you didn't need to know good-bad horror movies to be one of us."

His brows pull together. "What did I need to do?"

Jamie shrugs. "Just be you, dude."

Reed stares at him, his face going blank. His humor vanishing.

My brother moves on, naming other films we've watched, quoting lines, pulling out his phone to note something he hasn't seen yet. Indy scribbles the list before shoving it across the table to Umar. Verity and Lucía flirt with each other, breaking off into their own conversation.

I watch Reed. I don't want to, but I am.

He leans back as Indy pulls out her phone and thumbs it open. And then he says something, keeping his voice low.

Her eyes swing to him. I can't hear what she's saying, but she gestures with her phone.

My throat constricts as I watch them, my jeans cutting into the backs of my knees.

This is so fucked up .

I need to talk to Indy.

I just need to do it. Or do I wait for Reed to talk to her first?

Is he going to talk to her?

What if he doesn't?

I swallow, swiping a hand through my hair again, the thick strands damp, that tingle across the back of my shoulders still there.

He and I need to talk. When? Later tonight? Is he going to come home with Indy?

Fuck.

" Oh, my god ." Indy's voice rises over everything else. She sets her phone down, then stares at it. "You guys, I got it. I…" She shakes her head, her eyes wide. "I didn't answer earlier today because I was in such a rush. And then I forgot with filming. And…"

My brother leans toward her. "The audition?"

She licks her lips. "Yeah. Like a real one. Not a wait-in-line one. Like an actual time, specific lines to read. A real audition."

"Holy molasses." Lucía reaches across the table and squeezes Indy's hand.

"In LA?" Jamie asks.

She nods. "It's the day after tomorrow. I'd have to leave first thing in the morning. And…" Her growing smile fades. "Jamie, I can't?—"

"You can." He nods, his chest expanding, this look on his face like I've never seen.

Pride.

Deep happiness.

Indy shakes her head. "I don't want to throw everything off again ."

Jamie shrugs. "Reed's away for the next two nights. We'll work it out. I'm not going to let you miss this opportunity."

"You need to go, Indy," I throw in. "It's the clear decision."

I know that, even with the time constraints, Jamie isn't going to let her give this up. And he shouldn't. She's wanted this for as long as we've known her.

She glances around the table, pulling in a breath when she gets to Reed.

"Congratulations," he says. "You deserve it."

"Thank you." She blows out a breath. "I have so much to do. I need to get a flight. Tonight, I guess? And pack and…"

"Don't worry," my brother says, his gaze fixed on her. "We've got you."

Reed

The lights of the interstate flash past the bus window, a streak of drizzle hanging on the window. I watch it, a solitary raindrop battling against the wind before it streaks away.

Fuck, is this some kind of metaphor?

The bus is cold at night, but my hands are clammy from an already two hour-long ride. I rub my palms down my jeans and shiver. Sighing, I pull out my phone before leaning my head back against the seat. I tap on the side of the case, staring blankly at the screen.

Colin reclines next to me, white earbuds in, eyes closed, one of his energy drinks propped between his thighs. I don't think he's sleeping.

It's hard to sleep on the bus. These overnight drives are always brutal. But the schedule is to link up two games, with an overnight drive between, to cut down on away time.

I thumb the screen awake. There's a text message from Indy. It came in two hours ago, just a winky face and nothing else. A check in.

I should answer it. But every time I go to type something, I just stare at the screen, my throat constricting, my knee bouncing.

I need to talk to her.

And say what?

The last time I saw her was the night before yesterday. She'd gotten an early morning flight out, focused on what she needed to do in LA. And I wasn't going to talk to her right before she left. Right before an opportunity she's wanted for years. I wouldn't do that to her.

And I'm not going to talk to her over text either.

I just…

I kissed a man.

I expel an elongated breath, my thumb still tapping on the side of my phone, the rumble of the bus vibrating up through my stocks to my ass on the seat. I push my shoulders back, trying to get comfortable, but all I keep thinking is I kissed a man.

It's all I've thought about for a little over twenty-four hours now. Since it happened. Since my lips brushed his. Or his brushed mine. My hand coming up to cup his neck, my skin popping with electricity causing a swell of desire so strong that it nearly knocked me over. His taste, his smell, the leanness of his body, the way that he kissed—masculine and direct. I've never been kissed like that before. I've never kissed like that either.

I use my palm to push down on the leg of my joggers, releasing pressure off my rapidly swelling dick, which doesn't seem to have any issue with what happened. It pretty much just keeps asking for more. But I don't want to get hard on the bus. There's nowhere to go with that.

And I shouldn't be feeling it anyway. Not about her fucking friend .

I'm such a jerk. I don't know what Indy and I are, really. We haven't even kissed. Well… we sorta did. But the movie doesn't fully count. Regardless, I owe her the respect to talk to her.

I groan, shifting my ass in the seat, when I sense eyes on me.

Colin pulls an earbud out. "You're tense."

I squeeze my hand into a fist, trying to reduce the flow of blood to my dick. "Just tired of being cramped up here."

"Alright, tired and tense."

"Yeah, I guess that sums it up." I sigh. My phone screen's black again. Another time where I've failed to text Indy back.

Colin's still looking at me. "Want to talk about it?"

"Nah."

"Alright."

I frown. "How's your mom?" It's not a fully random subject change. I really want to know.

Colin's mom is kind of a house mom for all of us. She's always feeding us, which isn't an easy task considering that the six of us can take out four pans of lasagna with little effort. But Colin's her only son, after they lost both of Colin's brothers in two separate accidents.

I'm not that close with my brother, or my family, really. But that kind of loss is staggering.

It made Colin and her close though, and we all love having Mrs. G around, but the anniversary of his oldest brother's death was last week.

He smiles grimly. "She's managing. Cooking a lot. She's going to drop off a dozen pans of lasagna at the house when we get back."

"I can taste it already."

"She's starting to get worried about next year," Colin says. "Not having me near."

"Honestly? I thought she might end up going with you."

He laughs. "Nah. I mean, she probably would if I asked her. But I've got to leave sometime." He shrugs. "Get out of Boston."

"Yeah." I stroke my thumb along the side of my phone. Even I hear the tension in my one-word response.

He knocks his knee against mine. "Have you given it any more thought?"

I glance toward the front of the bus, out the windshield at the dark interstate we're on, mostly empty at this time of night, just a smattering of red taillights.

He's talking about Spain.

Opportunities to play water polo are pretty hard to come by in the US. There are national teams and Olympic teams, but after getting out of college, it's a tight competition to get a spot, and it's nearly impossible to make a career playing polo here.

But there are teams across Europe. Places to play. To get paid for doing what I love to do so much.

Spain's far away though. I've never been out of the US. I don't have any money saved. Some Spanish teams have open tryouts, and I think I'd have a shot, but if I don't make it, then I'm stuck in Spain with no money, no job, a rudimentary knowledge of the language, and no paperwork to allow me to stay.

"I haven't thought about it much in the last few days," I say. Which is the truth, since I've mostly been fixated on other things.

"You should," he says. He takes a drink of his protein shake before tucking it back between his legs. "Because you're clearly loving your job as assistant to the assistant coach."

"Yeah," I say sarcastically. "Being in charge of picking up all the wet, used towels discarded on the locker room floor by you assholes is a dream come true."

But it is a job. And it's a job in water polo.

I don't want to be an assistant to an assistant, though. I don't want to be a coach either.

I want to play.

But I just keep waiting around for something to happen. Something to change.

My thoughts flash to Lennox. To standing in his room, all of that artwork around me. All that he does, that he creates.

I should be doing more than getting coffee and picking up rank-ass towels.

He would probably push me to do more. To stop waiting for someone to give an opportunity to me.

I wonder what he's doing right now .

Is he in the hotel? I shift in my seat, thinking about him being there alone. Or even worse, heading off by himself. He better not go see the fucking elevator shaft by himself.

Fuck. Why am I thinking about it?

My thumb slides along the edge of my phone. Indy texted me his number. She said it was to organize when to meet at Randy's. And a few minutes after she sent it, that number— Lennox's number —added me to a group chat called Nightmare on Film Street.

Colin takes another sip, glancing at where I'm practically fondling my phone. "Your reluctance doesn't have anything to do with this new girl, does it? I mean, I get it if?—"

"No." I shake my head, my knees spreading as I lean back, stopping my mind from wandering to places it shouldn't go. "That's not it."

He nods, studying me. "What's her name?"

"Lennox."

Oh fuck.

That seriously just came out.

"Cool name," he says. "Does she go to school? Or work? Or what?"

Shit. "Librarian."

His brows go up. "That's oddly cool, too. Ask her if she likes lasagna."

"Alright." I rub at my neck, a line of tension running up the back so tight that it's nearly giving me a headache. Fuck, I can't leave it. I can't…

"Him," I push out, my heart starting to pound in my throat, my hands getting clammy. "He's a librarian. Lennox."

"Oh shit, bro." He taps his elbow against my forearm. "I didn't mean to misgender him. Bad on me. I should have done better. For some reason, I'd thought you mentioned a girl earlier."

I stare at him, my heart still beating so hard that it's echoing in my temples. "I did mention a girl."

"So this is new?" He winks. "I can't keep up."

"Yeah, it's new." My throat is tightening, my knee is bouncing. I think I just came out? Even though I don't even fully know if I'm out to myself yet. I mean, I have no idea what's going on. And Colin seems… entirely fine.

He takes another drink of his protein shake, holding it up to get the last drop, then shrugs before shoving the empty bottle into the seat pocket in front of him. Then he settles back and yawns. "Cool. Ask him if he likes lasagna. I'm gonna try and get some sleep."

He slips his earbud in again, scrunching lower in his seat before closing his eyes.

And all the while, I'm having this internal fucking meltdown.

I came out .

I mean, just to Colin. That doesn't mean I'm out-out.

Does it?

Holy fuck.

I blink at the window. It's just stretches of dark fields now, raindrops clinging to the glass. My reflection looks back at me, backwards hat, hair curling out the sides, faded sweatshirt, a small rip on the collar, my face, my eyes. I look like me .

I look like me, but I don't feel it. Who am I really ?

My phone is warm in my hands.

I'm a guy who wants to text another guy.

I just want to know what he's doing. I want him to lob a question at me. To push me. To tell me to stop picking up sloppy towels and fetching coffee. Maybe I even want to slip my fingers through his, feel the warmth of his hand around mine. Capture his lips with mine again. Softer this time, slower. Tasting him, feeling the way that he kisses me back, that he…

Fuck. I shift in my seat, rolling my thumb over the side of my phone. I don't know if I'm ready for this.

And if I text him now, before I talk to Indy, what does that mean about me? What kind of person am I?

I sigh and tuck my phone away.

Not yet .