5. Oli

5

OLI

There's no amount of concealer that can fix the bags under my eyes.

Even if everything had been going swimmingly, the past week would've been a killer. I'm swaying on my feet from lack of sleep, since I've spent every waking minute - and plenty of minutes where I should have been sleeping too - pushing content for the premiere.

I still have a migraine from the hours-long conference calls I'd been on soothing the rightfully terrified author, who was walking her first red carpet. I think I must be severely dehydrated because I'm having a hard time swallowing and breathing and I also think my heart may be about to give out.

Who am I kidding? It's not the work. I live for work. I thrive on being busy. It's the heartbreak that's reduced me to a gross-looking shell of myself.

Geoffrey had come crawling back to the apartment two days later, after blowing up my phone with texts and calls, all of which went unanswered. I was too busy crying into a pile of throw pillows while watching the most mindless TV I could find. My diet consisted entirely of Ben and Jerry's Chunky Monkey, which was horrible for both my waistline and my lactose intolerance. He had the gall to actually get down on his knees in front of me as I hid in the blankets of the couch, crying and begging me to take him back, swearing up and down that he loved me and he wouldn't cheat again.

I said no. Even if that word was the hardest that'd ever come out my mouth.

I was pretty sure that he was just upset about being caught. And that he thought pissing off the man who did his laundry and shopping and booked his doctor's appointments was his biggest mistake.

His loss, I tell myself, and yet I'm the one who feels like I've lost everything

Geoff had gotten mad, and there'd been a screaming match that I blocked out of my memory, and it ended with him throwing the keys to the apartment at my face and telling me that he was moving out because he couldn't stand all the bad memories I'd created here, and that movers would be by the next day to pack up his stuff.

So now I'm standing in a bathroom I definitely can't afford on my own - thank God that Geoff always pre-paid his rent for months in advance in some 'I'm able to deduct it from my taxes' scheme I never understood - trying to fix the mess of my face. My eyes are swollen and red-rimmed, which looks particularly awful in contrast with the purple bags under them.

My phone lights up with a text from Megan.

Are you on your way? - Megan

She's taken to checking in on me every two hours, like she thinks that if she doesn't, I'm just going to collapse and die. Maybe that's the case. Over the last year, she's become more than my boss - she's become my friend, too. Everyone at Sky High has. That's what happens when you put book lovers in a pressure cooker together.

If there's one bright spot in my life right now, it's that the team of people I work with has rallied behind me, all of them bitching with me about what a fucking asshole Geoff is, how no one really prefers fucking a twenty-year-old instead of someone with a decade's more of sex experience, and how I'm better off without him anyway.

I'm trying to frame it as a new beginning to my life. A new movie, a huge boost to my career, a fast track to being a celebrity publicist. Money and connections and all that jazz. But my heart hurts and if I'm being honest with myself, I'm deep in mourning a future that I'd seen with Geoff, no matter how imperfect things were. I thought we'd be getting married eventually, that we'd think about adopting a kid or two, maybe getting a dog or a cat. Being a team. I was content to be the sidekick to his Armin Wolfe, because like the dragon rider and his fated mate, we were meant for one another.

But I guess not.

I give up on the concealer as I get some of it in my eye. At least when my eye starts to water it's for a reason other than being gutted. I hurriedly shove myself into the tuxedo I'd bought for the occasion, botching the bow tie but not really caring. My feet hurt the minute I get them into the stiff leather shoes that I got to match, and I regret not breaking them in over the last few weeks. Yet another thing that fell off my personal to-do list as my life fell apart.

I call an Uber and get downstairs, thanking God that at least the weather is perfect. It's a gorgeous spring evening, and the sun is setting perfectly on time. It will be golden hour when the stars and my author walk the red carpet, which means that the pictures will be extra stunning.

I just wish I didn't have to go alone.

I distract myself by scanning my news alerts, seeing that press are already reporting on the premiere. I quickly skip through all the posts about the stars - they're not my clients, so I couldn't care less - and find the ones about my author. She's there, smiling in a gorgeous dress patterned to look like dragon scales, and there's no hint of nerves in her confident expression. I play a few clips for myself, and practically burst with pride at how well she's answering the press questions, especially the news about the new six-book deal she just signed with another major publisher, and about the Age of Dragons spin-off she'd committed to write for Sky High. All of the hours I'd spent practicing interviews with her had clearly paid off.

When the Uber drops me off in Trafalgar Square, I thread through the crowds and flash my ID for security, which lets me into the press pen. I start shaking hands and answering questions for the media, those that weren't important enough to ask the author and the actors, but which will flesh out a story. There's a tall, stunning Italian woman holding court with some of the reporters at the edge of the crowd, and I can tell that she's probably representing one of the leads by the way the reporters are all shouting questions at her. Besides the two of us, there are a few other publicists working the crowd, and I get lost in the rhythm of answering questions while keeping an ear out for what everyone else is saying.

And then it's over in a flash, and the red carpet is emptying as ushers start to let people into the massive theatre where the movie will play.

I hesitate as I find Megan in the crowd. She makes her way to me. 'Are you coming in, Oli?'

I bite my lip, thinking of how I need to be professional and don't want to break down in tears during all the parts where Armin and his fated mate-slash-fellow dragon rider Gwen confess their undying love to each other. There's even a damn proposal scene in the movie, and I'm wondering if I'll be able to make it through.

'I just need a minute,' I lie. 'Bathroom. Bad stomach and all.'

‘If your bad stomach is a result of more ice cream, you get no sympathy from me,' she says, her eyes crinkling in suspicion.

I narrow my eyes, giving her my patented ‘I could kill you with just a look' glare. ‘I hate how well you know me.'

It's probably going to be more like an hour, which I'll blame on my steady diet of only ice cream. That will get me through the worst of the early declarations of love and fidelity. And then I can dip out to get a drink during the proposal scene. I know exactly where it is, having fast-forwarded through it many times over the last week.

‘This is what you've been working towards, Oli. Don't get lost on your way to your seat,' Megan says, squeezing my arm and clearly not buying my bullshit. She's always been able to see straight through me.

‘Save me a seat.'

She eyes me nervously, knowing the chances of my actually watching the film are slim.

‘It sounds like you're bowing out before the curtains rise,' Megan says.

‘You know me, the book is always going to be better than the film.'

She smiles but it doesn't quite reach her eyes. Then Megan turns on her red-bottom heels and leaves.

I breathe a sigh of relief as she doesn't put up more of a fight and make my way up to the second level of the theatre, where I'm sure there's a quieter bathroom that I can hide in.

But when I open the door and slip inside, I realise I'm not alone.

There's a man hunching over the sink, gripping the edges. He's wearing an expensive looking suit, but it's ill-fitting, like he rented it from some shop that didn't even make adjustments. That and there's a faint hint of alcohol under the smell of his cologne. His thick brown hair is falling out of its gelled style and into his eyes, which are beyond tired looking. They'd probably be hazel in the sun, but in the industrial light of the bathroom, they're just a muddy brown. His cheekbones are high, but his face is hollow, like he's just lost a lot of weight.

He's gorgeous, in a faded kind of way, like he'd once been stunning but had let himself go.

He's also very clearly having a panic attack.

'Hey,' I say, because I've been there and done that, and there's no way that I'm going to leave someone to suffer through an anxiety onslaught alone. 'Are you ok?'

The man gives a harsh laugh, almost like he's choking, and grips the edge of the sink even harder. His knuckles show through the skin, and I hope he's not about to start throwing punches. Maybe he thinks I'm coming on to him. I take a half-step back, but then the laugh gives way to a ragged inhale that sounds like it hurts.

'No,' he croaks, his voice so quiet I almost can't hear. 'I'm not.'

It looks like the admission costs him, his shoulders curling in and his breathing getting even shorter and sharper. I go into triage mode, stepping up to him. 'Is it alright if I touch you?'

The man nods, and I put my hand on his back, rubbing soothing circles over the ridges of his spine, which I can feel through his jacket. 'I want you to breathe in for a count of four, then hold it, and then we'll let it out slowly.'

It's a trick my therapist taught me, controlling breathing to short-circuit panic attacks. I hope it works for this stranger, because I can't stand to watch someone in the kind of pain I know personally. My medication works well enough that I haven't had one of these in ages, but that doesn't mean I don't remember the feeling of it all too well.

The man nods again, and I count out the numbers slowly, feeling his ribs expand and then contract against my hand. We do it again, and again, and after a few cycles the shaking in his hands starts to ebb.

'That's better,' I say soothingly, switching to what I always wanted on the come-down from a panic attack - a good shoulder massage. It's hard through the jacket, but even with layers of fabric between us, I can feel just how tense and locked-up this man's muscles are.

'Thanks,' he says. His voice is still ragged, but it's a little better now. He's pushing back into my hands, like a cat eager to be pet, and I keep going, digging my thumbs into the tense lumps along his shoulder blades. 'I'm so sorry. This is so embarrassing. I just - I think I need to get out of here.'

'It's not embarrassing,' I counter. 'Plenty of people, myself included, have anxiety that becomes unmanageable at times. But I agree with you - I'm not interested in being here anymore either. But responsibilities and all.'

‘Yes,' he replies, eyeing me cautiously, as if I'm about to steal something from him. Clearly, this man distrusts new people just as much as I should've with Geoff, before I was blinded by the high life. ‘Do you…'

He stops himself, which makes me lean in. ‘Do I what?'

His rich brown eyes, which are more the decadent colour of chocolate than I first noticed, drink me in. From stiff leather shoes to the dramatic pink bowtie I matched with my tux.

I get the odd feeling that he wants to get as far away from me as possible. Is it the bowtie? Maybe I should've gone with boring black after all. ‘Never mind. I should go.'

I busy myself by washing my hands, over and over, aware he is still looking at me expectantly. When the question finally comes, it almost knocks me forwards. ‘What responsibilities are you hiding from in here?'

A nervous laugh bubbles up my throat. ‘Where do I start?'

‘Sounds ominous.' I notice the strange accent the man has. It's American, kind of. But there's something else beneath it, the roll of a tongue that transports me to a warm beach in the Mediterranean. Italian maybe? Or Spanish, I can't place it.

‘What about you?' I ask, pumping more soap onto my fingers.

‘I'm not one to enjoy a crowd, to be honest.'

‘Ditto.'

‘Ditto? Isn't that a Pokémon?'

I snap my head around, amused by the fact this tall man even knows what Pokémon are. ‘You're not wrong.'

He shrugs, tugging nervously at the knot of his tie as the bustle beyond the door dies down. ‘Sounds like the movie is about to start.'

I wince, and he notices.

‘Can I ask why you're here, if you clearly have no interest in watching it?'

I turn off the tap and notice just how silent the room is. ‘Again, you're asking me another question that you could do with answering.'

‘Well,' the man says, finally tugging his tie off. He pulls it through his collar with careful hands, before discarding it over the basin of the sink before him. ‘Let's just say, that my responsibilities are fulfilled for the night. Is that something else we share in common?'

He's not wrong in his assumption. My work was done the minute the red carpet ended, and now all that's happening is people watching a movie that I've screened dozens of times before to get my marketing copy and social media assets just right. There will be afterparties, but Megan and the rest of my friends know full well that I'm not in the mood for a huge crowd of people in a club with pounding music. Not tonight.

‘They are.'

He steps forwards, driven by a confidence I could only wish to have. ‘Then there is nothing stopping either of us from escaping?'

Are you suggesting - ' I venture, hesitant. I'm not normally like this, but the guy is practically arching into me, so there's a good chance he's thinking along the same lines I am. 'What I'm trying to say is…Do you want to get out of here? Together?'

Maybe all I need is a distraction. A hot, sad distraction that looks like he could use one too. Something to overwrite the memory of Geoff fucking a twink. Maybe getting railed will wipe that right out of my head, replace it with a good memory for once.

The man looks at me through devilishly long lashes, and the look in his eyes sends heat straight to my core.

'Yes,' he says, licking his lips, the vestiges of panic leaving his expression. 'Let's.'