Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 123873 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 619(@200wpm)___ 495(@250wpm)___ 413(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123873 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 619(@200wpm)___ 495(@250wpm)___ 413(@300wpm)
Brendan edged away. “What are you staring at?”
“You,” Drake said, then grinned. “You are hopelessly, miserably in love with that boy.”
“Why does that make you happy?!”
“I feed on your suffering, and it tastes delicious.” Drake’s sharp-edged grin softened into a smile, though, and he shook his head. “I just never thought I’d see it happen. Even after what happened on that island, I thought you’d pick up and move on. Get over it. Brush it off like you do with everything. Instead I leave you alone for a few months, babysit a few of my other clients…and come back to this. You. Pining.”
“Yes, I had a character arc, I came to critical realizations, I discovered the power to love was within me all along, fucking delightful.” Brendan twirled a fingertip. “Get bent, being in love sucks.”
“It might suck less if you told him.”
“You think I haven’t fucking well tried?” Brendan snarled, glowering at Drake. Why was the man needling him like this? “It’s the twenty-first century. The plot doesn’t hold up with physical distance and just not sending a fucking text. His U.S. number is cut off. Texts and calls aren’t going through. Email? Bounces back, inbox full. His agency refuses to disclose his contact information. I can’t find a single phone number for even a business on the island—I would call a damned bakery and tell them to go up to that damned castle and give him the phone. I. Tried. And I can’t fucking reach him out on that fucking slag pile in the middle of the ocean. It’s swallowed him back up like he never fucking existed, and I’m going to have to tie a fucking note to a carrier pigeon at this rate.”
“Knowing you, you probably would. But you could try a snail mail letter.”
“If you bring me another fucking script, I’m on the next flight to Norway.”
“Mm…maybe don’t go rushing off just yet.” Drake glanced away, clucking his tongue thoughtfully. “You know, awards season is coming up. Heart of Snow barely made it in under the line for consideration.”
“Only because Newcomb pushed for an early release.”
“Funny how he suddenly wanted to wash his hands of the project. Especially considering it’s done quite well at box office, even with a few CGI edits since that jackfuck wouldn’t call either of you back for reshoots.”
“I don’t care.”
“I hear he’s planning to sue Cillian, too.”
Brendan sat up sharply, clenching his teeth, but Drake held up his hand with a shake of his head.
“Don’t, Brendan. It won’t get anywhere. Scatchy or whatever that place is called doesn’t have an extradition treaty with the U.S.” Drake shrugged. “Nothing’s come through his lawyers for you. I think you’re more than he can chew.”
Brendan eyed Drake. “Why are you trying to reassure me?”
“Because you’re a mess.” Drake tilted his head, leaning in a little. “You’re a mess, and you’re a jackass in love. It hurts to see you like this.”
“You have feelings, now?”
“I do about my friends.”
Drake pulled away, then, leaning over the side of the sofa to hook his briefcase in one finger and tug it closer. He reached inside, then pulled out a thickly bound stack of pages with a familiar title on the cover: HOW TO LOVE A CACTUS.
“You left this in your room when you cleared out. I thought you might want it.” He smiled slightly. “You should read it. It’s good.” Drake dropped the script against Brendan’s thigh. “And then figure out what you want to do.”
Brendan sat up slowly, letting the script fall into his hands, staring down at the cover. Drake stood, catching up his laptop and briefcase and pacing toward the entryway; Brendan looked up at his back, watching as Drake slid the laptop away inside the case, then tucked into his shoes.
My friends.
He swallowed, curling his fingers tighter against the cardboard cover. “Drake.”
Drake paused, glancing over his shoulder.
“You…” Brendan fought with his stubborn tongue, his pride. “…you aren’t my only friend because I can’t find others. You’re my only friend because I don’t want any others.”
Drake smiled, reserved, yet his visible eye glittering warmly. “Who else do you need when you have me?” But he sobered, then, and added, “…you’re not half bad when you’re honest about your feelings. Now…try doing that again. But this time, with him.”
He left, then—closing the door softly behind him, and leaving Brendan alone.
He looked down at the script, tracing his fingers over the cover. Honest about his feelings…he never was, was he? Always the façade, even with himself.
Always trying to deny what he felt.
Never able to say the honest words.
He’d tried. A journal full of half-written letters, all of them trying to find the right words to tell Cillian he was sorry, he wanted to try again, try them, let it be real when every time Cillian had touched him, begged for him, those feelings had hit goddamned hard, too had to deny no matter how much he’d attempted to push them away. Maybe he’d just gather them all up, send the entire sheaf of letters to Cillian, give him all these puzzle pieces of thoughts and hope he caught the larger thing lurking between half-finished lines and clumsy words.