Page 166 of Dream On

Oh my God.

I glance up from my place on the floor, peering over the empty bed, as the manuscript falls at my feet.

It’s an alternate ending.

Act III

“You’ll find, my friend, that what you love will take you places you never dreamed you’d go.”

—Angels in America, Part Two: Perestroika, Act 5, Scene 4

Chapter 40

Lex

The days blur into a week, my twenty-second birthday coming and going between a whir of film sets, empty trailers, chain-smoking, and a few stunts I insisted on doing myself because pain is easier to manage when it leaves a bruise. If I couldn’t escape the weight of my own self-contempt, at least I could throw myself off a moving truck and call it work.

An action movie in Washington wrapped up in seven days, my role nothing but a bit part as the tagalong friend to an up-and-coming actor eager for his big break. Slate-gray skies stretched over the ocean for days, waves crashing against jagged rocks, while wind tore through coastal cliffs, tugging at our tents and trailers as if the whole world was beating itself up on my behalf.

The actress playing the love interest asked me out for drinks on the last day, but I told her I was seeing someone.

Not a direct lie.

I fucking see her everywhere I go.

While I never had the balls to make a public statement about my “breakup” with Stevie St. James, the media is having a heyday questioning her sudden disappearance from my life. Rudy has been on top of it, trying to put the rumors to rest while spinning a story about her needing to be at home with her family for personal matters.

Also not a direct lie.

Stevie’s face is on magazine covers and running rampant on my social media feeds. She’s haunting me. But no more than the guilt and inner turmoil following me around like a ghost I can’t outrun.

Back home in Los Angeles, I walk into a meeting on a crystal clear Tuesday morning, the door slamming shut behind me while multiple pairs of eyes shift in my direction. It’s a meeting with my producers fromCome What May. More bullshit promotion.

My phone buzzes on the table when I take my seat—another notification, another headline.“Where is Stevie St. James?”The question of the hour. The question I can’t answer because I’m the reason she’s gone, and I haven’t yet managed to breach this ocean of denial.

I silence my phone, and the meeting begins.

I hear nothing.

Voices drown out on all sides, a muddle of pointless chatter. Nothing but drivel and clipped words. Willa sits beside me in one of the rolling chairs, glancing my way every so often. Worry tightens her brow. She taps my ankle with the toe of her shoe, and I blink up, realizing people are staring at me, waiting for something.

I didn’t hear the question.

“Yeah,” I say. “Sounds good.”

Everyone around me smiles and nods, and the next thirty minutes whiz by in an out-of-body blur, paralleling the last.

When the meeting is over, I have no idea what I just agreed to.

I don’t think I really care.

As I stroll out of the sterile room, Willa stops me before I make it to the building exit.

“Lex.”

Clearing my throat, I scratch the back of my neck and pivot to face her. “What’s up?”

“Are you okay?” She steps forward, her head angled like she’s trying to read me. But my pages are nothing but spilled ink. “Seemed like you didn’t hear a word of that.”