Page 25 of Lights, Camera, Love

Do you see him much?

Evie’s five innocent words scrape against the inside of my skull, reprimanding me for being so close to Jace yet so unable to make contact with him.

Not unable … unwilling.

I could’ve reached out to him a million times, but for over a decade now, I’ve used Jace’s physical distance to trick myself into believing he’s not there. The ache in my head sharpens. And the Brother of the Year award goes to …

Resting my back against the apartment balcony’s glass railing, I take a deep breath of sea air and swipe a shaky finger through the Visitor Information page for Long Bay prison.

If Jace got a message that his brother wanted to visit him, what would he think?

I haven’t the faintest idea whether he’d be thrilled, disgusted or something else.

He’d probably be furious that his closest living relative—I doubt his father’s still around, not that Jace would know either way—seems to have forgotten his existence.

Evie’s dad has never shown any interest in her life, and she talks about him as if he’s the devil.

If Jace turned down my request for a visit, I know I’d feel a thousand times worse than I already do. But something else Evie said to me last night has latched onto my brain like a parasite, and I can’t shake it loose.

He ignored me .

Even more distressing than her words was the desolate expression on her face—it was the look of someone who’s spent their entire life wanting to receive love from someone who refuses to give it.

Is that what it’s been like for Jace? Does he see me as the older brother who knew he was in trouble and should’ve done everything he could to protect him, but put himself first? The brother who had the opportunity to be in his life but chose another family instead?

A heavy feeling of shame clamps down on my gut, and I shut down the prison website. Maybe it would be better to write him a letter first.

I head back inside the airy apartment, wanting to get this done before Austin gets back.

Swapping my phone for a notepad and pen, I settle onto the sofa and cast my gaze around the spacious living room, furnished in a minimalist palette of greys and blacks.

Money, money, money. Jace would be lucky if his cell had its own grubby toilet.

I can’t be here.

I snatch up the paper and pen, head into the corridor and catch the lift to the ground floor. Avoiding eye contact with joggers and dog-walkers, I trail down the sandy path leading to the north end of the beach. I stop at a grassy slope overlooking the ocean baths and find a quiet spot to sit.

Icy wind gusts whip my cheeks as I lay the flapping paper on my thigh, ready to write whatever comes out.

Dear Jace,

I’m probably the last person you’re expecting to hear from. I know it’s been a long time. It’s your half-brother, Kye.

Fuck. I shouldn’t say ‘half-brother’; it sounds like I’m intentionally pointing out that we’re not fully related. I tear the page off the notepad and start again.

Dear Jace,

I’m probably the last person you’re expecting to hear from. I know it’s been a long time. It’s your brother, Kye. I’m thirty now, and living in Sydney after a couple of years in Los Angeles with my client, who’s an actor, and also

My jaw clenches as I rip that page off the pad, too, and scrunch it up.

According to what I could get out of Mike, Jace spent most of his childhood moving from one abusive foster home to the next.

He ended up falling in with a bad crowd, and when he was nineteen, he was sentenced to a minimum of six years behind bars on charges of carjacking and assault.

And here I am, talking about the bright lights of Hollywood. Could I be any more of an asshole?

I dump the paper on the grass, fold my arms around my legs and gaze out at the glistening blanket of ocean, a dreadful coldness crashing over me.

There’s nothing I can say to my little brother that would justify the mistakes I’ve made.

The truth is, I abandoned him. I was given the opportunity to be placed in a home with him—to be his older brother, to help keep him safe—and I didn’t take it. I chose Austin instead.

My teeth dig into my bottom lip, and my eyes blur as I pull out my phone to call Mike. He’ll understand how I’m feeling; he’ll tell me what to do.

But the message notification on my screen makes my breath snag.

NADIA: CAN U CALL ME PLZ

For Christ’s sake.

All my instincts tell me to ignore Austin’s ex-wife, but she’s completely erratic right now—I’m worried about what she’ll do. I tap through to her number and hold the phone to my ear.

‘Hey, ghoster,’ she says, a nervous bounce in her voice.

‘What’s going on?’ I ask coolly, like this is no big deal—like this isn’t the first time Nadia and I have spoken since the shitstorm that disintegrated her marriage. I grab my crumpled notes and begin strolling back to the apartment.

‘What the fuck is going on with Austin and that bimbo from his new movie?’ she asks, any warmth in her tone evaporating.

My trainers halt against the pavement. ‘Nadia,’ I warn, ‘this has to stop.’

I hear papers rustling. ‘I’m looking at not one, not two, but three articles about Austin kissing her.’ A shaky breath leaves her throat. ‘This is all pretend, right? To sell more tickets to his movie?’

I could almost smile if I wasn’t so pissed off. Nadia may be emotionally fragile at the moment, but she’s always been as sharp as a tack. Still, there’s no way in hell I’d confirm her suspicions and risk having her quote me to some gossipy online rag.

‘It’s not pretend,’ I say, bracing for an audible snap of her heart. Instead, a little fracture cracks in my own chest. I’ve been trying so hard to forget the headline-grabbing kiss that Austin and Evie shared on the beach—how real it looked.

‘What do you mean it’s not pretend?’ Nadia asks, her voice rising in pitch. ‘He wants us to get back together; I know it. He’s just too scared to say it.’

‘Nadia, stop . Okay? Austin is not going to get back together with you. Ever. ’

A cry bursts from her throat. ‘And whose fault is that, Kye? Whose fucking fault is that?’

I end the call and shove the phone into my pocket. Lesson learned: no more answering messages from Nadia.

When I reach the apartment block, I glimpse Austin climbing out of a white hatchback I’ve never seen before, which I assume is an Uber. He can drive; he just doesn’t like to.

Shit. I can’t deal with him and his neediness right now. I continue past the apartment building towards the jumble of cafes competing for space along the boardwalk.

It takes me an hour and two overpriced cups of coffee to summon the will to go home.

It’s mid-morning on Thursday when I rest my elbows against the polished bar in the inner-city speakeasy-style pub, eyeing off the bottle of Michter’s taunting me from the top shelf.

The bar is shut—it’s not even midday. But my nerves are flipped inside out.

Evie and I have had three late-night rehearsals this week for the DanceLab showcase performance, and at each one, it’s taken all the willpower I have not to pull her against my chest, push her hair out of her face, and kiss the fucking life out of her.

Thank god Rafael’s been at each rehearsal, so I haven’t been able to even attempt putting that perilous plan into action.

Austin and I haven’t spoken much about Evie these past few days, and I’ve been too scared to ask if he’s been seeing her.

The uncertainty is killing me, though; anytime he’s out, I can’t help wondering if they’re together.

My gaze keeps sliding to the door. I’m waiting for Evie to step through it for our next fake-relationship media move: an interview with Monsieur magazine, accompanied by a sexy photo shoot of she and Austin inside this softly lit bar.

The photography assistant, a gangly guy in Buddy Holly glasses, is having way too much fun playing with the smoke machine, and a hiss of bitter-smelling fog assaults my face. I twist around and narrow my eyes at him.

‘Oops,’ he says with a toothy grin. He uses the latest issue of Monsieur to fan the smoke towards the two bar stools set up for the shoot.

I frown at my watch. I expected Evie to be running late, given she had a hair and makeup appointment before this, but where the hell is Austin?

He had a meeting scheduled this morning with a human rights charity he’s involved in, but he stayed up late watching an arthouse film and swore at me when I tried to haul him out of bed.

So I reluctantly agreed to take the meeting without him, and we planned to convene here afterwards.

‘I’m so sorry I’m late,’ utters a voice that could sweeten honey.

My breathing falters as Evie dashes through the hovering cloud of smoke.

Before I can form a greeting, my eyes fly over her short black dress, which draws focus to her mesmerising curves and dancer’s legs, and then skate up to her smiling face.

Something digs deep into my chest .

‘Where’s Austin?’ she asks, glancing around before clicking her three-inch heels in my direction. A moment later I’m coming off my stool, and she’s wrapping a soft, coconut-scented arm around my shoulder as a hello.

‘He’s not here yet,’ I reply after my throat unclogs. ‘You look … ’ My loss of words darkens the blush on Evie’s cheeks.

‘Thank you,’ she says, ducking her head as she tucks a lock of hair behind her ear.

It’s not lost on me how, when she’s in her dance class wearing baggy pants and no makeup, Evie is all confidence. But put her in a tight dress and false lashes, and she becomes much more self-conscious.

The Monsieur photographer, Marco, marches back in, after having taken a phone call in the back room, and introduces himself to Evie.

‘Where’s my male lead?’ he then snaps at me, tugging at his cravat as if we’re in the court of Louis XIV at Versailles and he’s the dauphin. Oh, fantastic, another Buzz.