Page 39 of Romance Is Dead

I rolled onto my side. “He’ll see the movie, won’t he? And you can show him before it comes out. Maybe rustle up a game of backyard baseball. Or tee-ball, if you get nervous again.” It was supposed to be a joke, but he didn’t laugh. “Sorry, that was dumb. I didn’t mean — ”

Teddy shook his head. “No, it’s just. . . My dad died. Like a week after the baseball thing happened.”

“Oh my God.” My stomach bottomed out as I regretted the dumb joke about tee-ball even more. I reached out to touch his arm, rubbing the firm muscle under the fabric of his hoodie. “I never would have tried to joke about that if — ”

“How could you know? I don’t talk about it much.

Not because it’s too painful, but because people tend to be weird about it.

They either don’t know what to say, so they say nothing, or they make a huge deal of it, and I wind up telling them that it’s ok.

” He ran a hand down his face. “It’s exhausting. So, I just don’t bring it up.”

I wanted to kick myself. Now the whole thing made a little more sense — of course losing his father would make the memories of his disastrous little league season all the more painful. Of course he would freeze up, having to think about all that trauma.

“I’m sorry. I probably fall under the camp of people who react badly.”

“Not at all.” Teddy turned to look at me, his face so close I could count his eyelashes. “I told you because I wanted to. I trust you.”

Something stirred deep in my chest, a desire to assure him I was worthy of that trust. “How did it happen?”

He tilted his head to the sky, moonlight gleaming off his blue eyes.

“A heart attack, out of nowhere, when he was at work. My mother picked me up from school during lunch. I remember I was in the middle of this awful bowl of chili. I could tell she’d been crying, but she wouldn’t tell me why until we got home.

Then we went to my grandmother’s, and it’s all a blur after that. ”

“That’s terrible.”

“You want to know the fucked-up thing? Sometimes I wonder if my mom and I would be as close as we are if he hadn’t died. Not like I’m glad that it happened. It’s just. . .”

“Something you think about,” I finished.

“Yeah. Even when she had to juggle, like, three jobs she’d always make sure to be home to read me and my brother a bedtime story.

Or if she couldn’t, she’d stop by school the next day to have lunch with us.

Looking back, it must have been so fucking hard.

But somehow she made it seem easy. She always made us feel loved.

” His jaw tightened. “All I want is to make life easy for her now.”

“She sounds amazing.” My chest squeezed with aching affection. Teddy was so good. At that moment, I thought he was maybe the best person I’d ever met. “Were you close with your dad before he died?”

“He was my hero.” Teddy laughed softly. “I’m sure all boys think that about their dads though.”

“No, I think there are a lot of crummy dads out there. You were lucky.” I pushed myself up on my elbow.

“My dad, for example, is a murderer.” I immediately cringed — there I was, making jokes again, and a bad one at that.

But Teddy burst out with a laugh, and some of the tension ebbed from his body.

“That must have been so fun, seeing all that as a kid.” He wrapped an arm around my shoulders and I rolled over to rest my head on his chest.

“Most of the time. I don’t think my mom liked it.

She was pretty eager to move away and have a more normal life, away from the industry.

” I traced his collarbone under his shirt.

Maybe I was more like my mom than I thought.

“But it’s hard to beat going to movie premieres when you’re seven or Mike Myers coming to your fifth birthday party. ”

“That must have been kickass.”

“Yeah. . . it kind of makes me sad now, though,” I admitted. “Thinking about those things.”

“Why?”

“It’s gone, isn’t it? That magical sheen that makes everything sparkle when you’re a kid, that makes it seem so perfect even when it isn’t.

” To my horror, my voice was thickening and catching in the back of my throat.

“Once you grow up, that’s gone. And it makes you sad knowing that either things weren’t as magical as they seemed at the time, or that you’ll never feel that happy again. ”

“You’re not happy?”

I hesitated. “Maybe. But growing up means everything looks a little grayer, don’t you think?”

“No. Not everything.” Teddy’s voice was resolute. He picked up my hand, twirling our fingers together. “I see color in you.”

We both fell quiet then, and something about the moment was too real, cut too deep. I wanted to tell him that to me, he was technicolor. But I couldn’t.

He rubbed his thumb along my shoulder. “Why does your childhood look grayer now?”

The familiar feeling of resistance starting to rise, the urge to clamp my mouth shut or change the subject. But then it did something strange. It started to crumble. To weaken.

“I’m quitting horror movies,” I blurted. “After this one, obviously. But then I’m not going to make any more.”

Teddy was quiet for a long moment, his fingers slowing on my shoulder while he processed. “I thought you loved them?”

“It’s so many things. Like the tabloids spreading rumors and publishing my personal business.

Or putting every fiber of yourself into an audition only for a director to say you’re doing it wrong, even though you spent two months analyzing your character’s background and motivation.

For every high there’s a dozen lows, and the constant rejection is so draining.

Not to mention I don’t even have an agent anymore. ”

“She obviously screwed up.”

I smiled, grateful. “Thanks. But the reviews are demoralizing, too. You don’t believe the good ones that say you did a good job. But the bad ones? Those you believe. And it’s hard not to internalize someone saying my ‘angular features are better suited for character parts than a leading lady.’”

“What does that even mean?”

“That I’m not classically pretty enough to lead a film.”

“I. . . Sorry, what?”

I shrugged, not sure what else to say.

“That’s complete bullshit.” He huffed out a laugh. “You’re gorgeous.”

I squeezed his arm. “And to make it all worse, I haven’t even told my dad.”

“Seriously? Aren’t you two super-close?”

I sighed. “It just never seems like the right time. Every time we talk, he’ll bring up my career, or ask me what I’m planning to do next, or tell me how proud he is of my work. And how am I supposed to tell him then?”

“Ah yes, the dreaded proud parent,” Teddy teased. “Do you think he’ll be mad or something?”

“Not mad, exactly. Just disappointed, you know? Horror movies are our thing. They always have been. How can I tell him I’m quitting the thing that’s always brought us together?”

“I get that.”

“And what if he gets upset and then our entire relationship changes?” The anxiety was swelling again, the thought of ruining things, of things never being the same.

“Did you get mad when he retired from making movies?”

“No, of course not.”

“Well, there you go. It’s not like you can’t still watch horror movies, right?”

I grinned. “You can pry the next Conjuring sequel out of my cold, dead hands.”

Teddy used his thumb and forefinger to tip my chin up until I was looking at him. “He’ll understand. I know he will.”

I squeezed my eyes shut, my heart clenching painfully as I hoped he was right. The words were a balm, soothing an ache that had been in my chest for months. So many people in the industry looked at you but didn’t see you. It was starting to feel like Teddy saw me.

When I opened them, Teddy’s gaze had fallen to my lips.

I didn’t hesitate before I closed the space between us, pressing my mouth to his.

He wrapped an arm around my waist and hauled me up, twisting until I was on top of him.

I pressed my hands to either side of his face, deepening the kiss.

It felt different this time — kissing not just for the pleasure of it, but because I wanted to be as close to him as possible, like I couldn’t stand a millimeter of space between us.

I wanted him, all of him, to envelop me completely.

It was intense. Probably too intense. Teddy was filming his last scene tomorrow.

And then he would leave, and I would never see him again.

He would go off to film his next dating show, and I would be.

. . well, whatever I ended up deciding to do.

Which was exactly the plan, I reminded myself.

Exactly what was supposed to happen. What needed to happen.

But I couldn’t chase away the feeling of being cheated.

Like I hadn’t had enough time. I’d had no idea about his father — what else didn’t I know about him? Probably a million things.

I pulled back, breaking the kiss. “Tell me something I don’t know about you.”

“What?” Teddy laughed, cupping my cheek in his hand as he brushed hair out of my eyes.

“Tell me something I don’t know about you,” I repeated, rolling over to snuggle under his arm. “I want to know everything.”

“I got spat on by a llama once. Does that count?”

“Definitely. Tell me another.”

I knew it was late. I knew my alarm would wake me up way too soon once I finally went to sleep. I knew delving further into Teddy’s world wasn’t going to make saying goodbye any easier. But I didn’t care. I wanted to soak it up, soak him up, when I still had the chance.

So we stayed. I learned he didn’t lose his virginity until he was twenty-one, and he learned that I slept with my baby blanket until it disintegrated two years ago.

We didn’t leave until the horizon started to lighten with a hint of the morning sun, driving back to the hotel with hands entwined.

We had two hours before we had to be in hair and makeup, and I knew taking a nap would only make me more exhausted and that filming would be grueling.

But as we said goodbye and I collapsed into my hotel bed, I knew it was worth it. He’d been worth it.