Page 3 of The Sun & Her Burn

We developed a…friendship, of sorts.

One where I was deeply and abidingly in love with her, and she allowed me to be.

It was so like Savannah, not to be able to give up that kind of attention while simultaneously being unable to offer me anything genuine in return. We did not speak of my feelings and certainly not her own, but the chemistry between us seemed so obvious, an electric storm in the middle of any room.

Which made it even more bizarre, perhaps, that after a few years of infrequent outings and lukewarm friendship, Tate Richardson asked Savannah to have me for dinner. It was agonizing, watching the small intimacies between them, noting how Savannah seemed content in a way she had not with Adam—and me—if not because of a wild passion for her husband, but because of the life and status he afforded her. He enjoyed social outings and playing the gregarious host alongside her benevolent hostess. Her cutting criticisms made him laugh, even when they were directed at him, and her tendency toward negativity never seemed to impact his natural jubilance. They were an odd pair, but well-suited to each other.

And it hurt like a bitch to witness.

My family, who were too clever and observant not to understand the imbalance in my friendship with Savannah—though only Elena and Cosima knew the true story of our past—asked me why the hell I would put myself through those meals and outings with the Richardsons.

I didn’t tell them it was better than no time with Savannah at all, because it would have been too pathetic.

But it was the truth.

No matter how toxic our relationship was, I could not stop myself from longing for her.

Just as I could not stop yearning for Adam.

But I wasn’t a nineteen-year-old boy anymore.

On the cusp of thirty, I was pragmatic enough to know I’d never have any kind of relationship with Adam Meyers again.

We hadn’t spoken in ten years.

Not even when we’d caught eyes at industry events and parties, my gaze magnetized to his no matter the circumstances. I could find him in a crowd of black and white tuxedos, as if he were under a spotlight. I could find him with my eyes closed and my hands tied, my soul dragged into his orbit like a comet drawn by his gravitational force.

Not one word passed between us.

Just those looks, those green apple eyes hitting me in the sternum with the force of a sixteen-wheeler for the span of a second before they wrenched free and found someone else to grace.

Once, I had been up for a part in an ensemble war movie he was already tied to. Against all hope, I’d considered it. Acting had always been our shared passion, a language we spoke that even Savannah could not quite understand. Maybe, foolish young Sebastian had dreamed, we would share a few comments on set, a handful of lingering looks between takes, and that connection between our hearts would click back into place just like that.

Perhaps then we could be together, even if we couldn't be with Savvy.

The next day, while scrolling through Photogram, I saw his latest post. Adam lounging on a yacht somewhere with water the color of crushed aquamarines, holding Willa Trombley in his arms. She was the actress I met when Adam took me on a tour of Pinewood Studio—the one acting in Andrea Felice’s film the first time I met him.

I had deleted Photogram for a month after that. And told Mali I would not take the role in the war film.

I could stand being in the same universe as Savannah, just barely, but I knew in the marrow of my bones I would not withstand proximity to Adam without breaking into pieces.

So no.

I did not talk about Savannah Richardson and Adam Meyers.

What words were there to explain what they were and were not to me?

What business was it of anyone else?

I smiled thinly. “I have not seen Adam Meyers in a decade, and Savannah Richardson and I only enjoy a passing acquaintanceship. If you want me to talk about a meaningful relationship, it would be better to ask me about my mother or sisters.”

Isla pursed her lips, clearly torn between pursuing what was a sore spot or delving into questions about my only slightly less famous siblings.

As per usual, my sisters won out.

“I hear congratulations are in order for your twin sister, Cosima,” she said with a genuine smile. She had interviewed Cosi many times over the years, too, and as was the case with most people who met my sister, Isla held a warm regard for her. “Pregnant, again.”

“With triplets. She’s due next month, actually,” I said, letting the love I had for my family fill the gaping holes in my chest like a cleansing ocean tide over barren rock. “I do not think Xan knows what he’s gotten into.”