Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 111443 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 557(@200wpm)___ 446(@250wpm)___ 371(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111443 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 557(@200wpm)___ 446(@250wpm)___ 371(@300wpm)
I swallowed hard and nodded, taken unaware by the lump of emotion lodged in my throat. I took a leisurely sip and waited till I could trust my voice before asking, “And your sad ones?”
“It’s a day. October eighth. The day Gray left me.”
“Oh.”
Seb held up a hand and shook his head. “No, you have it wrong. I would have left me if I were him too. I understood and I was sad for sure, but Charlie was…heartbroken. Completely devastated. And knowing I was the cause fucking killed me. Char cried for days. He even cried himself to sleep. I couldn’t make him happy. The only thing he wanted was the one thing I couldn’t give him.”
“I’m sorry. That is sad,” I said weakly. “And that’s the day Gray’s getting married now?”
“No, he changed the date. I knew he would. He wouldn’t want to upset Charlie.”
“Gray seems like a good man.”
“He is.”
His smile was sincere but slightly detached…if that made sense. It was a confirmation if I needed it—and I guess I did—that Seb really was over his ex. He loved his friend, but he’d let go of the romantic part of their past.
Seb greeted our waiter and placed our order like a pro, unaware that he’d set off a new wave of confusing emotion.
“Wonderful. And would you care for wine with your meal, gentlemen?”
“Yes, please.” Seb rattled off a French wine with a perfect accent, then pulled his glasses off with a flourish and flashed a devastating smile.
When we were alone again, I leaned in. “That kinda turned me on.”
“Ahh, you like someone else taking control,” he teased.
“No. Pretty much never.” I tore into my roll like the heathen I was and slathered warm salted butter on it.
“Hmm. I call bullshit. Anyway, it’s your turn. What are your happiest and saddest memories?”
“Uh, I don’t know.”
“C’mon, gimme something. First bike, first team trophy, first part in a play?”
“Uh…well, I did hit a clutch home run on my Little League team when I was twelve. We were down two, top of the ninth. If we didn’t score, we were out of contention, so it was a big play. I took a strike, a ball, and another strike. It wasn’t looking good, and I was no savior. I was a decent outfielder but I struck out more than I made contact with the ball. But I remember thinking, ‘I don’t want to be the reason our season is over.’ So I dug deep, sent up a prayer to the big guy in the sky, swung for all it was worth, and ka-pow—that ball went flying.”
Seb grinned. “Sounds momentous.”
“It was at the time. Geez, it’s been twenty-five years since my last big moment. I’d better step it up,” I joked.
“And what’s your saddest memory?”
I stared at him for a long moment, the words on the tip of my tongue. Words I never spoke for fear of tearing open a wound that had never truly healed.
“Um…” I swallowed hard and squinted. “My pet hamster died when I was nine. That was rough.”
Seb sipped his wine, studying me in that perceptive way of his. Any second now, he’d call bullshit and razz a confession from me. Any second now, I’d tell him to fuck off and everything we’d built over the past few months would crash, and we’d be back at square one…or worse.
I held my breath and waited for the round of good-natured cajoling that didn’t come.
“Okay.” He nodded in understanding before changing topics…something about salted butter on warm bread.
Maybe.
My head was spinning. I knew I didn’t have to tell him anything. That was the past. It didn’t matter anymore. But if it really didn’t matter, I should have been able to talk about it with the person I cared about. The person I was falling head over heels for.
I stopped him in the middle of his soliloquy about French butter and blurted, “Okay, I lied.”
“Trent, you don’t have to—”
I shook my head and barreled on. “I didn’t come to California to be an actor. I did, but I was happy enough on the east coast doing public theater. I used to teach action sequences and voice lessons to kids from the southside. The irony, huh? The guy who can’t get a speaking part used to teach students how to emote…how to use your diaphragm so you’re not screaming at your audience.”
“Really?”
I nodded. “I taught kids how to tumble and pretend sword fight and jump into the pages of their favorite books—Peter Pan, The Three Musketeers, Treasure Island. If they hadn’t read those classics, I made sure they knew the stories. I wanted them to know there were adventures far beyond their wildest dreams available to anyone. All you had to do was go to the library.”
“Very true,” he agreed. “Sounds like you enjoyed teaching.”