Page 83 of Burn the Script

The dots appear and disappear, and my heart cannot take the suspense. It already knows what’s coming. Those hesitant dots signify deep thought, intention. They also represent a grim outlook for me.

My Darling

Everything’s been moving fast, and I need time to think.

Me

Don’t do this again. Please.

My Darling

Give me a few days to sort out my thoughts. We’ll talk this weekend.

I stare blankly at the device in my hand. “He said he needs time to think. What is there to think about?”

“Graham.” Maisy’s voice sounds distant as the trailer shrinks.

An unwelcome feeling stirs within me. The air turns stifling, and my throat tightens. I tug at my collar and process the finality in his last message. He left no opening for me to walk through. No grey area where I could bend the rules and get away with it. He slammed the door in my face.

“Fuck!” The phone flies across the room. It bounces off the sofa and hits the floor with a thud. “I was close to getting him back. So fucking close. How could he let one interview of lies ruin everything?”

Maisy’s beside me in a flash, gripping my arm and speaking with urgency. “It’s not over, G. Miggy loves you. If the interview scared him enough to slam the brakes, there must be a good reason. He does nothing on impulse.”

That’s not true. He made an impulsive decision the night he left me. The difference this time is my clear innocence. If he believes I had nothing to with Phoebe’s schemes, I don’t understand why he’s punishing me, unless…

“What if he doesn’t?”

“Doesn’t what?” Maisy asks.

“Love me. I could’ve been imagining it all along, living in the land of make-believe. It’s what I’m best at, right? Lying. Pretending. Making up shit that’s not real.”

Phoebe’s interview could be the excuse Miguel needed to bow out for good. He never wanted to get back together. If he had, he would’ve come to me first. I pushed this on him. For all I know, he’s been playing along to ease his guilt after breaking my heart.

Maisy groans as she drops onto the sofa and grabs my sleeve. “Sit your overthinking ass down, and I’ll prove you’re not imagining things.”

I drop down beside her with my elbows on my bouncing knees. She angles her phone to show me her text history with Miguel, scrolling through a year’s worth of messages. I clutch my necklace and rub the stone while reading the highlights.

He asked about me. About the movie, my headaches, if I was eating well and sleeping enough. Maisy sent the same reply to every message: “Call him.” He never called, but he also never stopped checking on me or trying to manage my well-being from afar.

My heart nearly bursts, never mind my overflowing eyes and drippy nose. Wiping my cheeks, I laugh. “It probably drove him nuts when you refused to give him answers. He worries.”

“As you can see, he demoted me from an angel to a witch to a member Satan’s family. ‘Beelzebub’s wretched niece’ might be my favorite nickname so far. That one always makes me smile.”

“The two of you share a weird sense of humor.”

She shrugs. “Some people click. Miguel and I are a lot alike, so trust me when I tell you to respect his wishes and give him the time he needs. And think through your next move before you act. You can’t mess this up.”

I already know my next move, but I’ll wait until he reaches out before acting on it. Miguel matters to me more than anything, including my lifelong dream. I’ll do whatever it takes to keep him happy. Because my heart won’t survive if he breaks it a second time.

36

MIGUEL

THEN

January, Year Five

I woke with a gasp and reached for Graham, but he wasn’t in bed with me. The pool lights illuminated his naked silhouette near the window, where he rested his head on the forearm braced against the glass. All day, he’d been antsy about something but kept quiet, never one to complain.