Page 97 of Burn the Script

Raising my head, I squint toward the canyon. Earlier, as the sun was rising, a bird soared over the hills, happy and free. It’s gone, but the envy I felt while watching it remains.

“Now, we wait. They say good things come to those who fall in love with stubborn people…or something like that.”

“Look at us, hopelessly drawn to runaway hearts.” She gasps and pats down her pockets and boobs. “I don’t have my phone on me. Hurry! Write that down!”

Laughing, I hand her mine. She opens the notes app and types in a frenzy. And keeps going and going and going. I lie back on the decking with my hands behind my head, staring at the blue sky while she writes another award-worthy hit. The singer may retire from the stage, but the songwriter will never cease to make music.

It’s the same with acting. I haven’t stood in front of a camera in the past year, but I’m still putting on a show, even for my friends. When they look at me, they see the man I want them to see, the old Graham who operated on ambition and positive vibes. They don’t know the man who’s willing to walk away from film entirely in exchange for a quiet life with Miguel.

“Could you picture yourself building a life in a place like Walford?” I ask.

Tatum stops typing and, like me, looks to the sky. “Yes, but only if it’s with Jake. A life with him is all I’ve ever wanted.”

My eyes close as the warm sunshine caresses my face. “I’d like to take Miguel there. I think he’d love it.”

“But would you? What about movies and Hollywood?”

With a thoughtful hum, I smile. “I’m also thinking…it’s time to break up with Hollywood.”

Friday, March 10th

Miguel shivers on my front porch, shoulders locked up and hands fisted at his sides. The left side of his shorts and T-shirt are sopping wet, and he’s covered in sand.

“What happened?” I ask.

“Life.” His sneakers squeak as he toes them off, leaving him barefoot. “I wasn’t sure you’d be home. Guess I could’ve called first.”

Uncertain what to do, I prop a shoulder on the door frame and grab the back of my neck. As a precaution, I’ve kept my travel arrangements to myself. Until he decides whether we can be together, I won’t risk scaring him off. While the friendly nature of our texts has been excruciating, they’re better than silence.

“I had some business to take care of here, but I’m headed back to Texas tomorrow.”

“Oh.” He raises an arm to wipe his sniffling nose but notices the sand on his skin and aborts. “I found one.”

“Found what?” I ask, crossing the threshold.

“My princess shell. I figured you must’ve forgotten, so I met up with some sporty old ladies who made me climb rocks. I fell and cut my leg—bled for you—and there’s sand in my underwear. It’s not the exact same as the one you showed me in Costa Rica, but it’s close enough. Same colors⁠—”

“Miguel.” My gentle tone ends his rambling.

Tears carve paths down his cheeks as he lifts a shaky hand and opens his fist. Pieces of a seashell rest in his palm.

“It’s broken,” he chokes. “I sat on it, and I have no clue how to fix this, Graham. All I know is that I’m failing us again.”

His pleading eyes imprison mine, and that silent cry for help is all it takes for me to move. In a blink, he’s in my arms, sobbing uncontrollably. He smells like sweat and saltwater. Grains of sand stick to my lips when I press them to his hair.

“I’ve got you.”

His arms circle my waist and squeeze so tight it hurts, but the pain isn’t the physical kind. “If I can’t keep a seashell alive, what chance do I have of becoming a partner you’re proud of?”

“Darling, I’ve always been proud of you. My biggest regret is not realizing you weren’t proud of yourself.”

He buries his face in my neck, shoulders quaking. “I’m so sorry, baby. I really am.”

Our home full of memories bears witness as Miguel lays his troubles at my feet, one racking sob at a time. I gather those worries and store them in my heart for safekeeping. They’re as precious as him, and I vow to never dismiss them as anything other than valid and real.

Once his sobs fade to sniffles, I put an arm around him and guide him inside the house. On autopilot, he drifts upstairs toward the balcony, tracking sand along the way. He collapses onto his favorite loveseat, and I start the fire pit to get him warm. Although he may not need warmth. The evening air is cool, but his burned cheeks indicate he’s been baking in the sun for hours.

“Have you eaten today?” I ask.