Selfie (21 page)

He took my arm over his shoulders as we cleared the landing, and held the crutches in his opposite hand. I leaned on him until we got into the bedroom.

“Can you pee standing up, or do you have to do number two?” he asked in all seriousness, and I . . .

I did not take that very well.

I collapsed on the bed, laughing my ass off.

“Number two? Oh my God—did you just ask me if I have to take a crap? Because—”

“Yeah, I get it—”

“I mean, I know the paparazzi can be intrusive sometimes—”

“Yeah, there was probably—”

“But, Jesus, Noah—not even Vinnie used to ask me if I had to take a crap!”

Noah rolled his eyes. “I’m sure he didn’t. Vinnie was perfect and saintly in all things.”

“No, he wasn’t.”

“Did I
mention
the
sarcasm
? Now do you have to go sit down and have private time for a while or what?”

I thought about it. “Naw,” I said, suddenly sober. “Just let me pee and brush my teeth. I’ll . . .” Fuck. “We need to buy one of those shower seats, don’t we?”

Noah let out a sigh through his nose. “Yeah. I’ll bring it tomorrow.”

I tried not to whimper. I still had makeup and glue all over my face and my chest and my legs. “Good thing I shaved my legs,” I mumbled, trying to find
something
good.

Noah was still thinking. “Here—tell you what. Go pee and brush your teeth and undress—I’ll be right back.” He handed me the crutches and disappeared.

By the time he got back, I was sitting on the john with a towel wrapped around my waist, feeling like I was about to get a proctology exam.

And then Noah rounded the corner, stripped to a tank top and boxers, a plastic stool in one hand.

I stared at him, feeling stupid. “Uh—”

“Relax,” he said, quirking that full mouth to the side. “I’m not here to molest your pure virgin body—”

I snorted.

“—but that suit costs a fortune to dry clean.”

“Why were you wearing the suit today?” I asked, distracted. “Weren’t you wearing jeans and—”

“Conklin asked me to dress today—I shuttled a couple of people to the airport while you were in wardrobe and before you went to makeup.”

A little part of me got all pissy at that—he was
mine
damn it—but now, wearing a towel while he was down to his skivvies, was probably not the time nor place to go all weird and possessive on him.

“Yeah, I forgot,” I said. My eyes were getting a little glassy, taking him in. Dark-brown skin, all over. Viv had told me their mother had been part African American and their father was all Native American. Between their bone structure, skin tone, and gut-punching smiles, the two of them were doing the world a disservice by
not
being on screen.

He had stringy, knotty, mountain biker’s muscles, and the surprising flash of pink over healing road rash on his wrists, his knees, on the side of his thighs. His knees were a little knobby—but his legs were muscular enough and that would probably go away with time—and his clavicle was pronounced and vulnerable. His neck—still thin from the vestiges of childhood—seemed impossibly long sticking out of the sweat-stained tank—but overall, he was rangy and loose-limbed, strong, and so, so heartbreakingly beautiful.

I wanted to run my palms over that magnificent skin to see if it was as warm to the touch of my hands as it was to the touch of my eyes.

It had been a long day for him too, and part of me wanted to just say, “Fuck it, Noah—take it all off—I definitely want to see you naked!”

But that seemed disrespectful somehow. He’d been so . . . so respectful. So kind. Coming on to him like a drunken whore was not where we were at right now.

But watching as he busied himself with the stool in the shower and getting the water temperature just right, it occurred to me that . . . oh God. Someday I’d really, really like to be.

A little draft in my nether regions warned me that my body was getting
really
excited at the possibility.

Noah stood back and grinned at me, looking . . . young. Young and proud of himself. “See there?” he asked, sweeping the shower curtain back. “Here, let me get your brace—” he dropped to the floor and started unhooking the Velcro “—and then you can get in.”

I let him, because what was I going to say?
Hey, uh . . . I’m starting to lust after you in a big way, which is funny, because I haven’t really thought about sex in a meaningful context going on fourteen months, and you know what? It’s great that I can get a boner around you, but we’ve got to pretend that it’s not happening, okay?

No. I wasn’t going to say that.

I didn’t have to. Reluctantly, I dropped the towel, allowing Noah to support my weight while I swung my good leg into the tub—and my erection said it for me.

Noah waited until I was in the shower, the hot water pounding on my back, before he said anything.

“Well, at least I know you’re happy to see me.”

I hid my face in the washcloth and scrubbed. After a minute I needed to breathe, so I looked up and said, “Was there ever any doubt?”

Noah took the cloth from me and pumped some face wash on it, then started to scrub away all the gunk I’d missed. “No,” he said softly, while I kept my eyes averted. “I know you’re happy to see me, Connor.”

He moved the cloth to my throat, his motions gentle.

“I . . . you know—”

“You can’t right now,” Noah filled in for me. “Shocked, yes, I am
shocked
that a debauched and wanton movie star would not want to have sex slightly more than a year after the love of his life died in a tragic accident.”

“You say ‘debauched’ like I wasn’t. I—” My voice dropped, because suddenly I didn’t want him to know how bad it had been.

“Are you beating yourself up for taking a nap on the casting couch?” he asked, just the right amount of amusement in his voice.

“You don’t
nap
on the casting couch,” I said sullenly. “And yes, I would know.”

“I am neither shocked nor disgusted,” Noah said cheerfully. “You’ll have to find something else to destroy”—he rubbed a knuckle over my clean wet cheek—“my faith in you.”

I looked at him unhappily. “I’ve got nothin’.” I was not sure where I was supposed to go with that.

“That’s a lie.” He sounded unhappy. “You’ve got
plenty—
you’re just not letting anyone see it.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He shook his head, the gentleness gone. “I’m going to get your ankles and legs. Let your bad ankle go limp, and I’m going to tell you which way I’m going to move it, okay?”

So the question just festered in my stomach while he scrubbed—very impersonally I might add—all of the body makeup and glue off.

Then he rinsed out the cloth, pumped some scented soap on it, and handed it to me. “I’m going to turn around now and let you get your privates. Tell me when you’re done, and I’ll wash your hair.”

A part of me wanted to tease him—coward!—but he was being . . . considerate. And sweet.

I made short work of my privates and underarms and told him he could turn back.

“You’re like a real Boy Scout.” I smiled tiredly. Now that I no longer stank, my body was about to call it quits. “What, do you help little old ladies cross the street in your spare time?”

“Just trying to earn my spot next to Saint Vinnie,” he said, and hurray, the sarcasm was back.

“He wasn’t a saint,” I told him, my voice stony. And then, with a flash of bitterness I was too weak to hold back, “And after that little talk with Conklin, you know it.”

“Yeah, I was wondering when you were going to get pissed about that.”

“Too late to get pissed.” I’d meant the words lightly, but my voice had a tremor in it I thought I was over.

“Never too late to get pissed.” He stretched to get a towel from the rack above the toilet, and I realized I could see right through his wet underwear. Part of me was like
Sweet! Look at that—he’s uncircumcised!
And the other part of me was numb and indifferent.

I wasn’t sure which part I wanted to win.

The towel around my shoulders snapped me out of it, and I dried off my own hair and creases. Noah wrapped his arm around my shoulders and hefted me up, and then, in a surprising show of strength, all but lifted me out of the tub. I leaned against him and closed my eyes.

“It’s okay, you know,” he said quietly, voice right next to my ear.

“What’s okay?”

“You can be mad at him.”

“I’m not.”

“God’s gonna hit you with lightning,” he said, completely serious.

“Good,” I retorted. “Will you take the press conference on that?”

He smoothed the damp hair back from my face and kissed my forehead—it was an intimate gesture, but curiously sexless. “I saw your press conference,” he said. “After Vinnie died.”

“I gave a press conference after Vinnie died?” I was genuinely surprised—I couldn’t remember doing that.

Noah laughed without humor, and pressed his lips against my temple. We were wet and mostly naked, and humming like a live wire under a carpet was my dormant sex drive, but it was running on a sad, limp charge.

“They got you at your house—and you could see, in the background, that some of the curtains had been ripped down. And you—your eyes were sunk in, your cheeks were hollow. I’ve seen extras in zombie flicks look better. And you stood up and said, ‘My f . . . my f . . . my
Vinnie
isn’t coming home ever again.’”

Oh God. “All of Hollywood knows, doesn’t it?”

“No.” He shook his head. “Because all your passion was put into
not
saying the truth. Didn’t leave us with anything else to believe.”

“I’m so tired,” I mumbled, sagging in his arms. Tired of hurting, tired of lying, tired of trying to keep it all together. “I’ve only been here a couple of weeks, and I’m exhausted.”

“You know,” he said, like it was no big deal, “maybe just come out to the set? Come out to Anna Maxwell, come out to Carter and Levi? Just give yourself permission to talk about him like you guys were a thing. See if you’re not so tired then, okay?”

“Sure.” Anything. “Just—”

“Bed.”

He helped me into a pair of boxer shorts and for just a moment, as his hand skimmed my thigh, his touch didn’t feel impersonal—and the flush of blood to my thighs and my groin didn’t feel like exhaustion.

He made a little “heh” sound and then gave my ass an unmistakable caress before rubbing my bare back.

Then he helped me into bed and pulled the covers up to my chin.

“I really did use to be a slut,” I told him mournfully, missing my sex drive for the first time in ever.

“I do not doubt it.”

“I mean, in the good way too. I’d go down on you in a hot second, you know—”

“Before Saint Vinnie.”

“You sound way too bitter for one so young,” I said sagely, before bursting into giggles.

He stood, perhaps using super-special intuition to know that I was cooked and done. “I’m gonna crash in your guest room if that’s okay.” He put a hand on my shoulder, and that quickly the giggles were over.

“Could you stay in here for just a minute?” I pleaded, surprised at myself. “Just until I’m asleep?”

I felt his weight on the bed and his hand on my shoulder. “Sure,” he said softly, reaching over to turn off the lamp.

His steady breathing, his hand, warm and reassuring, the knowledge that he’d be under my roof, just for a night.

Knowing he didn’t judge me for being young and desperate in Hollywood.

Vinnie, I want him to stay all the time.

Yeah, sure, Con. That’ll be good.

Can I do that and still miss you?

I don’t know—can you?

I fell asleep still wondering.

Have you ever written in the sand?

You think that first wave is going to just eliminate
everything
, but it doesn’t. No—there’s scar tissue on an ephemeral tablet, little bumps and ridges and reminders that there was something important there, and just because it’s gone
now
doesn’t mean it didn’t exist—

Oh! Oh! See what happened there? The next wave came and took it out for good. And all that’s left is a blank canvas and what are you going to write on it now?

People in LA have sand castle contests, where they slave for hours to build fantastic creations—they have different kinds of sand/water mixes and they know how to cement the thing they want to build so it will last . . . last . . .

Until it dries out completely and crumbles.

Until the tide rushes in—take your pick.

The thing I learned about loving Vinnie for ten years was that every day could be the wave that washed the love away. You had to wake up
every day
and text or kiss or call or sneak over and surprise. You had to wake up
every day
and write that thing on the tablet of time to make sure that would be the day when your love was written on the sand.

But see, here’s where the metaphor breaks down. Because you’d think that if love could be washed away so easily when we’re alive, then the hurt—that would go away just as easily when the person is gone. But it’s not that way at all. It’s like their absence etches the love into bedrock with a power drill. One wave didn’t wash it away. Ten waves didn’t. Hell, nearly fourteen months of days just sort of cleaned it a little, made the edges nice and sharp and painful, so you sliced your heart on them every time you read your love.