Total pages in book: 152
Estimated words: 149982 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 750(@200wpm)___ 600(@250wpm)___ 500(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 149982 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 750(@200wpm)___ 600(@250wpm)___ 500(@300wpm)
“What about you?”
He sets the bottle down. He offers a lot of supportive words of me being with a man, as much as I expected. He says he loves me, and then the questions arrive.
When did you know you liked guys? Are you bisexual? What’s Oscar like? Is he good to you?
I answer honestly to each one.
And then he asks, “What’s his goals? He doesn’t want to be a bodyguard forever, right?”
“I think so.”
He makes a hmm noise.
“It’s a good profession.”
“No it’s not. I have a friend in private security, and it pays nothing. It’s fucking dangerous. Plus, his back will be shot by fifty.”
“My back will be shot before then.”
“You need to stop doing camerawork. Take care of your body now before you become old like me.” He pauses for a second. The air strains like he’s thinking back to the serious topics.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“I’ll be honest, it’s taking me a longer time—longer than your mama—to get used to the idea of you with a guy. I keep thinking that if you marry a man, I’m going to have a son-in-law.” He lets out a breath. “Just never pictured that.”
My muscles tighten, even though I knew this might be coming. That future picture. The one so vividly painted. “I get it,” I say, but my heartbeat pounds loud in my ears. “But just think it’s just as good of a picture because it’s what I want. And I’d be happy in it.”
His smile is warm. “I know that. Whatever you choose, you know I’ll be happy for you, too.”
I nod, and I do believe that.
He doesn’t press about Oscar as we talk more. He hikes out of the wine cellar and ends up on the private dock, his boat rocking with glittering water in Naples Canal.
Seeing my childhood house makes me miss Long Beach.
After I finish the calls, Oscar comes back about ten minutes later. I catch him up and leave out the part where my dad hates his career choice.
We eat New York cheesesteaks which Oscar said aren’t like Philly’s. And then we end up in his bed together. We both crash, falling into hard sleep with our legs and arms tangled.
I’m not sure I would’ve been able to fall asleep that well without him. The weight of his limbs, the warmth of his body, the beat of his heart—it’s music quelling my fears.
I wake before him.
And I skulk down the loft’s stairs to the kitchen. I left my phone plugged in on the bar counter, and my head whirls at all the missed texts.
I read them while I make breakfast. Warming a frying pan, I untwist a bag of pandesal and cut a soft roll in half. I brought the bread in my backpack for Oscar to try. Did not think I’d be toasting pandesal while my life is imploding.
Jesus, shit, these emails.
The other exec producers on We Are Calloway are asking me about my relationship with a bodyguard, and whether that will affect the integrity of the docuseries.
It’s fine.
It’s fine.
I can charm my way through this one. I click into texts. Ali said her and Ambrose have my back if the other execs ask questions.
Ambrose texted, welcome to the fam.
My lips rise, and while I place the bread on the pan, I click on a group chat thread with Jane, Maximoff, and Sulli.
We love you & support you 100%!! If we can do anything to curb the bad press, let us know. – Jane
Here for u. Whatever u need. Call us and we’ll be there – Moffy
So sorry this is fucking happening to you. Swim & donuts one day you’re free? – Sulli
I reread those ones.
For years, I’ve been there for Moffy and Jane when they needed a friend or a helping hand in a crisis, more recently Sulli too. They understand the heat of the spotlight and punch-to-the-gut rumors. I’ve been with them during too many, and really, I’ve never been in a position where I needed them just as severely.
I do now, I realize.
Feeling lighter, I text back: I might need to chat. I’ll call you when I’m free. Thanks xo.
And out of habit, I open social media notifications, tweets sent to me. Pressure returns, pulse ramping.
You’re a homewrecker
Why couldn’t you leave Charlie and Oscar alone
Oslie was perfect until you
What’s wrong with you?
Fuck you, Jack Highland, you no name loser
You’re irrelevant for a reason. Go away
“What’s burning?” Oscar races down the loft stairs.
“Shit,” I curse, spinning around to the blackened pandesal on the frying pan. I shut the burner, and Oscar wafts the smoke with a towel. I shake my frazzled head. “Sorry, I have more.” I grab the bread bag.
Oscar isn’t blinking. He stares at the bread, then to me.
“It’s Filipino bread.”
“You were making me toast?” He says it like I got down on a knee.