“No such thing as perfect.” I rise, eyeing the door.
“Tell me something,” she says.
“What?”
“Anything. Tell me your secrets. Something you’ve never told anyone.”
I drag my hand across my jaw, letting the bristles scratch my palm. There’s only one “secret” I have, and if there’s ever a time to confess it, it isn’t now. It isn’t in this way.
When my brother was a year old or so, my parents had a few friends over, drinking beers and grilling outside. They left Tucker inside in his crib, assuming I was home and that I’d tend to him like I usually do if he started to cry.
But I snuck out that night.
A bunch of friends were getting together at the park and the girl I liked was going to be there.
I came home around midnight that night, expecting to be able to sneak in the back door, only I was met with a flash of red and blue lights and an ambulance speeding my baby brother to the nearest hospital twenty minutes away.
Turns out at some point that night he woke up, started screaming, and since everyone else was outside and I was gone, no one came to get him. Being the precocious one-year-old boy that he was, he attempted to climb out.
The CPS investigators said it was an accident … that he bumped his head on the changing table, causing blunt force trauma to his head leading to permanent hearing loss.
Had I been there that night like I was supposed to be, that never would’ve happened.
“What makes you think I have secrets?” I ask.
Melrose lifts a shoulder. “Because you always look like you have something you need to get off your chest. And chances are, whatever you tell me tonight, I won’t remember in the morning. You could probably confess a murder and come tomorrow,” she swipes her palm across the air, “blank slate. Gone. Guarantee you’ll feel better too.”
“I’ll pass.”
“Of course you’ll pass.” She climbs into her bed, drawing her knees against her chest and reaching for the covers, pulling them over her. With half-moon eyes, she peers at me. And then she rolls to her side, cupping her hand beneath her cheek and smiling.
“What?” I ask.
“Do you ever wonder …” Melrose yawns.
My heart whooshes in my ears.
“Do you ever wonder,” she tries again, “what it would be like to date each other?”
Her eyes flutter closed and her breathing begins to steady.
And then she’s out.
MY WEDNESDAY MORNING ALARM might as well be a sledgehammer, beating the side of my head. Reaching for my nightstand with both eyes squinting, I feel around until I find my phone so I can silence the damn thing.
I don’t know why I’d have set an alarm for this morning anyway. I don’t have any auditions. No appointments. No meetings. Nowhere to be.
Placing my phone back on the nightstand, screen side down, I roll over and pull the covers over my head.
And then it chimes again.
“Are you serious?” I groan, reaching for it again, only this time I see Nick’s name flashing across my screen.
The brightness of the screen is a shock to my sensitive vision, but the time reads 8:04 AM.
“Why are you up this early?” I ask when I answer.
“Haven’t gone to bed yet,” he says when I answer.
“Oh. right. What’s up?” I stretch my free arm over my head and give Murphy a gentle nudge so he’s no longer hogging two-thirds of my bed.
“Just wanted to tell you congrats again.”
I chuckle. “Dork. You already told me last night.”
“Also, uh, I was going to see when you’re leaving,” he says.
“If you’re worried about the rent, don’t sweat it. I’ll still pay it.”
“No, no. God no, it’s not about the rent, Mel,” he says.
“Okay …”
I’m really freaking confused now.
“Just wanted to know when you’re going to Louisiana,” he says. “I think we’ve got a tour date lined up in Baton Rouge next month. Would be cool to meet up.”
“Yeah. I’ll let you know. We’ll figure it out.” I yawn, my eyelids drifting shut despite the fact that my brain is suddenly wide awake. “We shoot in two weeks, but they want me there as soon as possible. I was probably going to head out by the end of the week.”
“Cool, cool.” Nick stalls on the other end.
Nick never stalls.
“You need anything else?” I throw the covers off my legs and trudge across the hard floor, heading to the bathroom. The scent of Sutter’s body wash still lingers in the humid air, but he’s long gone.
“You tell Sutter yet?” he asks. “About moving out?”
“I mean, yeah. He knows. Obviously. He went out with us last night. But I’m not technically moving out. I’m going to be shooting for two months, then I’ll come back and finish out the rest of your lease,” I say. “That’s my plan anyway. Why?”