Ship It(81)

He hardens immediately. “I dumped her,” he says brusquely.

“Maybe it’s because you like to put your hands on girls who don’t ask you to,” I say, and push him away.

“Whatever, dyke,” he says.

“Maybe I am,” I say, catching him off guard. He gapes at me, his ugly mouth hanging open. I shove him to the side, sending him toppling into a bank of lockers, and keep walking.

Who knows? Maybe I am.


“SO ARE YOU basically waiting by the phone, or…” I ask, sipping my nonfat cappuccino. Rico and I are finally back in LA, sitting on the patio of Aroma Café, surrounded by tanned and put-together industry types having conversations about scripts and stars and who got an overall deal where and for how much.

Rico sighs and takes a bite of his scone. “My agent is having an aneurysm; I’m actually concerned for his health.”

I can’t believe they’ve let it drag out for this long. After all our work at those conventions, our ratings for the finale were up slightly, but not spectacularly. The cast and crew of Demon Heart were supposed to know if they got a season two pickup weeks ago, but the network is dragging their feet for some reason that I’m not privy to.

Rico leans in, serious now, and adds, “I keep pushing for them to renew your contract, dude, but it doesn’t look like it’s gonna happen. I’m not gonna let it go, though. They can’t do this show without you.”

I wave him off. “It’s over, Ric. I’ve accepted that.”

“There’s a million ways to bring you back. Reincarnation. Ghost. Hey, you could be a demon, like me!”

It warms me that Rico would fight for me, but he wasn’t there when Jamie told me the news. Nothing is going to convince him to change his mind. “Jamie killed me off for a reason. He doesn’t want me back.”

“Jamie’s an idiot.” Rico leans back in his chair and nudges his scone toward me. I shake my head. No scones until I get another job. I have to get my eating habits back on track or I’m screwed. Rico crosses his legs and looks at me. “You talk to her lately?”

“Who?” He just shoots me a look. Oh. Her. “No.”

“She’s a good kid. Annoying as hell, but good,” he says.

I just shrug, and he gets the message and moves on. “No matter what happens,” he says, looking at me with a sad smile, “I’m gonna miss you next year.”

“I’m gonna miss you, too,” I say. And it’s true. This last year would have been a living nightmare without Rico by my side. I don’t know how I would have gotten through it. It strikes me that I should tell him that, then I think, Wait, I already did. That night in my trailer… and then I realize I’m remembering Claire’s fanfiction. I start to chuckle to myself. Now who’s the one mixing up fiction and reality?

“What’s so funny?” Rico says.

“Oh, I was just thinking—” I say, and then stop myself, then think, Oh what the hell. “If Claire were here, she’d be—”

“—telling us to confess our feelings?” Rico laughs. “Okay, how’s this? I think you’re a talented and committed actor and a good person, and working with you this last year has been an absolute pleasure.”

Well shit. I guess the feeling’s mutual. I want to tell him the same, but the only words ringing in my head are Claire’s.

Oh, what the hell.

“Dude, honestly? I couldn’t have done this without you. You’ve been wonderful. And I just figure I should let you know”—deep breath—“howmuchIloveyouisall. So… thanks.”

Rico holds my look, this soft smile on his face that slowly turns into a smirk. “You know what Claire’d be saying now, don’t you?”

“She’d be yelling at us to kiss. Don’t you dare tell her we said any of that.”

We both laugh.

“You should text her, see what she’s up to,” Rico says.

I shrug because, well, I’ve thought about it. The other day in West Hollywood, I saw a billboard for STD testing that had a stock photo of a close-up of two guys holding hands, one in a leather jacket and the other in a workman’s jacket and it looked so much like SmokeHeart that I almost pulled over to take a picture for her, because I knew she’d laugh. I didn’t, though. I’m still kind of pissed at her for that fic she posted. And besides, she hates me.

“When she left,” I tell Rico, “we had a bit of an argument.”

“You need to apologize?” he asks.

I dunno. No? Maybe? Probably? So does she, though. “I’m probably never gonna see her again, dude.”

“You kidding?” Rico says, raising his eyebrows. “Mind like that? She’ll be running this town in ten years.” He might be right.

A customer brushes by, knocking our table and causing our coffees to slosh onto the Spanish-tile tabletop.

“Reed?”

I look up. Holy shit. It’s Jon Reynolds, holding an iced coffee, wearing new clear plastic glasses. I fix my hair real quick. I haven’t seen him since that disaster of a panel back in Seattle.

“Hey, sir, hi.” I get up and shake his hand while Rico mops up rivers of coffee.

“Hey, I watched a little of your Demon Heart show the other day. Turns out my stepdaughter and all her friends are goddamn lunatics about it, who knew? The two of you are good, real good. You got chemistry.”