Spoiler Alert (Spoiler Alert #1)(54)

The truth.

Enough truth for now, at least.





1 WHEEL, 2 REAL


EXT. THE MEAN STREETS OF PORTLAND – MIDDAY


EWAN looks at the beautiful, quirky girl with the bright pink hair sitting beside him, his unicycle propped against the back slats of their bench. Suddenly, he realizes she knows everything about him, but he knows nothing about her.





EWAN


What’s your name?





PIXIE


It doesn’t matter.





EWAN


Of course it matters.

She crinkles her nose adorably and laughs, idly juggling as she speaks.





PIXIE


It really doesn’t. Right now, what I want, what I need, what I think, my goals, and even my name are so much less important than you, Ewan. Your story. Your life. Your redemption.

Near tears, he tries to smile and presses a quick kiss on her mouth.





EWAN


I’ve never felt so understood before now. If someone like you had been in my life earlier, I think—





PIXIE


What?





EWAN


Maybe I wouldn’t have gotten mixed up in that unicycling gang to begin with. And now, I’m starting to think maybe—maybe—

(he takes a shuddering breath)

I could switch from one wheel . . . to two.

Pixie beams at him. This is the happiest moment of her life.





15


THE FOGGINESS OF THE MORNING HAD BURNED AWAY BENEATH the sun, and Marcus glowed golden in its rays. In that light, given the right cinematography, he could have been the demigod he’d played so ably for years. He could have been a figure of myth, or the stalwart, knightly hero of young April’s fevered imagination and current April’s most fevered fics.

But no camera was filming him, and this wasn’t a story, and he was no invincible half god. Not if she looked more closely.

His mouth had pressed into a tight grimace, and he directed that famous blue-eyed gaze anywhere but at her. At the sidewalk beneath their feet, at the businesses they’d already passed, at the sparkling water they’d begun to approach. If he suddenly sprinted from her and dove into the Bay to escape this conversation—perhaps sprouting a tail like the one he’d sported in Manmaid, his tragic film about a half-human sea creature cursed to love a woman allergic to kelp—she wouldn’t be shocked.

He didn’t run, though. Instead, he just looked . . . lost.

Then that knife-edged jaw firmed, and his eyes speared her. She stilled her caffeine-induced fidgeting, even as her pulse still pounded in her ears and his heartbeat thudded under her palm.

“When I was fifteen, I gave up.” That rich, low voice was flat. Devoid of all the emotion he’d poured into the words of countless screenwriters. For these, his own words, he allowed no jagged edges, no half-crumbled handholds for her to grasp and pull herself closer to him. “I was going to disappoint everyone. Disgust them. It didn’t matter how hard I tried, or how often I apologized.”

Careful. Careful. No inflection or sympathy or anything he could misinterpret. “Everyone?”

“I told you my mom homeschooled me. Until I finished my schoolwork, I didn’t go outside, and my parents weren’t big fans of organized sports. I didn’t see other kids a lot. When I did, I didn’t know what to say.” One shoulder twitched upward, a casual movement turned convulsive. “My parents were my world. They were everyone.”

“You gave up.” She repeated his own words, breath held against the possibilities contained in that phrase.

“I’d always been a good mimic. I’d practice to myself in my room. I had my parents down cold by then. That pompous guy from all the historical documentaries my parents loved too. The actors from the Royal Shakespeare Company, whenever their performances came on public television and my parents made me watch.” His smile was thin and brittle. “Without even having to think about it much, I knew him. What he’d say. How he’d say it. His posture. What gestures he’d make.”

Her frown of confusion must have caught his attention.

“My first and longest-running role. The Worst Possible Son. Vain and lazy and stupid and careless and everything else they hate.” With a casual sweep of his hand, he flicked back a lock of sun-streaked hair. A demonstration. A reminder. “It was easy. So much easier than before.”

She closed her eyes.

Behind her lids, he shrank into a lanky, lonely boy. Angry. Hurt.

Not hard, not the diamond she’d once named him. Already golden, she guessed, even as a teenager. Like gold, so soft he could be gouged and warp under too much pressure—unless he shielded himself somehow. Unless he wedged something flinty and immovable between himself and the relentless, grinding weight of his parents’ displeasure.

The Worst Possible Son, he’d said. Vain and lazy and stupid and careless.

If they despised him then, they didn’t despise the real him. They couldn’t hurt the real him. They couldn’t even see the real him, if they ever had at all.

It was defiance, a middle finger held up to the heavens. It was armor. It was . . .