Spoiler Alert (Spoiler Alert #1)(55)
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 . . .
Jesus, it was enough to make her throat burn, her hand on his chest curl into a fist.
Once all threat of tears had disappeared, if not her lingering helpless rage, she opened her eyes again. Met his.
She got it. She really did. The origins of his act, the catalyst for his longest-running role. But he was a man grown now, so why? Why was he still playacting?
He was watching her carefully, his tone so remote it frightened her. “I didn’t intend to keep up the act once I left for college, or after I dropped out and moved to LA. I had no idea what to say or do unless I was in character, but I tried. And eventually, I got a bit more practice talking to everyone, especially once Alex moved in with me. He helped me feel more comfortable around other people.”
Shy. Dammit, he was shy.
How had she not realized that before?
Also, note to self: Don’t tell Marcus you originally wanted to have dinner with his best friend instead of him.
“Before Gates, I didn’t have to deal with many interviews. Then I got the role of Aeneas, and . . .” His throat worked. “Suddenly, there were so many questions, and so much more of an audience for whatever I said, and I wasn’t prepared. Alex and I had run through likely questions, but we never thought anyone would hand me a fucking book and ask me to read a page about Aeneas aloud.”
Fuck. Fuck, she knew which interview he meant. That infamous two-part segment on a morning news and entertainment show, her mother’s favorite.
Her mom had even mentioned it during a phone call later that day, so many years ago. “Didn’t you used to read those books? You can watch the interview on mute, though. That boy is handsome, but not exactly a sparkling conversationalist.”
April had streamed it on YouTube that afternoon, complete with sound, despite her mother’s warning. She’d played it again less than two weeks ago, before her dinner with Marcus, as mental preparation for their planned date.
Both times, she’d studied Marcus as the host handed him a book with small text and asked him to read a steamy bit aloud. On live television. Without warning. With—as she now knew—dyslexia, which he’d been taught to consider a defining weakness and source of shame.
Still, he’d tried, stumbling over the words until the host and audience had laughed uncomfortably and the show broke for commercials.
A few comments beneath that video had speculated he was drunk, but the group consensus had coalesced quickly: stupid, not hammered.
Why is their IQ always the inverse of their fuckability?
With a face that pretty, I guess he didn’t have to learn to read, right?
“You saw the interview, I take it,” he said, and she tried to compose her expression. “At that point, I knew I was dyslexic. I wasn’t ashamed of it, not by the time I got cast in Gates.”
She wasn’t sure whether to believe that, but she nodded anyway.
Beneath her hand, his heartbeat hastened as he told the story. “But in that moment, I just . . . blanked. Panicked. I was sweating under the lights, and people in the studio were still whispering to themselves and laughing, and when we came back after the commercials, I heard myself answering questions as him.”
“The Worst Possible Son,” she said. The role he’d played more often than any other, the role that had offered him protection from scorn so often in the past.
God, now that she knew, she could see it so clearly. The transition between the man who’d occasionally looked down and fumbled for words even before E. Wade’s doorstop tome landed in his lap, and the man who’d preened for the cameras during the rest of the two-part interview.
“Well, not entirely.” His smirk didn’t crinkle the corners of his eyes. “Somehow I had enough sense to make sure I came across as an especially friendly dunce, so as not to alienate our potential audience. So it was a variation on my original role. More the Well-Groomed Golden Retriever, less the Worst Possible Son.”
The biting edge to his words was meant to hurt someone. Himself? Anyone who’d scorn him? Both?
“I get it.” At least, the essentials of the situation. “But why not act differently for your next interview?”
His jaw shifted. “The showrunners were amused. They said it was less boring than my usual interviews, and since we weren’t allowed to say much about the script or the show anyway, I might as well entertain the audience a different way. After a while, I think they kind of forgot it was an act at all.”
To them, his humiliation was amusing. Entertainment. Goddammit, no wonder the show went off the rails once those motherfuckers couldn’t follow Wade’s books anymore.