His lip rises with a nod of agreement, and he sticks his cigarette in his mouth. “L’enfer est vide et tous les diables sont ici.” Hell is empty and all the devils are here. I recognize the Shakespeare quote. The Tempest.
His gaze does soften. “I am fine, Oscar.”
“Yeah, I know.”
I’ve heard it a million-and-one times. But nothing really changes. As long as I’m protecting Charlie, there’s going to be a large part of me that has to protect him from himself. He’s not the only self-destructive client, but he’s the one who runs the most laps around the world.
12
JACK HIGHLAND
Two weeks have passed since Paris, and I’m still reeling from the whirlwind of events that happened over the course of two days. From the meeting in my Philly apartment to the New York concert venue to racing around Paris. It should be a blur by now, but it’s too vivid.
Every frame, every shot that I took with my eyes of Oscar Oliveira, I remember. Like that experience alongside him will be a gold standard for all the others in my life. And I’m not even sure it’s what I did but just the company I held.
After we got back to Charlie’s apartment from Le Chat Rouge, we grabbed our things and left for the airport. We clocked in less than 24-hours in France—and that’s normal for Charlie…and Oscar.
How in the fuck is this TV show going to work, dude? I’ve been asking myself that for two weeks and tossing and turning every night trying to figure out logistics.
And other things…
Let’s face it, this pilot has confused my confusion. I now know one reason Charlie wants to film a docuseries about his life. He’s trying to matchmake me and Oscar together. As friends. As something more? I missed the chance to really talk to Oscar in Paris. We fell asleep on the plane. But I woke up early.
Could’ve woken him up too.
These missed opportunities are so foreign to me. I don’t miss an opportunity. I’ve never been scared of walking through an open door.
I mean, fuck, I’ve rarely been afraid to talk to anyone about anything. Not even when I was a nineteen-year-old production assistant, facing a prick of a director who kept spit-screaming at me and the other PAs about moving apple boxes.
And Oscar is lonely? I never saw him as a lonely guy. He has the kind of die-hard, life-long friendships I thought only existed in cult, coming-of-age movies. And he’s constantly hit on, and in my presence too.
Irrational anger begins to simmer again, just revisiting the memory of Everly coming on hard to Oscar in the Louvre. I’ve gone on double-dates with Akara; I introduced him to some girls I knew from college. Did I care when Akara and Amber kissed at the end of the night?
No.
No question.
So why did Everly make me want to uppercut a punching bag? And I don’t even fucking box.
I was so quick to make an enemy out of her, and if presented with the same situation three-hundred times, I know I’d have three-hundred more.
Me, Jack Highland, the guy with no enemies.
I guess now I have at least one.
She has his number. Maybe they’ll meet up if she finds herself in Philly or New York. Maybe they’ve already met up. It’s not like I’ve seen Oscar in a while.
Two weeks.
Two weeks of no contact, and what’s wrong with me? I’ve never been so bent-out-of-shape over a short stint of no communication before now.
At least Oscar spent the last week in the Smoky Mountains. He was on-duty with security while the Hales, Meadows, and Cobalts retreated to the lake house. They usually go there on-and-off during the summer, and I heard they were linking up with Farrow & Maximoff at the end of their honeymoon.
The lake house’s location is strictly secret from the public. So Everly couldn’t have been there.
That should make me feel good enough to coast through the rest of the day, but I just keep picturing this girl at Oscar’s studio apartment. Getting down on her knees. Giving him head.
My stomach twists in a pretzel.
I don’t know why the image of some chick deepthroating Oscar makes me want to hurl, but I’m at that stage, I guess. The stage where I don’t want to imagine my friend—or co-worker—getting off from someone…else.
But me.
I trip over a crack in the Philly sidewalk, and my tray of coffees spills onto the cement and warm liquid soaks my white T-shirt.
“Fuck.” I bend down and scoop up the paper cups and plastic lids. Some passersby grimace, their faces saying, ah, dude, that fucking sucks and glad that’s not me.
Spilt coffee isn’t a big deal.
Don’t sweat the small stuff has been my motto since forever. I’ve got bigger shit going on.
After tossing the cups and coffee tray in a nearby trashcan, I push into a mid-rise office building. Third-floor is home to the We Are Calloway productions.
I come into a small meeting room with a stained shirt and frazzled head. “Sorry, I’m late,” I apologize to Ali and Ambrose Miller, both behind laptops and waiting for me at the boardroom-style table, set with leather chairs. I offer a smile, taking off my messenger bag. “I did have coffee for you two, but here we are.”
Ali eyes the stain and snorts. “Did you trip? Tell me you caught it on film.”
Ambrose laughs while typing. “Now that’d be some camera gymnastics, sis.” He’s speaking to me, but Ali is also his sister. In their mid-thirties, only a year apart, the Miller siblings are almost inseparable, and they look like Hollywood starlets compared to me right now.
Ambrose has a faux-hawk with a side fade, and I’m jealous of his clean yellow button-down. Gold Tiffany bracelets complement his dark-brown skin, and his sister is equally put-together. Black hair gelled back in a curly pony, her trendy jumpsuit
