He picks them, “I mean, it’s not…”
“Show me.”
“Nothing’s finished, it’s just-”
I grab them out of his hand.
“What’s this?” I flip through the first few pages. “A monologue?”
“That’s the treatment.”
“Treatment?” I look up.
“It’s a film term. The summary of the script.”
I nod, reading the first few pages. I feel his anxious gaze on mine. When I look up, his eyes hint at that whisper of nervousness and I can’t help but think that, as attractive as confidence may be, the combination of confidence and vulnerability in a beautiful man is downright deadly.
“It’s a love story,” I say out loud, more to myself than to him. I look up in surprise. “You’re writing a love story?”
“I am.”
“When did you start this?”
“I got the idea a few years ago, and I’ve been tinkering with it, in-between films. I’ve taken a few classes on screen-writing, but it’s tough. People recognize me and…” he trails off. “I hired a few screenwriters as tutors, but of course, they just want their own scripts produced, so that’s all they talk about. It’s been a pet project.”
“I had no idea,” I say, flipping to the first page.
“Scene One,” I read aloud.
“When I moved out here, Angelo made the comment that I should keep busy.”
“Who’s Angelo?” I ask.
“My agent,” he smiles, “and surrogate chaperone. He was worried I’d lose my mind out here in Maine, so he said I should find things to do.” He grins down at me, “I found you.”
“I’m something to do?” I ask, laughing as he stuffs another slice of peach in my mouth, followed by a kiss.
“When I saw you were a professor of romantic literature, I figured you’d be the perfect person to help.” He kisses me again, his mouth warm and wet and mixed with the luscious sweetness of the peach. “The rest is an unexpected bonus.”
“So that’s why you wanted me to tutor you.”
He nods, “It was that or call the police on you. I figured this we would both enjoy more.”
I flip through the pages. “It looks like you haven’t finished.”
“I haven’t. I’m not sure where to go with it. It turns out, I don’t know much about love stories.”
“Then why are you writing one?”
He shrugs, that bashful look returning. If the sun weren’t so bright overhead, I would swear I could see a hint of a blush on his cheeks.
“I’ve always liked love stories.”
“Really?” I stare at him. “But when we’ve talked about romantic books, you never brought this up.”
“I grew up in an old house, and both my parents worked. When I got home from school, I was often alone and I’d turn on the TV. We didn’t have cable, so I’d usually end up watching public television. Around the time I got home from school, they would be playing classic old movies.”
“Which ones?”
He smiles, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, “All the classics. Casablanca. An Affair To Remember. Roman Holiday.”
“You would watch those?” I know I’m staring, mouth agog, but I can’t help it. The picture of this man as a little boy, glued to a black and white tv, listening to Humphrey Bogart tell Ingrid Bergman how much he loved her, or watching Deborah Kerr sob in the arms of Cary Grant, is almost impossible for me to imagine.
“On repeat. I probably know all the lines.”
“David, I’m sorry but I have to ask, if those are the movies you love, then why…” I trail off, not sure how to phrase my question without sounding rude or insensitive.
“Why am I an action hero?” He smirks.
I nod, helplessly.
“You take what you can get as an actor. These movies are the trend now.” He plants a small kiss on my shoulder. “When I was debating over the role, Angelo pointed out that, once I finished the contract, I would be financially set. I could then spend the rest of my career making the sort of films I wanted to make. Plus, I’d have the name recognition to encourage studios to invest in my projects.”
I nod, mulling these decisions over in my mind. It was slightly disillusioning, hearing movie magic put in such stark, financial terms.
“I did have fun,” he laughs at me and kisses me lightly. “Don’t worry, but the pragmatic part of my brain has always had its eye on a different prize.”
I look down at the pages. “I’ll say. I’m three pages in and I haven’t seen a single cyborg.”
He laughs and reaches his hand around my back to gently pinch my butt. “No cyborgs, I promise. But I am struggling with the main characters.”
“What about them?”
“How to make them real, how to make them into people that an audience would care about.”
I nod. “That is the challenge, right? I mean, the joy of cyborgs is they’re so cool and weird and unusual. Plus, we have no context for cyborgs. But regular people? Creating regular people who fall in love is really about creating regular people your audience will fall in love with. How often does that happen?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well,” I look down at the pages again, intrigued by the different fonts and stage directions, “how often do people fall in love?”
He doesn’t respond.
Overhead a bird calls and I look up at him, a smile on my face, but he’s staring at me, a strange, secret look behind his eyes.
“I don’t know,” he finally says, voice low, as if he’s sharing a secret between the two of us.
I cough, even though I don’t need to, reaching for any sound to clear the air between us, which has grown heavy and thick. I expect him to kiss me again, but he remains still, looking at me, as if trying to find the answer to a puzzle locked behind my eyes.
“Let me read this. Give me a few minutes,” I look down, breaking the spell, but he pulls the manuscript from my hands.
“We have to read it out loud.”
“Out loud? Why?”
“It’s a script. You can’t read it alone. It has to be shared.”
“Oh,” I shake my
