He pats the spot next to him. “I promise to keep my hands to myself. Can’t make that promise about Fred though. He’s all paws. I mean, have you seen them? They’re disproportional to his body.”
From the ground, I hear another meow like he’s talking back to Corbin. It makes a genuine smile spread across my face. Taking a deep breath, I slide backwards until my back is pressed against his light blue wall.
I let my eyes go around the room, taking in the shelves lining the opposite wall that have random knick-knacks on them like baseballs, picture frames, books, and movies. Under one of the hanging shelves is a big dresser, with some of the drawers partially open and clothes hanging out—more t-shirts knowing him. The curtains on the only window off to the side are black, and the blinds are down but open so sunlight pours in.
“Are the books by Stephen King?”
“Yep.”
“Do you like to read?”
“Just him,” he admits.
I nod absentmindedly, studying a picture of him with two older versions of him in one of the black frames on the shelf. They’re obviously his parents. I can’t tell from here who he gets his eyes from, but his dark hair is from his father. I’m sure at closer inspection I’d get to see where his other features originated too. I’m a clone of my mother, and Gavin is a clone of my father. We both have the same dark brown eye color from Mom though. Dad’s eyes are blue, which I always envied. Mom thought it would have been cool to see me get his eye color with her dark brown, almost black, hair—sort of like her father had based on the pictures I’d seen in our old photo albums.
“You good?” he asks, holding up the remote and pressing play again.
I wiggle until I’m settled, my eyes going back to his TV. It’s slightly smaller than the one we have at our house, but not by much. “Which one are we starting with?”
“Carrie.”
I nod and dig into my pizza.
For the duration of the movie, we’re in comfortable silence. I’m surprised by how much I like the movie, considering I’ve never thought I’d like anything Stephen King related. It’s creepy but not too dark, though the electrocution thing was a bit much. Not that some of those kids didn’t deserve it.
We eat three-fourths of the pizza before Corbin digs into the junk food. By the end of the movie, we’re sharing a pack of red Twizzlers, which we also use as straws for our soda. Gavin taught me how to do it when we were younger, so I showed Corbin our trick which he seemed intrigued with as we downed our Mountain Dew.
When the movie ends, Corbin turns to me with waiting eyes. “Well? What did you think? I know you liked it, but I want you to tell me.”
I roll my eyes. “How could you possibly know I liked it?”
He takes another Twizzler. “You’d lean in when it got good, like you couldn’t look anywhere else. Did you even notice when Fred came over to get attention from you? Poor guy looked all rejected when you ignored him.”
Guilt over my new favorite feline eats at my heart as I search the room for him. “I didn’t mean to ignore him. I just wanted to know what happened, especially when they were at the pig pen. Like … who does that? Pig’s blood?”
“Do you prefer horse? Sheep? Human?”
My nose scrunches. “Gross.”
Corbin moves off the bed and switches the movies before closing the pizza box and gesturing toward the junk food bag in silent inquiry. When I shake my head, he settles back into his spot, resting one ankle over the other.
“I want to do a Stephen King movie,” he tells me, shifting his body in my direction.
“Like a play?” There’s no way our school would let something like that run. Even if it’d be in higher demand than another rendition of an already famous musical done by thousands of other schools nationwide.
“Like a movie.” He rests his head against the wall and studies me. “I want to act. That’s what I plan to do with my life. It’d be a dream to be cast for an adaptation of one of his books. Even a remake of a film already out.”
“Like Carrie?”
He shrugs. “Why not? He’s the only author I read, and I’ve seen all his movies. It’d be a huge achievement to be part of it as a professional.”
“Acting,” I repeat quietly. “Cool.”
“What about you?”
“I don’t act.”
“What do you want to do?”
The answer is on the tip of my tongue, but I’m embarrassed to admit it. It isn’t like I aspire to be a rodeo clown or something, but everyone who knows what I enjoy doing in my pastime doesn’t understand it. They think it’s a hobby rather than a legitimate career path.
He pokes my nose, making me go cross-eyed to look at his finger. “I see the wheels turning in your head. What is it?”
I sigh, knowing I have nothing to lose. “I want to be a professional writer—an author. I’ve written ever since I could hold a pencil, and the more I get asked about what I want to do in the future, the more I realize how much I want to get my books published.”
Part of me expects him to give me a funny look, like he’s wondering why I’d ever want something so random. People in small towns are raised to think practically. Being an author isn’t like being a farmer, or nurse, or teacher. That’s what people around here become. Except, I don’t want that.
“I think that’s awesome,” he states, giving me a smile that’s anything but cocky or mischievous like normal.
I blink. “You do?”
Nodding, he says, “I don’t see why it wouldn’t be. Seems like the perfect job for you. You like books and writing, so the whole author thing makes sense.”
“Most people don’t see it that way.”
“Most people aren’t us.”
Us?
Seeing the confusion on my face, he decides to elaborate. “Few people ever act on their dreams, especially in places like this. It takes special kind of people to live them out. I’m going to act no matter what it takes. I’m willing to make sacrifices even if people don’t approve. You seem like you’d do the same to get a book published.”
I would.
Something in my chest lightens. Nobody has ever understood before. It feels nice to be in the same mindset as someone instead of pretending like it’s okay that they don’t get my dreams.
He hits play on the next movie. “We’re going to be bigger than this town, Little Bird. Just you wait and see.”
I’m not sure I want to be bigger than this town. I’m not sure I don’t either.
Chapter Seven
Corbin / Present
The bedroom on set has a four-poster king sized bed directly in the middle of it. The soft white bedding is eerily familiar, like I’ve seen it somewhere before. On either side are light wooden nightstands—one with a lamp, the other with a book and alarm clock. Surrounding the furniture are cameras and lights to create the perfect shadowing and highlights for at least three different angles.
It’s our first sex scene today, and I notice Kinley lingering outside of set staring at the placement of everything like she’s lost in thought. One of her hands holds the wall, her entire right side leaning against it keeping her up.