“Hey.” His smile is no different than usual, which makes me feel a little better. The last thing I want is to bother him when he’s with his other friends. I even like some of them, like Zach Russo. He’s two years older than me like Corbin is, and not nearly as annoying as the boys in my sophomore class. He’ll even say hi to me in the hallway, and not just when Corbin is around.
“I didn’t know you had people over.” I lick my lips and gesture toward the house. “Sorry about just showing up. I should have texted you or something to see if—”
He nudges my shoulder. “Don’t worry about it, Kinley. What’s up?” His eyes look down at the paper in my hand. “What is that?”
The smile on my face reappears. “It’s what I wanted to show you. I got so excited that I bolted out my house like it was on fire.”
He laughs and reaches down, taking the paper and studying what’s written on it. When he glances up at me, the prideful smile showcased on his face makes my fingertips tingle.
“You won.”
I nod enthusiastically. “They chose the winner last night, but I didn’t see the email until this morning. As soon as I saw it I squealed. Mom thought I found another mouse in my room which freaked her out. She hates mice.”
“Noted.”
“Anyway,” I press on, jumping. “I won a chance to talk to a bestselling author and get my story published in a literary magazine!”
He draws me in for a hug and squeezes me to his body. Melting into his warmth, I wrap my arms around his midsection, burying my nose into his chest. We’ve never done this before, but I like it.
I pull away first when he asks, “Who’s the author you get to talk to?”
“I have no idea.”
His laugh bursts out of him. When I meet his amused gaze, I can’t help but laugh too. In the bright November sunlight, a rarity between cold snaps and snow flurries, I notice the prominent scar on his eyebrow. We exchanged war stories about our scars not long ago. He was chasing Fred around the house when he lost his footing and slammed his head into the corner of the coffee table, leaving the slightest white scar across his brow. I remember how embarrassed he was to admit that he’d been wounded because of his cat.
“But,” I amend, pulling my focus back to the contest, “it doesn’t matter. Do you want to know why? I may not have heard of them, but someone has. And in turn, they’ll have heard about me. Even if they forget about my existence after we’re done talking.”
“Nobody could forget you, Little Bird.”
I scoff. “Stop. Did you forget the bestselling part? They’re busy being successful. The last thing they’re going to think about in their free time is the girl from a town they’ve never heard of in the middle of nowhere.”
“It’s still your name out there.”
Grinning, I take the paper back. “True.”
“I’m proud of you. Seriously.”
For the first time since I arrived at his place, I take a deep breath. “I’m proud of me too. It may not be much, but it’s something. Anyway, I’ll let you get back to your friends. I need to go put on like forty layers to warm up.”
He notes my lack of outerwear. “It’s like forty today. Where is your jacket?”
I roll my eyes. “At home, Mom.” Sticking my tongue out as I back up, I hug the paper to my chest. He mimics me, making me laugh.
“For the record, you’re my friend too.”
I wave it off. “Whatever. I bet you’re making them watch Stephen King movies and droning on for hours about everything King does in his free time.”
He winks. “But I don’t feed them while doing it. Especially not our favorite candy. You should feel special, Little Bird.”
The annoying part is, I do.
Chapter Ten
Corbin / Present
The dim light from the floor lamp by the leather sectional I’m sitting on is the only thing letting me skim through the script to prepare for tomorrow. My obsession with picking apart every sentence is consuming me, yet I can’t force myself to go to bed until I’ve combed through the lines I’m supposed to deliver like the person who created them isn’t assessing the entire delivery.
My palm scrapes down my tired face as I pick up my phone and glance at the time. I’m usually going through useless emails that my agent sends me thinking I’ll pay attention to them by now, or already in bed. Half the shit littering my inbox and messages are different opportunities for sponsorships and commercials that would line my pockets until my next big job.
The team who represents me also knows that I ignore most of what they send me because I don’t want my name tied to a product or think it’s a complete waste to begin with. There have only been a few times in my past where I settled on doing a quick job for cash when I needed it, but I’m not the young kid starting out anymore.
Dropping my phone on my couch when I see a voicemail from Mom, I lean back and groan loudly into the room. We speak once or twice a month because my schedule is busy. Ever since I signed onto the Through Shattered Glass movie, she’s been asking for updates on how things have been going.
By things, she means Kinley.
My mother’s enthusiasm over Kinley’s movie gets me hounded with questions about how her favorite girl is doing because she hasn’t seen her in so long. Mom always wanted a daughter and treated Kinley like her own. It made having Kinley around easier because the mistakes I made stopped becoming the focus of all our conversations—especially with Dad.
The thought of Mr. Callum sours my mood instantly, causing me to peel myself from the couch and head into my bedroom to change. I would try over and over again to impress my parents only to be criticized and doubted by the man I’m so much alike. Kinley always understood where I came from because her family struggled getting why she went after writing like she needed it to breathe.
Her and I are alike in all the ways that matter, which made us inseparable. Having her in my life made everything easier. My family got along better, we got to root each other on when it came to writing contests and auditions, and when things didn’t work out we were there for one another to vent to.
Slipping into my nylon running shorts, my eyes catch the two little black lines on my left pec. Staring at them in the mirror, I run the pad of my thumb over the ink. Everyone asks about them, but they remain a mystery. Makeup usually covers the simple tattoos for movies, but Buchannan let me keep them visible during my shirtless scenes. It seems symbolic given the history and the woman who started it all.
Two lines. Two strikes. They represent the moments I realized that I loved Kinley Thomas—loved her as a friend and more. Far more. Press always wants the inside scoop on why I bothered with something so plain, so permanent. Most actors stray from marks like this. But I wanted a reminder of the feelings that stuck with me for so long. She’s always been a part of me and always will be.
Covering my chiseled torso with a loose sleeveless tee, I head into my spare room that’s been converted into a makeshift gym. The equipment isn’t as impressive as some of the professional places I’ve been to with my trainer, but it gets the job done when I work myself up and need to release my anger.