Wish You Were Here

Chapter 7

Your phone buzzes on the nightstand beside you. It's past 1am on a weeknight. You're not going to pick up for just anyone. But it's him.

You like it when he calls so late, or sends you voice memos, the way he has for the last few weeks. Usually it comes with filthy instructions, like to describe what you're wearing or turn on your vibrator. But he's not in that headspace tonight. "Did I wake you up?" he asks.

"No, I was awake." Staring at the ceiling. Staring at the window. At the shadows the moonlight casts on your bedroom. "What are you doing?"

"I have a weird favor to ask."

His voice is soft. You think he might be in bed too, even though it's only ten in LA and he's a night owl like you. "Mmm?"

"We're filming my death scene tomorrow."

He takes a fatal arrow for your main characters, holding the villain off so they can make their escape. In your book, he dies alone. A brutal, unstoppable and devastating loss for your heroes. You cried after writing it. You've had a lot of feedback that people cry when they read it. You're pretty sure you'll cry when it's on screen, too. Especially now that it's him.

"I tried to get a copy of the book from the library, but it was shut by the time I got there. And I couldn't find the PDF online."

"Do you want me to email you the scene?" you offer, sitting up on one elbow.

"I was actually going to ask if you can read it to me."

"Aloud?" you ask, mortified.

There's a long pause. "You don't have to if you don't want to."

"No," you say quickly. "Hang on. Let me grab it." You slide out of bed and carry your phone over to your desk. You look at your laptop, which you know is just a Control-F away from finding the scene, but the prospect of reading aloud makes you want to go old school. You take a copy of the book off your shelf, plug your headphones into your phone so you can hold the book in two hands, and put your feet up to read by the outside light at the window.

You ask him where he wants you to read from. His voice in your ears tells you the whole chapter. He must know the battle scene by now, at least, but you humor him.

At first, you're self-conscious, stumbling over the words, cringing at the sound of your voice. But slowly you relax and let the rhythm and pacing of your writing take over. He listens, silent mostly, but sometimes you hear the rustle of sheets as he moves around in bed. At the end of the chapter, you slowly close the book shut. The hard cover makes a satisfying thump.

"Thank you," he says. He's sleepy now. You can tell.

It can't be easy pretending to die on a soundstage in front of dozens of other people, for hours at a time. "Are you alright?"

"I just wanted to hear your voice," he says.

It's nice to hear his, too. "Is it bad that I miss you?" you whisper into the microphone.

"I miss you," he whispers back. "Won't you come out? Even just for a day? You'd like it here. You can write and no one will bother you."

It's tempting, but you decline. "I don't want to take you away from your work," you say. "I'll be a distraction."

"But you are a great distraction."

A smile plays at your lips. "I'll be there next weekend for the con."

"And your birthday."

You pretend to be embarrassed that he remembers, but secretly you're thrilled. "And my birthday."