The Beautiful Truth

// 117

A bound copy of my script was lying face up on his intimidating desk when I walked in. We'd long since abandoned formalities like standing to greet each other, and small-talk, and well, knocking.

"Sawyer," he barely swiveled around from his computer screen as I flopped lazily into his oversized guest chair.

"Dr. Bovich."

I could tell he was about to laugh before he turned around.

"I know you've probably got a lot of, you know, standard coed things to do on this Thursday night," he waved his hands dismissively. "So I'll get to the point."

I laughed. "Yes, please, so I can get on with my standard collegiate coed Thursday."

He smirked. "Someone wants to buy your script.

I stared at him blankly.

He stared back, unwavering.

"What." I deadpanned. Again, not a question, just an accusation.

Dr. Bovich continued to stare while I tried to stifle the hysteria rising inside me.

"You... what did you DO?!" I asked, eyes wide.

"My old college roommate is a Hollywood agent. You didn't believe me when I told you I was sending it to him at the end of last semester?"

"I was hoping I'd misheard you."

"Well, you didn't."

"Oh."

We resumed our staring contest.

"Are you OK?" he finally asked.

Now that's a question I had grown to abhor.

Are you OK, not talking to Talyn?
Are you OK, me hanging out at Alex's house for the fifth night this week?
Are you OK, not living with us anymore?
Are you OK, Barton being back in town?
Are you OK, knowing your dad's long-lost love is just across campus?
Are you OK, not having been home in three months or more?
Are you OK with me shopping this intensely personal work of yours to the same societal blights that made the first pile of horse-shit film adaptation of your dad's literary masterpiece?

Wait.

Did I just mentally refer to that book as a masterpiece?

I sighed. I was tired. Of most everything. It was exhausting, holding it all in. I wanted to go back to summer, where everything and everyone I was now going to great lengths to avoid had been out of sight and out of mind.

Football season had started a month ago. I liked to pretend that was the biggest, most prominent source of my frustration. I missed Talyn so much. And I knew he had to be going through a lot at the moment. USC was off to a lack-luster 2-2 start, although Talyn was playing phenomenally. But with his defensive line decimated by the NCAA penalties, they'd been lucky to eke out those two wins.

After their last loss, I'd finally just called him. No answer. I didn't leave a message. He didn't call me back. I may have been ready to talk now, but evidently Talyn was not.

Meanwhile, Chase had all but mastered the Air Raid. Cal was 4-0. Travis was having a marquee year as the nation's number one wide receiver prospect, enjoying all those extra opportunities for rushing yards. Chase was right—he was his best receiver.

And thanks to those two—and Scott, the fully-paid, absentee third roommate—I had successfully avoided Barton Black since the whole of Michael's Mistress had moved back into their house across campus.