The Show Must Go On

Bonus Chapter Two: Nasir's POV

Chapter Thirty-Two

'How long will you keep this up for?'

I'm thirty-one years old, independently wealthy, and have for many years been allowed to choose my own haircuts, but this question makes me seventeen again. After all, Paul used to tell me what to wear, how to think, who to speak to. Paul used to remind me that, if I didn't look perfect, no one cared if I was good. And Paul was right.

Now he's sitting opposite me, looking a little older but even more confident, and he's telling me what to do again.

It doesn't matter that I shiver when I see him. Those dark memories are locked away and I won't open them again. That's why I'm meeting him for lunch, to discuss his newest projects: because I'm a professional, not a teenager, and this is what professionals do.

'You're not even the best commissioner in your team of two, Nas,' Paul continues. 'How many years left before she kicks you down the ladder?'

I roll my eyes at this. Paul doesn't know Ellie. She might eventually put me down, like a sick dog, but she'd be heartbroken over it.

'Come back to acting,' Paul begs. He stirs his drink—his second pint, noon, early start—and tries to catch my eyes. I won't look at him. 'Commissioning takes people skills, and that's not your strength. Pretending: that's what you're good at.'

Damn it. He's right. I hated it, sure. But no one did it better.

I brush off Paul's insistence with a few curt words. I won't perform in his stupid new idea, which is somehow even more racist than the last. I may be insecure and a little aimless, but I'm not stupid enough to return to the producer who hurt me.

Yet as I walk back to the office, I know I met him for a reason. I wanted to feel this small. I wanted someone to remind me that I can't do this, because for months, I've felt that.

A few months ago, the director of Pendleton suggested that I should act in the next season. I hated the idea. I never mentioned it to Ellie, mostly because I hated it, but partly because I thought she'd be delighted. It would be the perfect way to get rid of me.

But why not?

My entire body is trembling with something: fear, maybe, or courage.

I stride up the stairs of the cinema screening, because even heartsick, tired, and indecisive, I can't leave her waiting for me.

I hated acting, but I was great at it. Why shouldn't I return to it?

I could leave her alone, like she so obviously wants. She could watch me on her laptop and turn her ring around and around, wanting me, missing me.

Wasn't it so good to be perfect? To be admired and lusted after and handsome, to have everyone look at me like they wanted me, to never show weakness? Wasn't it good to know that no one knew I was afraid?

What has goodness gotten me? A dead-end job, no real friends, trapped in love with a woman who despises me.

She despises me because she knows me. But she'd want me if she saw me onscreen. Everyone did.

And she's engaged. She's fucking engaged. A good man wouldn't want her at all.

But I do.

Be perfect.

Be good.

Be perfect.

Be good.

In the flickering light, she looks at me and I know, with absolute certainty, that she wants me. Nothing else is clear, but I know this.