Page 6 of Bound By Brielle (Crave & Cure Productions)

When the program director, an old classmate of mine, contacted me, I agreed to the meeting, regarding it very little. Things were so great at the time—our top male star Tucker Deep had just signed a lofty deal with Debauchery, the top toy company. We’d begun co-branding toys together, and things with Lance were new and goddamn exciting. The idea of taking on a protégé again was something I’d told myself would be good as a favor, in order to have a favor owed.

Now, with my near crippling depression and fractured heart, the idea of having some wide-eyed and ambitious film school student trailing around after me, scribbling notes and asking annoying questions—I quite literally want to gouge my eye out at the thought.

But I am a man of my word. I chuckle to myself as that thought flits through, earning me a measured glance from both Lance and Vienna before they turn back to their work.

I am a man of my word. Except the one time in my life I gave my word and was unable to keep it.

The ironic part is that it was the only time keeping my word mattered. And I couldn’t fucking do it.

Refocusing, because that’s all I can do all day to keep me from either screaming or fucking weeping, I get back to today’s schedule. We aren’t filming until noon, and it’s an outdoor shoot. I print call sheets, go over the script, and let Cohen know what we’re doing so he can prepare the lights and electricity on the back dock, where we’re shooting. When that’s all done, it’s nearing time for the call.

Lance filters in and out, and I can’t help but stare at him each time he does. Today, his toned frame is accentuated by his perfectly tapered sepia cigarette pants and matching blazer, the white dress shirt beneath unbuttoned to reveal a triangle of his chest. I’m at my desk, hard for a triangle of flesh, but at this point, I’ll take what I can goddamn get. He glares at me as he settles into his chair, and I drag my focus back to my laptop right as my phone rings.

“Augustus Moore,” my old friend exclaims, happiness vibrating through the ether. Guilt worms through me that my response is loaded with faux happiness. But it’s not him. It’s me.

As it usually is.

“Ezra Leon,” I reply, forcing a smile in hopes he can hear it. “Good to hear from you. How’ve you been?”

I minimize my schedule on the computer, and click open a folder on my desktop titled “Us.” Hundreds of photos populate, images of Lance and me smiling in various places, a plethora of situations.

“Good, been good man. How’re you? I saw Crave partnered with Debauchery. That’s gotta be great for the actors, and you,” he says.

“Yeah,” I reply, my eyes hovering over a photo of us on Alcatraz island, touring the penitentiary. We’re in one of the cells that features a dummy head from years ago, one the prisoners made to fool the guards. Lance is making a shocked face, looking down at the human hair glued to the head, and I’m laughing at his reaction. “It’s good for Crave, you’re not wrong about that. And yeah, it’s, it’s good,” I finish, giving him enough of an answer that he won’t prod further, because I don’t want to talk about Crave more than I need to. I don’t want to talk at all, if I’m being truthful.

“Well, good,” he says. “It’s great over here in the UCSF graduate program,” he adds, and goddamn I feel like an asshole for not asking. I study the next photo of us, Lance’s head tipped onto my shoulder, golden hair shining beneath the street light, puffs of breath all around us. I remember that night. It was out front Crave. I felt so drunk that night, despite being sober. His love always made me feel that way. “I see so much of us in these students, so eager to direct and chase their goals you know? I like it. It keeps me excited. And I can never bring myself to tell them no one is Kubrick, Burton or Moore overnight.”

That makes me laugh, but my eyes remain on the open folder of memories. “I’m not sure I deserve to be on that list necessarily,” I reply, forcing a small chuckle, “but I love you for it anyway.”

At that comment, my eyes go to Lance and his come to mine before immediately dropping back down to his iPad.

“Okay, I know you’re busy, enough buttering you up. I have a student that I think would make a great protégé for you.” In the background, I hear papers flipping then, “truth be told, I think she’d work really well with both you and Lance. Lance is still there, right?”

I lick my lips, and blink at the photo of us on set, taken by a crew member who only took the photo because he thought the lighting was “rad.” All around us is dark, and the two of us have our backs to the camera, light pouring down on us from a spotlight overhead. It is rad. “Yeah, Lance is still here,” I reply, managing to keep my eyes off of him.

“Well, good. She’d be great for you two. Eager to learn and while she was late to apply, I really think she could benefit from Crave. She needs to broaden her horizons a little.”

I sigh, pinching my forehead in my palm. Eager sounds energized, and some bushy-tailed film student may just kill me in the state I’m in. But I say, “Alright, when will she start?”

Ezra goes over the terms of the program, telling me that I’ll receive an email with all pertinent information later this week. And when we end the call, it bothers me that Lance doesn’t ask.

“We have a protégé coming to Crave; we’re going to mentor her in her final semester.”

His eyebrows lift but his eyes don’t leave his computer screen. “Great.”

I chew the inside of my mouth, my gaze flitting between Lance and the screen flooded with our photos. I take a chance, because I can’t stop trying.

“Can we have dinner?” I lean forward and lower my voice, since the door to our office was left open by Vienna. “Can you give me that?”

His hand slams his laptop closed unexpectedly, then his icy blue eyes pierce me from across the room, instantly deflating me.

“Give you that?” He snorts, and I die a little, I swear I do. “If you remember correctly, I did the giving, and you did the getting what you want. Always.” He rises, grabs his iPad and starts to leave. He pauses in the doorframe, his back to me when he says, “No dinner.”

And my heart shatters for the millionth time.

three

It won’t be Spielberg.

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