Page 21 of Director's Cut

He’s gonna do it, though. I can just tell.

And now I know Maeve’s seen me naked.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Even though I’m emotionally drained from the equivalent of a full high school day of meetings, less than an hour after I get home, Charlie drags me into my home gym. Eustace naps on my Pilates mat as Britney Spears croons her greatest hits from the speaker. Charlie sorts through the couple of medicine balls I own, picking the heaviest one. He chucked his shirt before stretching, and I’m in a sports bra, as if we’re silently begging each other for validation. You’re so hot, babe. I’d hire you in a fucking action movie. In fact, if I swung the other way—

“So how’re the auditions going?” I ask him as we do our first exercise—obliques and core, passing each other the ball after each rep.

“Nothing much to report,” Charlie replies, passing me the ball. “It’s a ton of self-tape work. I thought I was done with that.”

“I wouldn’t get discouraged. We all have to do self-tapes sometimes.”

Still, I can’t imagine what I’m saying is much help. Right before Star Trek, he was on a pretty great roll. A lead in a moderately received adaptation of Hadestown, a part in the ensemble of a limited series that had a cult following—all the benchmarks of success a working actor strives for. And to lose that…

Charlie throws the ball back to me a little harder than I expect. “You just took like seven meetings on the Warner lot with producers begging you to be in their projects. No offense, Sulls, but don’t pretend you can relate. And you don’t have to try to empathize.”

Shame cuts through me, but once that fades I just feel angry. “And you don’t have to be a bitch to the only person who’s been actively propping you up since this setback happened.”

We get through another rep each before he answers. “That doesn’t mean it feels any better knowing that you’ve been working consistently for over five years without so much as a lull. Don’t forget I was scraping for yogurt commercials while you were in England thinking you were going to be a professor and being called a shallow idiot by Emily. And your career still took off before mine even got started. I don’t mean to take a dig at you. I’m just telling you the facts. Your career has been perfect up until now.”

I throw the ball back to him. He nearly loses abdominal control, but manages to stay upright. “Well, wonderful, Charlie. I don’t know what pointing that out is doing to help either of us. I think it hurts you more than me, actually.”

“It’s—I’m just airing my thoughts. Honesty. That’s always been our policy, hasn’t it?”

“Yeah, well, it’s not the right time. It’s been a long day, and I need more than an hour to decompress, and it’s been harder to do with—”

The words catch in my throat as the ball returns to Charlie’s hands.

He stops exercising. “What? Are you saying you don’t want me here anymore?”

When did this even turn into an argument? I just wanted to know how his auditions were going. Why am I so angry right now? Charlie’s just complaining. Yeah, I do have privilege when it comes to my career. It’s not something I have to get pissed about. Charlie has an easier time maintaining his body because he has a better metabolism and doesn’t crave carbs; I have borderline wet dreams about Pizookies and will lose my abs within a week of laying off the routine. We both have cis and white privilege. The lists could go on forever.

Am I really letting this Maeve stuff turn me into a raging lunatic? I’m sure from Charlie’s perspective, I should be grateful for this gig. I mean, what is it about Maeve that’s getting to me right now? Is it feeling academically inferior, frustration over how fame is affecting my actual relationships, the fact that I can’t get hot queer women despite the objective game I have? Hope?

“No,” I say. I reach for my water bottle and take a long couple of swigs. “I just—I hate seeing you so directionless. This”—I motion vaguely to us—“isn’t healthy for either of us.”

Charlie grabs a set of dumbbells and starts doing bicep curls. I massage out my aching sides.

“I don’t like that I’m couch crashing. But it’s also fucking weird that you’re, like, my landlord. How am I supposed to pull myself out of a funk if I can’t even hook up with fellow losers off Raya without feeling like I’m violating your space?”

Back when Charlie and I lived together the first time, the walls were so thin that we were well aware of when the other was having sex. It was just something we had to deal with. We were both doing it and were too bad at communicating to really set boundaries. But now—yeah, I do appreciate that he hasn’t brought a random Raya dude to my house. And not just because the idea of a stranger having my address is deeply uncomfortable. Maybe it’s jealousy, even if I don’t want to call it that right now. Yet it’s not like Charlie has had many more boyfriends than I’ve had girlfriends. He was secretly dating another closeted gay actor for a few years, but they’ve been broken up for nearly a year. And it’s not like I’m interested in anyone in particular. It’s not like I’m disappointed that I can’t have Maeve because I would never want someone so pretentious and judgmental in my life anyway. Especially not someone who’s apparently rather kind but is choosing to withhold that side of their personality from me.

“Well, we can do something about the staying-with-me thing,” I say. “Do you want to do, like, chores?”

Charlie sighs. “What exactly would I be doing that your housekeeper doesn’t do?”

My phone rings, startling Eustace. “I will let you pay theoretical rent if you keep my team away from me and read my script options for me and tell me if they suck. No joke. And you can secretly inquire about any roles you want that you find through it. Just tell them I hired a personal assistant again.”

Charlie squints at me. “Before I give you my answer, the job you described is literally less important than an intern’s. But I’ll do it.” He grimaces as he says it.

“Look, if you can find some way to legitimately pay for a room in my house, I’ll let you do whatever you want in there. I’ll try to treat general common space more as common space.”

There’s a long pause as I wait for Charlie’s reply. He exhales. “Okay. I’m sorry I snapped at you.”

“I’m sorry for being a bitch too.” I give him a tiny smile. “I’m sure I’ve been annoying you with my Maeve bullshit anyway.”

“No, I live for that shit.” Charlie grins back, rolling me a set of free weights. “What’s going on there?”

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