Page 52 of Director's Cut

“I just want to see.”

Maeve’s phone chimes as I boot up my Safari. God, I hate googling myself. I’ve never gotten to the last page of search results, but I know it’s weird male gaze porn. Like the kind where they photoshop your head onto pregnant or huge-titty anime girl bodies.

But I don’t have to go further than the first page of results. I type in my name and click “News” and there it is.

Goodbye, Richard! Actress locks lips with mystery girl at La Brea Tar Pits

I hold my breath and click on the first article. Scroll down to see the picture.

It’s me. Very clearly me in my gay outfit, my still gay haircut falling in my eyes, making out with someone. Someone. Because Maeve’s shot from the back, and you can barely see more than her brown hair and her pink sweater and jeans. No distinguishing features, especially with my middle finger forcing a pixelated square over her head.

No one but Maeve and me would know it’s Maeve.

Smugness washing over me.

Let people gossip and call me trashy for making out with someone at a dead animal museum. Maeve’s free from the fire.

Still, I hope she’s feeling what I’m feeling about this.

When I look up, Maeve’s looking at me expectantly. “It’s just me.”

I hand her my phone, and our fingers brush, leaving my skin tingling. “Mystery Girl. They’re not very creative, are they?” she says.

Whew.

I smile. “Not in the least. I’d at least call you Pink-Sweater Girl.”

Then, in a move that shocks me, Maeve straight up removes her pink sweater. Guess she really trusts my giant hedges.

“Are you trying to prove me wrong?” I ask.

She doesn’t answer, just smiles and wiggles out of her shoes, socks, and jeans. She turns fully toward me, her smile growing into a little smirk. “Like what you see?”

I…I mean, yeah, of course I do. Maeve isn’t even in matching underwear—she’s wearing a flesh-tone bra and red-and-white polka-dot panties—yet she looks more glamorous than a Victoria’s Secret model. Seeing how the waves of her hair just barely brush her collarbone and knowing her exact curves is really, really nice.

And then, with a jolt, it occurs to me that I’m supposed to be stripping too.

“It’s not gonna be warm,” I say.

“Good, there’s a little adversity for you to overcome.”

I laugh as I remove my jacket and pullover. Her gaze burns on my skin as she watches me undress. Undress for the first time. I haven’t seen Maeve like this before. She has—well, I guess she has seen me like this before. My chest pangs a little wondering if this is as special for her as it is for me.

I tug off my shoes/socks/jeans. She undoes her necklace and places it on the patio table.

If I can’t make it a novel experience to see me like this, maybe I can at least make that first touch special.

I approach her more tentatively than I normally would. When I cross the last few feet separating us, I feel like I’m stepping into a different ecosystem. Heat seems to swirl around us, but the fine hairs on my arms and the back of my neck stand on end. My insides tighten, but there’s no pain. Just the wind-up of anticipation. I brush her hair behind her shoulder.

“You’re unreal,” Maeve says, her voice vibrating in a low timbre.

I shiver.

Fuck. I’m hers. I’m all hers.

I grab her shoulders.

I’m hers, but I’m also terrible in intense moments.

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