Page 74 of The Unfinished Line

The year before, I’d been crammed into a club on Sunset, regretting my fourth martini, trying to avoid the wandering hands of a boy who soon found himself sorely disappointed. I’d woken the next morning on the glazed porcelain floor of Dani’s ensuite bathroom, grateful for the impeccable cleaning habits of The Beverly Hills Hotel housekeepers.

Needless to say, in comparing the two nights, this year was 10/10 recommended. All the stars given.

I’m not actually sure when the clock struck midnight. It was sometime after she’d finally kissed me, but definitely before we’d abandoned the inconvenience of the old thrift shop table and stumbled the five steps through my nano kitchen into my bedroom. No doubt the entire city had erupted with bottle rockets and M80s, shaking my single-pane windows intheir deteriorating framework, but at the time, the numerical change of the Gregorian calendar had been the least of my considerations. An honest to God Armageddon could have been going on outside and I wouldn’t have noticed.

Now, however, with Dillon asleep beside me, I’d become aware of every creak and hum and rustle. I could hear the swing of my antique clock’s pendulum. The murmur of my old fridge motor. The cycle of my upstairs neighbor’s toilet. And, above it all, I listened, over the rhythmic beating of my heart, to the comforting whisper of Dillon’s tranquil inhalations.

I enjoyed watching her sleep. The coral glow from my Himalayan salt lamp cast just enough light to bring her features into focus. It was the first time I’d ever gotten to look at her—to really study her—without feeling self-conscious.

I loved the strong lines of her face and subtle scattering of freckles dusting her high cheekbones. The way her defined jaw contrasted the suppleness of her lips. In the shadows, with the comforter kicked down to her knees, I could appreciate her extreme fitness. Her lithesomeness and strength. And yet also, in the curves and contours of her body, the femininity she retained.

I couldn’t shake my thoughts from what she’d told me. About her dad. About her youth. About Henrik. I was infuriated for the child who’d been so horrifyingly manipulated. And my heart broke for the woman who had yet to learn to forgive herself. I had so many questions, so many things I wanted to say, but I’d kept them to myself. It hadn’t felt like the time. She’d offered me a piece of her I didn’t imagine she gave to many people, and the last thing I wanted was for her to regret it.

So I’d steered the night in a different direction—down a lighter path that allowed us both to escape to more pleasurable endeavors.

My thoughts were in the middle of revisiting some of those exact endeavors (who knew you could actually leave fingernail indentations on the softwood pine of a dining room table?) when my cell phone vibrated. It was Dani.

Not today, Satan.

I snatched it off the nightstand and immediately turned it off. The only person I’d wanted to hear from was lying right beside me.

Scooting closer to Dillon, I pressed my face to the nape of her neck, reveling in the warmth of her body. I couldn’t remember the last time I slept beside someone and looked forward to waking with them in the morning.

When I opened my eyes again, my limbs stretching out across the full-size mattress in search of her, I discovered she wasn’t there.

Based on the angle of light permeating my sheer window coverings, it was early morning.

I swung my legs over the side of the bed, tugged on a tank top, and padded barefoot into my living room. It was empty. Her backpack was lying open on the couch, her hat and jacket stacked beside it. I didn’t doubt, if I peeked inside, I’d find her running shoes missing.

Apparently, there was no keeping her from her New Year’s tradition.

Fifteen minutes later, when I cranked off the water and stepped out of my shower, I heard my front door open.

I quickly dried off and wrapped myself in a towel, slipping out of the steaming bathroom to find her sorting through my fridge.

“Hey,” she looked up when she heard me.

God, I loved her smile. The way her dimples creased her cheeks.

From what I could see over the top of the fridge door, I also loved the way her shirt was clinging to her body, her face flushed and skin glistening. The after effects of a run.

I leaned against the counter. “Beware. I think the milk is expired.”

She held up a new carton and I noticed there was a grocery bag on the floor. “Not anymore.” Finishing stashing the items, she turned for the sink. “You were supposed to still be in bed. Sleep in. Two cups of coffee. Read a book cover-to-cover. Go to a movie. Isn’t that what you told me?”

I stared at her, realizing there were two 7-Eleven cups on the counter. “You remembered that?”

“Of course I remembered,” she chastised, “I listen to everything you tell me.” Reaching into a second bag, she pulled out a weekly. “I’m afraid reading materials were slim pickings on a holiday—but I did pick up a magazine.” She tossed the publication next to the sink. “There was a cute girl on the cover.”

It wasVariety. And there was Elliott, Grady—and me.

“God.” I shook my head. I still hadn’t wrapped my mind around all the publicity I was getting. “I wish they’d find a different headshot. I look so... boring.”

“I promise, Kameryn Kingsbury,” she pressed the coffee into my hands, “these reporters are going to find you anything but boring.”

“Yeah?” I set the paper cup to my lips. “And how would you describe me?”

Ok, fine—I was fishing for compliments. So sue me. I’m an actress. Sometimes I need someone to feed my vanity.

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