Page 23 of Lights, Camera, Love

I smile. ‘Thanks.’

‘How’s your neck holding up?’ he asks as I brave a sip of bourbon. It’s not what I’d ordinarily drink, but I’m surprised to find it smooth and quite delicious.

‘It’s a bit better.’ I hold up my glass. ‘This’ll help. Thank you.’

‘Don’t thank me; thank the poor bastard who left it here.’

I chuckle and settle back in my chair, gazing out at the distant ridge of midnight-blue mountains pushing up the starlit sky. ‘Do you think you should’ve handed the bottle in?’

‘You mean to reception?’ he says.

I laugh. ‘You’re right. I think the chickens run the reception desk.’ I haven’t seen a soul at this farm other than our filming crew since we got here.

‘Nah, it’s totally the alpacas,’ Kye says. ‘They’ve got that shit sorted.’

Another chuckle slips out. ‘As soon as I arrived, they handed me a robe and a pair of fluffy slippers.’

‘Made out of their own fur?’ he says, impressed. ‘That’s worth a five-star Google review right there.’

I laugh again, and he takes a swig of bourbon.

Silence falls between us, and I hunt for a conversation topic. ‘So, have you been working with Austin for long?’

He briefly rests the rim of his glass against his plush bottom lip. ‘A couple of years.’

‘Do you also manage other actors?’

‘No, just him.’

‘Do you love it?’

His brows lift. ‘Do Iloveit?’

I don’t know why I asked that. I guess I’m trying to figure out whether Kye’s aloof and surly vibe is just his personality or if he’s genuinely miserable. I thought I picked up something at that city cafe when Austin was talking about returning to LA.

‘I get to travel the world with my best friend,’ he eventually says. ‘What’s not to love?’

He takes another swig of bourbon, and I hum a sound of agreement, but he’s holding something back. I’m pretty good at sensing when someone’s hiding their true feelings—it takes one to know one—and I just don’t buy what he’s saying. It’s not my business, though, so I tear open the trail mix and pick out a few salty pretzels. When I hold out the packet to Kye, he freezes, glances at me and then gently digs into the bag, choosing only a few M&Ms. Honestly, it’s like trying to engage a cat with trust issues.

‘How long have you and Austin been friends?’ I ask, peering into my glass. I can’t seem to stop this interrogation even though I really should be trying to get some sleep.

Kye stares out ahead, taking a moment to answer. ‘I lived with Austin and his family when I was a fosterkid,’ he says quietly. ‘That was obviously a long time ago, though. Now, we’re just best friends. And colleagues.’

‘Oh.’ I take another sip of my drink, unsure how to respond. ‘So, you grew up with him?’ I ask, hoping I’m not overstepping.

‘Yeah, but not like a brother.’ He swallows tightly. ‘More like a house guest, or an exchange student or something like that. I was never adopted or anything, and to be honest, I didn’t want to be.’ He leans back in his chair and rubs his brow.

I redirect the conversation. ‘I don’t have any brothers or sisters,’ I say. ‘Actually, I don’t even have a dad. It’s just me and Mum.’

‘Yeah?’ I feel Kye’s eyes on me, his jaw resting in his hand.

‘Yeah.’

A burning feeling builds behind my eyes as I think back to the first time I ever admitted those words: I don’t have a dad.

I was in Year Eight at school, and I had to research my family tree for a history project. Mum told me to just leave his side of the sheet blank, but the thought of doing that left me feeling hollow. Ididhave a father—a pretty cool one—even though he lived in America and we hadn’t met yet. As I stared down at the blank page, though, I realised I knew nothing at all about my father’s relatives. I tried filling out the sheet using his Wikipedia bio, but I couldn’t find any family history that reached further back than his parents.

So, I did something that still makes my skin crawl. I found the contact details for Gabriel Dean’s agent online and sent him an email, saying that I needed to ask my father a few questions about his family.

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