Page 150 of The Holiday Fakers
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!
My heart jumps into my throat as I’m halfway down the stairs. The urgency of the knock makes me panic that something awful has happened.
Mom reaches the front door at the same time I do, and I stand back so she can open it.
Marv barges in. His eyes are manic, the broken capillaries livid in his cheeks as he struggles to breathe. It looks like he sprinted all the way from the Hideaway Hotel.
“Where’s Brody?” he pants.
“In the kitchen, honey. What’s happened?”
He staggers further into the house. “Brody! Brody!”
Mom guides him through to where Brody is wiping his hands on a dish towel.
“What’s going on?”
Marv spreads his arms wide like he’s announcing the arrival of the Second Coming.
“Bro! You’re not gonna fu—believe it!”
“Take a seat,” Mom says, guiding him to a stool at the end of the breakfast bar. “You can’t tell us anything if you have an aneurysm.”
My hand reaches for Brody’s. I have no idea what Marv’s going to say, but I suddenly fear his words are going to destroy my blissful happiness.
Brody gives my hand a reassuring squeeze as Mom bustles around Marv, getting him coffee and a cookie.
My tablet sits open on the breakfast bar, Brooklyn rentals on the screen, smudged with floury fingerprints. I power it down. It feels like bad juju to leave it open when I don’t know what bomb Marv’s about to drop.
His hands tremble as he pats his sweating forehead with a handkerchief.
Mom rubs his back. “Take all the time you need. We’re not going anywhere for an hour or so.”
Marv nods, then tries to speak, but it comes out as a high-pitched laugh.
“You okay?” Brody asks.
“Yeah, just—” Marv shakes his head and holds out his quivering hands. “Look at me.”
Mom takes the mug of coffee away from him. “Maybe this isn’t such a good idea. Let me get you a chamomile tea.”
Marv glances at Brody, then away as if he’s trying not to cry. “I’m just so happy for you, man. No one deserves this more than you.”
My pulse quickens. Something tells me Marv isn’t talking about our relationship.
Brody’s thumb on the back of my hand stops moving.
“Deserve what?” he asks warily.
“The showrunners got in touch. They …”
“They’ve changed their minds?” I ask, my heart thudding in my chest.
Marv’s gaze turns to me, and something flickers in his eyes, a glitch in his fervor.
He mops his forehead again, staring at the handkerchief, then takes a deep breath and locks eyes with Brody.
“They want you to play the Emberking of Draventhorne. They’ve offered you the lead role.”
