Heartbeats

Chapter 2

Him...

Rejection is never a walk in the park, but it hurts the most when it's unexpected.

I overreacted. In my pain, I couldn't comprehend a world where there was any gray area for us. So instead of giving her time to explain her hesitancy toward my proposal, I shot out of the bed, throwing my clothes in a suitcase in a frenzy while she watched wide-eyed, face still damp with tears.

It was tangible, the feeling of two hearts breaking at the same time. And in my frantic madness, I didn't think about what I was actually doing. The mind has a way of playing tricks on the soul in moments of extreme emotion, and, over the course of the next few months, lying awake at night to watch the instant replay of our breakup, it didn't take long for me to recognize my mistake.

Retaliation is a basic instinct and it took over within me as a response to her rejection, sending every other rational component of my being into autopilot. She hurt you, so hurt her back, it whispered. And at the time, it seemed like a good idea. I remember two things distinctly before latching the door on my way out of the apartment that night. The first is how she followed me into the living room, overtaken by a fresh round of tears, arms wrapped around her slight frame clothed only in an oversized t-shirt even though it was the beginning of December. I didn't dare look her in the eyes, knowing I would find within them some excuse to stay. Instead, I reached for the door, stepping across the threshold and hearing a weak "But..." call out behind me.

The second thing I remember is my response.

A sinister smile swept across my face and I shut the door.

~*~

Coming face to face with your own mortality has its way of rearranging your priorities. Young, disillusioned me thought that I had an infinite amount of time to sort out the trajectory my life and so I put it off like a term paper. I was uninhibited enough to throw myself at my dreams without so much as a Plan B and maybe that's why it all worked out. I landed the roles and cashed in on them, surrounding myself with pretty girls and the good life.

When we first met, she intrigued me. I had grown accustomed to being attracted to starlets, but something about her was different. She didn't fall at my feet like the other girls; she looked me square in the eye. When I approached her at a casting party with the intent of wiling her with my charms, she was quick to react. Direct and matter-of-fact.

"This might be a game for you," she practically sang, "but I'm no prize to be won. I'm here to start a career and I'm not interested in all of the drama that comes with it." Then she flashed me her sweet smile, tucked a stray hair behind her ear, and sauntered off completely unbothered.

I was a goner from that point forward.

That stupid scene played out in my head on repeat as I checked myself into a hotel down the street from the apartment and downed half the mini bar. I told myself it wasn't inevitable, that there was no earthly reason for us to be doomed from day one, but as I caught my reflection in the amber ripples of bourbon, my resentment and self-loathing subsided just long enough for me to catch a glimpse of the truth.

It was never her commitment and undying love that caused you to fall, my mind whispered into the stale midnight air. You love her most when she doesn't love you at all.

Her...

The first few weeks were numbing. Lonely.

But I was under no impression that when he left, he would be walking out forever. Ironic because "forever" with him sounded so eminent and foreboding at the time when it didn't take long to realize that just the opposite was true.

I broke down and called him after about a week. When he answered the phone on the second ring, I was taken aback. I had expected the soothing comfort of his practiced voicemail, and it took me a few moments to realize he was actually on the other end of the line. He offered no greeting, waiting silently for whatever message I had to offer.

"Hi, um..." I stumbled over my words, unsure of how to explain myself. "I miss you and I just wanted to call and apologize for the other night. I know I hurt you and we were both upset, but surely we can work something out."

After a long pause, his voice cracked on the other end. "Does that mean you've changed your mind?"

I've never been one for ultimatums and his question paralyzed me. "Well..." My voice trailed off, terrified to speak and terrified to stay silent for a moment longer. "I don't really know. I love you and I want to be with you and I want more than anything to work this out, but I need..."

The dial tone on the other end of the line startled me out of my monologue, and it took longer than it should have for me to realize he hung up the phone.

~*~

When he moved on, I knew better than to assume it was to make me jealous. He wasn't some lovesick teenager. He was a grown man capable of making decisions on his own, capable of falling in love with more than just me. No, he gave me a chance at wholehearted devotion and I gave it up in fear of such a weighty commitment; I'm the child.

I've heard it said that the entertainment industry doesn't care about your personal life, but I know better. In reality, the entertainment industry only cares about your personal life when they can capitalize on it, using it to feed corporate greed and relevance, taking the most precious intimate details of your life and using them to claw their way to the top.

And here we were, two hurting people in the midst of a whirlwind of cameras and Q&As demanding answers like they could ever hope to understand. We had an unspoken agreement to stay silent in such situations and while that kept some attention at bay, it only fueled the rumor mill and set the tabloids searching deeper into our past lives and social media profiles for answers they would not find.

In the midst of it all, life marched on and it was business as usual in every painfully normal way.

When we kissed on set, it tasted like memories and it never failed to set the butterflies to dancing in my belly, even under the heat of the camera and the methodical flow of technicality. I was ashamed of it for the longest time, shuffling off the set as soon as the director yelled "Cut!" to get over myself. That was all good and fine until I dared catch his gaze one day after a particularly long and amorous scene. I was expecting, hoping really, to find a dull indifference that would shock me back to my senses. But for a moment, his eyes flashed with longing and I felt like I had just been burned.

The slip of paper acknowledging the end of my contract landed on my producer's desk the very next day. I'd contemplated signing it for a long time, but I never worked up the courage to do it. Until I saw the wild hint of need in his eyes and realized what a dangerous path we were on, blurring the lines between reality and fantasy in some sort of twisted psychodrama. It had to end before it took us both under.

And after six beautiful seasons, it did.