Heartbeats

Chapter 3

Him...

I had almost forgotten about her. In the utter bliss of my whirlwind engagement and marriage, she had finally taken a backseat in my thoughts and feelings, but I'd never gotten around to actually letting her out of the car.

I'm happy, really and truly happy. But I'm also restless in the strangest way. When she arrives back on set to film the finale, I am overwhelmed by the magnitude of it. We worked side by side for six years and I took every single day for granted. When she left, I told myself it was for the better. We could both move on and gain the closure we deserved. It didn't take long for our show to become my show, for me to find a face that didn't shutter at the challenge of forever.

Her kiss is ice, but no one yells cut. It's like they know better than to capitalize on our tattered relationship anymore. It's ironic actually, our characters get their happily ever after and our own death sentence is signed. Our on-screen reunion the real-life final goodbye.

"Invite her out to dinner," my wife croons when we finally leave the set that night. I wish I could trust her motives as pure, but I know better. The tabloids will be itching to dissect the on set drama tomorrow and she wants to let everyone know we're chummy. Except we aren't. Not by a long shot.

I call her anyway.

Her voice crackles on the other end of the line and I'm almost surprised she even answers. "Hey," I offer, clearing my voice and deciding how best to phrase my request. I ask if she has dinner plans and clarify that my wife and I would love it if she joined us, and I leave it at that.

She doesn't answer right away and her silence tells me all I need to know. She's not fooled by the innocence of my offer. But then, just as quickly, she's stammering on the other end of the phone. I can't see her, but I know she's running her fingers through her hair like she always does when she's feeling hurt. "Yeah, sure. When and where?"

I guess she needs the good PR as much as I do.

~*~

I always considered myself a good actor, even before I got paid to make a career out of it. And yet, over dinner I find myself enamored by the easy way she and my wife carry on like old friends while I fail to interject more than two words. They trade style secrets and gossip about the latest drama, laughing and carrying on without so much as a hint of insincerity. If I didn't know any better, I'd think they were actually enjoying themselves.

I know better.

"I know how tense things are between you two," my then fiancé warned several years back when we were preparing to film her very last scene. "It works for you on set, makes the characters more believable, I get it. But you better not so much as lay a finger on her off set, do you hear me?" Her tone was bitter, cruel.

At the time, her words had made me angry, superficially baffled that she would even suggest such a thing when I knew deep down her warning wasn't so far off base. It certainly wouldn't be the first time found ourselves in a compromising situation. Even then, I knew somehow it wouldn't be the last.

That very night as the celebration was dying down and everyone was rounding out their goodbyes, I couldn't help but linger. We were both covered in cake, a surprise the producers had planned after the final cut, and I knew I had no business sticking around, but around her I've never had any self-control.

"So what's next?" I'd asked once we were alone in the parking lot, startling her out of an undoubtedly perfect inner monologue. I truly meant long-term. What goals and dreams was she off to tackle next?

But when her eyes caught mine, I fell headfirst into their vulnerability. She didn't answer my question, instead reaching out to capture my hand in the weakest of grasps. I didn't let it go until she drifted off to sleep in my arms.

"Ian, come on, we're taking a picture..." My wife's voice jolts me out of the vivid memory and back into reality. We all pose as she aims the camera for the shot, and I happen to catch that same hint of vulnerability in her eyes. I don't make the mistake of touching her again and I feel like I could be sick, but I smile anyway. I'm a good actor, after all.

Her...

The first time I dream of a baby with sapphire blue eyes, I drink too much at brunch the next day and wind up calling in to work for a self-care day.

Their pregnancy announcement comes three weeks later and I sign off of social media for over a week so I don't accidentally stumble upon it again. This is everything he ever wanted, I tell myself. And I want to be happy for them, but most of the time I count it as a win when I'm able to nonchalantly reply to people who ask if I've heard.

These days, I challenge myself not to think about him for longer than ten seconds at a time. My therapist says that's a healthy response. I can hear her now, "You can't control the thoughts that pop into your head, but you can control your response to them." I try very hard to do just that. Most of the time.

Except occasionally I let my mind drift to places where it has no business going—places where my most toxic thoughts betray me, whispering lies like he still loves you. And sometimes I let myself actually believe it.

I pretend I haven't noticed him lurking around all night, finding every excuse to stick around even though his fiancé undoubtedly warned him not to.

"Where are we going?" The giddiness in my voice betrays the forbidden nature of our escapade. He's pulling me along with reckless abandon, stopping only long enough to bring his finger to his lips as a signal for me to pipe down. The instant I recognize the door to his dressing room, my back is pushed up against it, his lips on my neck in the sweetest agony. I stifle a moan and drag my hands through his hair, pulling his lips to mine in a kiss that takes my breath away before it even begins. He tastes like cake and so do I, which draws us both back to our senses momentarily as we remember simultaneously that we are still covered in cake from head to toe from the after party.

I worry for a moment that the spell is broken, but just like that he's threading our fingers back together and drawing me toward his shower, undressing me slowly with the reverence of a priest and the lust of a playboy. He takes me hard and fast against the shower wall and then again softer and sweeter once we collapse on his sofa. Neither of us says another word to one another, but we come to the same conclusion either way. As bliss carries me toward sleep, I gather the faintest notion that I should be ashamed of myself, and yet, even as I'm gathering my clothes and slipping out of the room at the break of dawn, I can't bring myself to actually feel it. I still don't.

When I relive this night against my better judgment, it all comes flooding back, and if it was just a rush of sex and passion, I could push it away. But what I cannot get over is the lazy eyes and intoxicating smile he sent my way as I pulled the door closed behind me that day, a silent goodbye with a promise. I am nearly positive it is just my pathetic imagination playing tricks on me, but the way I choose to remember it haunts me of forever