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We didn’t have any scenes together for the next couple of days. And they were long days for me. The only downside of getting the chance for such a great lead role was being in practically every scene. So no matter what the call sheet said, my name was always on it. In fact, the next time I saw Dennis was almost three days later when we had an early morning call for press. I was exhausted, still recovering from the previous evening’s shoot which had gone into the wee hours and had taken a lot out of me emotionally. And I felt off, in a major way.
I wondered if the work was bleeding into my real emotional world. My character was constantly bombarded with people questioning everything about him and making him feel unsure of himself. And that same lack of surety started to reflect in me. Sure, I had been busy, I knew that. But couldn’t Dennis have at least texted me or something? Our flats were just across the road from one another. Why hadn’t he stopped by to check on me? When I got back from the late shoots, none of the lights were on at his place. He was likely asleep given the hour which made sense, but couldn’t he have waited up for me just once? Or let me know he was thinking of me in some way?
What if he’d gotten what he wanted and now he was done? What if all he really wanted was a nice fuck and now that was taken care of, the fire had died down? But after our time alone, and that day on the bus, I couldn’t shake the feeling that he was interested in more than just a fuck, too. Then again, I inwardly cringed, what if he had wanted more? That would be worse. What if he was expecting something from me, and I fell short? What if he thought I was just some little slut trying to fuck the big movie star? Or, worse yet, what if he had been attracted to me and had been completely unimpressed? What if I was just a tourist trap on the way to the main destination?
I turned the corner and almost ran smack into him. He was standing there, on his cell phone, looking fine as hell. It seemed as if he had really dressed up for the interview. Or maybe, like me, he just wanted to feel like himself. We spent most of our time on-camera in shorts and T-shirts and terrible ’80s resort wear, so to have an excuse to wear something contemporary was a godsend. And maybe, just like me, he had gotten up extra early to pick out just the right thing—something to accentuate all the best parts of his physique, snug and smooth in all the best places, just in case someone was paying attention. Someone like me.
I couldn’t see his eyes, they were hidden behind the sunglasses he wore, but he smiled broadly. He lifted his hand to wave and the sunlight fanned around from behind him like a halo. Jesus Christ, I thought, does heaven follow him around with his own fucking light crew? It was unbelievable how other-worldly he could appear.
“Hey, baby, Zay’s here, I gotta go,” he said into the cell. “We’ve got this interview thing. Yeah, yeah, of course, I will. Okay. I love you too, baby.”
My heart sank. He loved her too, baby. What had I been thinking? One hot night on my living room floor and he was going to be thinking of nothing but me. He had a fiancée. Someone he had been with since he was a teenager—hadn’t he told me that she was his anchor, his safety, his everything? Why was I kidding myself?
“Sorry,” he said. “That was Ronnie.”
“Yeah,” I said, trying not to sulk. “I figured.”
His smile turned into a slight frown.
“Everything okay, buddy?”
Buddy. Buddy. Just your fucking buddy.
“Yeah,” I muttered. “Just had a long couple of nights. I’m exhausted.”
“I bet. I was wondering how you were coping with the schedule. It must have been rough—”
“Is the interview over here?” I interrupted, pointing at the cafe nearest us. “I could use something cool to drink.”
“Oh, oh, okay,” he said, adjusting his sunglasses. “Umm, yeah, this is it. This is the interview spot, yeah.”
I nodded and turned sharply to go inside.
#
“SO WE ALREADY GOT SOME time with Carlos yesterday,” said the interviewer, wrapping up his spiel on the story they were here to do. “Mostly on-set, behind-the-scenes stuff and today we wanted to talk to you guys about your experience and what you’ve got going on in your careers. Carlos said we should talk to you together.”
Dennis raised an eyebrow. “Sure, sure. Whatever you need.”
“Great. I’m Jerry, by the way; nice to meet you both.”
We exchanged pleasantries just as one of the cafe staff arrived with a pitcher of water.
“Perfect,” said Dennis. “Just what we needed. Right, Zay? And iced too.”
“Isn’t it weird how they never have ice in Europe?” added Jerry.
“I guess they saw the insufferable Americans coming,” said Dennis brightly with a shrug.
“Here you go,” he said, grabbing my glass.
“No, it’s fine, I can get it,” I protested.
“I don’t mind serving you,” he said with a wink.
Jerry turned to the camera to film his intro bit.
“We’re behind-the-scenes here in La Mancha, Spain with the stars of Carlos Pedrón’s newest film, From Cold to Hot, James Dennis Herbert and newcomer Xavier Durand.”
As Jerry did a couple of takes, Dennis replaced my now filled water glass. He leaned in close as he did, so close that his lips practically brushed against my earlobe as he whispered, “You’re looking really fucking sexy today.”
I inhaled sharply, the skin on my neck tingling, and a throb of desire reverberated through my body. So much for trying to play the aloof card. One compliment from him and I was shaking inside.
“So fucking sexy,” Dennis added before sitting back in his chair and turning his attention to the interviewer.
I watched him expertly handle Jerry’s questions, each one countered with a million-dollar smile and an easy charm. I wasn’t really listening to what was being said, I just watched him. How he sat, taking up so much space, his tall frame completely hiding the chair. His legs were spread under the table and I watched as he massaged his knee, probably out of boredom, his fingertips tracing small circles around his kneecap and his thumb pressing into the rock hard flesh of his thigh, straining against the tight denim he wore. I chewed on my bottom lip.
“Zay?” I heard Dennis say and looked up.
I saw that both he and Jerry were looking at me expectantly. Oh shit. I massaged a pretend cramp in my neck, hoping I didn’t appear too guilty.
“I–I’m sorry,” I said. “Could you repeat the question?”
“Well,” said Jerry. “They say this film is sort of a summer fling, and I was wondering if you had any similar experience—a summer fling of your own?”
I wondered if Jerry thought fucking my co-star in my rented apartment counted as a fling. I looked briefly to Dennis, who was watching me intently, but his expression was inscrutable.
I shook my head.
“No, I don’t think I’ve had anything that would count as a summer fling before.”
“Maybe not yet,” said Dennis, leaning forward and blasting Jerry with his arsenal of charm. “But the summer’s not over yet, right?”
He and Jerry shared a laugh, and I turned my wide-eyed flash of panic into a chuckle. I reached for my water and Dennis mimicked me, both of us taking a long sip. Just over the glass, I saw his eyes shining.
“And what about you?” Jerry asked Dennis. “Have you had a memorable summer fling?”
Dennis placed his glass on the table and traced his finger around the rim of it while he considered his answer.
“I think I’m having it right now,” he said. “With this film. This whole experience. Enjoying this beautiful place, learning about this beautiful culture, all the beautiful wine and food, and, you know, getting to fall in love with this beautiful boy here.” He reached over and patted my leg, letting his hand rest there. “It’s not exactly the same kind of story, but I’d say this is my summer fling, yeah.”
I felt frozen, my body turned to cool slick marble, the only spot of heat radiating from his hand on my thigh. I had to remind myself to breathe. Did he really just say that?
“And what about first loves?” said Jerry. “That’s a big theme in this project as well according to Carlos. Xavier, do you remember your first love?”
“Yeah, Zay,” said Dennis, in a gently teasing tone. “Tell us about your first love.”
I licked my lips; my mouth felt dry. I scrunched up my nose and smiled.
“Ehhhh. I hate to sound like a broken record, but I’m not sure I could say. I think I need a little more time in my life to process things and really know who my first love really was.”
“So it’s not Max Canelo, then?” asked Jerry.
I felt as if I’d been smacked across the face.
Dennis looked slightly irritated.
“What, dude?” he said. “Why ask that?”
“It’s just that Max has been making a lot of headlines as of late,” said Jerry. “With his coming out. And he’s mentioned that you two were an item for a couple of years. So guessing that it wasn’t a true love situation, then?”
“I think he already answered that,” said Dennis.
“It’s just that he’s been very vocal about his new relationship with Matthew Keene after being evasive about things for so long.”
“Not really sure what that has to do with our film though,” Dennis said pointedly.
“Oh, I don’t mean to pry. I just think people will be curious about Zay’s take.”
Dennis leaned forward.
“No, no, look, it’s okay,” I said. “I’m happy for him. I am glad he is comfortable with himself. And I wish nothing but happiness for both of them.”
“For both of them?” asked Jerry.
“Yes, of course. For both of them.”
I gave him a very firm look and a tight smile and finally, he seemed to get the hint to move on.
The departing pleasantries were less friendly than the greeting and as the crew packed up, Dennis and I departed the café.
“What a douche,” said Dennis when we were outside. “Sorry, you had to put up with that guy.”
“It’s fine,” I said, waving away his concern.
“No, it’s not. It was a real dick move to bring up your ex like that, and then keep pressing you about it.”
The last thing I needed was Dennis feeling pity for me.
“Really, it’s okay,” I insisted. “I’m fine.”
“You sure, buddy?” he asked. “You seem a little tense.”
He began to massage my shoulder.
Buddy.
Is that all we were? Buddies? Friends? Old pals?
I stepped to the side, freeing my shoulder from his grasp.
“Seriously, I’m okay. I just need... I’m... Anyway, look, I’ve just got some stuff to do. I’ll see you later on set.”
“Oh, I thought maybe we could catch lunch or something before call time?”
I shrugged.
“Not right, now. Sorry. I just need to take care of something.”
I turned and headed the opposite way across the square.
“Zay?” Dennis called after me.
“It’s cool. It’s cool,” I called back over my shoulder. “Catch you later.”
#
“YOU HAVE MADE ME SO disappointed.”
“I have?” I asked.
“Yes,” replied Carlos, setting down the half-empty wine glass. He leaned back in the overstuffed chair. “You both have.”
I felt stung. I glanced over at Denny who looked put out as well.
“Are we so bad?”
Carlos sat up. We were in the living room of his rented flat days later, listening to songs he had already picked or was considering for use in the soundtrack.
“I speak badly,” he said, with a slight frown. “I don’t mean your performance. No, cariño, of course. Claro que no. You’re both superb. I couldn’t ask for better if I were shooting a documentary of you falling in love.”
I felt my cheeks redden. He reached for the mp3 player on the nearby side table.
“But you are lucky, no? That I changed the story to an American coming to work in his aunt’s hotel in la España. Porque tu español es muy—como se dice—mediocre, no?”
I rolled my eyes. “Lo siento, Carlos.”
“But never mind, mi amor. No, you have brought me disappointment because of a song. Watching the two of you, I remembered a song from my youth and it is perfect, I thought. That scene we shot last week of your first kiss. You remember, claro.”
He was flipping through the music on the player.
“Do you remember the band the Wilting Wallflowers?”
We both shook our heads.
“No, claro. The time they last had a hit record you were both not born. Coño, how old I have become. Pues, anyway, they were a very big part of my youth. And when I saw you two together, the way you were with one another, I imagine this song in my head. And it is perfect, I think. But no, we cannot have the rights. Anyway, you should hear this song. It is called Goner.”
He hit play and we listened. On the surface, it probably would just seem like another old ’80s song. All synthesizers and programmed beats, but listening to the words, and the way the lead singer delivered the vocals it struck a chord. Carlos was right; I could see it in my mind perfectly. I could see us, together in the frame, exchanging glances, hesitant kisses, the sun spilling through the trees, the shimmer of the electronic bass, the moody voice drifting in and out, like a love-drunk phantom.
I caught Dennis staring at me. The expression on his face made it seem as if he were stranded in some limbo between dreaming and waking, and I knew, somehow, he was imagining the scene too. Our eyes locked and even though we were on opposite sides of the room, it was as if I could feel him. I tasted the salt of his skin; I could smell his musk; I could feel his hands on my cock, his mouth on mine. The edges of my vision started to fade away until all I saw was his face. It was as if the image of him was burnt into me; I could close my eyes and see him perfectly etched on the back of my eyelids.
The music stopped. We both turned to Carlos, who was watching us closely.
“Can I get a copy of that?” asked Dennis.
Carlos smiled slightly. “I already gifted you both the album. On the mp3. Check your emails.” He lifted the wine glass and took a sip. “Later,” he added. “When you are not so distracted, eh?”
#
DENNIS LEFT THE ROOM, but I lingered behind. I watched Carlos as he organized some papers on his desk. After a few moments, he gave me his attention. Smiling softly, he tilted his head and raised his eyebrows.
He knew I wanted to ask him something; he had a way of knowing exactly what the situation was, even if he did not always let on. And I did want to talk to him, but even I wasn’t sure what I wanted to talk about. He waited.
“What was it like?” I asked. “Coming back to La Mancha. Since the story ended—I mean, the real summer that you based the film on.”
He folded his hands in front of him.
“But I have been back many times since then.”
“But I mean, with this film. You said you made it look exactly like it did when you were a teenager. That must have been strange, like stepping back in time.”
He nodded. “In a way. But this time I was in control, moving around all the little pieces, making things happen as I wanted them to. Un mundo de fantasías. And really, it has never changed much here.”
“You said you wanted to give it a happy ending this time. So it was not happy before?”
“No, no, of course not. It was hard, very hard.”
I nodded. “I want to make sure that comes through—not to take the happy-ending for granted. The ’80s were not that long ago. I want them to know it was not an easy thing to have.”
He looked at me for a moment.
“But, mi amor, love is never easy, no matter who you are. Most of the time at the very least it takes transigencia, the compromise, sí? And other times it requires you to give up everything for it. Complete sacrifice.
“Things have changed, yes. New York City, Los Angeles, even this little village where I grew up have become bigger, more open. But even when the world changes, people can be the same inside. Me entiendes? What I mean to say is that it is a scary thing to be yourself in a way that does not fit to the normal, to what people expect of you. Even if those people are people you—pues, especially if they are the people you love. I am a famous movie director now, yes. I am celebrated in my country and over the world. But still, when I walk down these streets, I see some of the same looks I saw thirty, forty years ago. Maybe they hide behind smiles now, maybe they call out to me to say hello. But really, have they changed? Claro que no.
“But I do not love this village because it has changed. I love it because it is a part of me. It doesn't have to love me back for me to love it. And the people here do not have to love me back for me to love them. Their—how do you say?—their limitations are their own problem that they must solve. The difference is that now, now I know this. Now I know that is love, mi amor interior, that keeps me from getting hurt. My love is my love to give freely. Do I want it returned? Por supuesto! But even if it is not it still means something to me. The act of loving still makes me a better person. I just have to remember not to let the coldness I receive in reply make me doubt myself. That has nothing to do with my love. Do you understand what I mean?”
I nodded slowly, not entirely sure that I did understand but feeling like something was becoming clearer.
“Maybe one day they will see me for what I truly am,” he continued. “Not a filmmaker, not a celebrity, not a maricón, not even that strange little boy who followed his aunt around like a lost little bird. Maybe one day they will simply see me and it will be enough. Maybe not. But this is the best I can hope for. To be able to be honest. For me to say here is this gift of my love. Maybe you do not appreciate it now, maybe you never will. Maybe you will look back when we are both old and falling apart and realize what you have missed. But, a pesar de todo, it is the truth. And being truthful about love can never be wrong.”
He was right, that did sound frightening. I’d given my love freely before, without any expectations, and it had come back to hurt me terribly. I knew he was probably right, but I wasn’t sure I could take that risk again. What doesn’t kill you only makes you stronger, the cliché says. But what if it kills you? What if it crushes your heart beyond repair? Was it worth finding out?
“I hope that helps you a little bit,” said Carlos. “To understand your character, I mean.”
I looked at him. His smile was innocuous, placid even, but his eyes seemed to gleam. I felt as if he was reading my thoughts.
“Yes.” I nodded. “It has helped very much.”
As I left the room, I chewed on my bottom lip and prayed that it actually had.