I sifted through the chips to keep my hands busy. “I’m not going to call you.”
“Thank fuck,” he grumbled without heat, typing on my screen with his head bent. “I hate phone calls. You wanna talk girl talk, text me.”
I barked a laugh. “Girl talk?”
“Sure.” He handed over my phone. “We can talk about other boys and you can give me style tips. Or you can just flirt with me and ask me lame-o questions like, what’s your favorite season and why?”
My smile tugged at my lips, then took over. “Fall. Colder temperatures, changing leaves, Halloween…you?”
“Same. I love everything about fall. Except candy corn. I fucking hate candy corn.”
I chuckled. “I love candy corn.”
“Of course you do.”
His teasing smile turned me inside out. A heat wave engulfed my face. He was jokingly flirting, and the part of me that didn’t listen to rational thought liked it. That had to be why I responded with my own lame-o question.
“What’s your favorite color?”
Trent grinned. “Blue.”
“Mine too.”
“Geez, it’s like we’re sharing a brain.” He picked up a chip and gestured my way. “I’ve got another one. What’s the first job you ever had?”
I squinted. “Uh…I worked at a shoe store.”
“Loved it or hated it?”
“It was a paycheck and I liked making money. Organizing shelves and cleaning displays…not so much. I had a paper route when I was twelve too. Hmm. I guess that was my first. I took over for a neighbor who didn’t like waking up at five a.m. I didn’t mind. And the money was good.”
“For a paper route in the dark ages…before cell phones?” he asked incredulously. “How much did you make?”
I rubbed my beard thoughtfully. “Two dollars an hour.”
Trent’s eyes bugged out. “Two bucks?”
“Hey, that was a great-paying gig in the early eighties. It took one hour, and I did it six days a week.”
“Twelve bucks a week.”
“For fifty-two weeks times four years. I took two dollars out to save for spending money, but I saved the rest. And all the dough I made at the shoe store too,” I reported smugly. “I had almost five thousand dollars saved by the time I left for college.”
“Impressive. Where’d you go to college?”
I sipped my water. “CSUN. I went for one year, then dropped out.”
“Why?”
“I didn’t want to be there anymore. It was too close to home. So…I took my savings, moved to West Hollywood, and started knocking on doors at the studios. Paramount, Columbia, Warner Brothers…my first job at a studio was as a PA for a camera crew on a TV Western. It lasted half a season, but I loved every second. I wanted to get closer and closer to the action.”
Trent scooped guac on a chip. “Why not be an actor, then?”
“I tried. But being a standout in elementary and high school productions of Aladdin and Annie doesn’t always translate to a job in Hollywood.”
“Annie?” He frowned, rolling the name on his tongue like a glob of yolk he wanted to spit out but couldn’t. His expression cleared in an instant as though he’d remembered we were discussing a play. “What part did you get?”
“Daddy Warbucks, of course. I wanted to shave my head and really get into character.” My smile dipped slightly when I continued. “My father wouldn’t let me. I was the only boy in the production, and that already got under his skin.”
“Why?”
“My dad thought theater was too gay, and shaving my head was another step too far.” I shrugged nonchalantly…the way I wished I’d been able to do thirty-five years ago. “That was my last school play. I turned my attention to getting the fuck out of my parents’ house as fast as humanly possible after that. I worked all the damn time…saving, saving, saving. When I tried acting again at nineteen, I was too nervous and self-conscious in front of the camera.”
“So you tried your luck behind the camera.”
“Yep. I’d spent my formative years living in my head, mapping out stories, and shifting gears to read someone else’s lines didn’t come naturally. I realized I’d be better off behind the scenes, where I could take part in bringing the whole project to life…not just one character.”
“You like calling the shots,” Trent commented with a wry, lopsided grin.
“Guilty. There’s something rewarding about seeing a scene I’ve conjured in my head brought to life on the big screen. It’s magic.” I paused for a moment. “I wish it were real sometimes. I’m one of those people with a constant inner dialogue of fictional characters who have way more adventures than I ever will.”
“Like Baxter.”
“Exactly. It kills me that Pierce gets to have all the fun I dreamed up in the first place.”
I knit my brow and lifted my glass. I had to shut the hell up. I was singing like a fucking canary tonight.
“Pierce is a lucky dude,” Trent huffed. “I mean, c’mon…what do guys like him have that I don’t? If you say looks and talent, I’m gonna get cranky.”