The Scene Stealer: A Hollywood Romance

I’m unsure how to respond. On the one hand, he’s saying everything I’ve ever wanted to hear, but on the other, it’s all tied to Devyn and his leaving.

“Would you. . .” I begin, my mouth growing dry, forcing me to lick my lips to continue. I watch in fascination as Cole’s eyes shift down to my mouth. “Would you have asked me to join you if Devyn had never come to town? If someone else had shown interest in me?”

He shrugs his shoulders, that tight shirt I had previously admired lifting against his chest. “I don’t know. I’ve been wanting to ask you out, but you never seemed ready or willing.”

I can’t fault him for holding back, though it hurts to know that he probably never would have asked me out had Devyn not blasted his way into my life so violently.

“Can I kiss you?”

He catches me off guard. I didn’t assume that this was where we were headed when he walked me to my door, although I probably should have. I’m also curious to see if there is a spark there, the ember that seemed to have fizzled out.

“Okay,” I whisper and I close my eyes as he leans closer toward me. Cole’s steady hand brushes against my left cheek. Internally I wonder if that is on purpose, if he’s horrified by my scars.

When his lips finally meet mine, I feel nothing. Maybe it’s because kissing Devyn had felt like being shocked by one thousand volts of electricity and equally as unexpected. But our lips feel like nothing more than two soft paintbrushes passing against each other.

“Damn.” Cole looks as disappointed as I feel as he pulls away, his shoulders slumped, face downturned, but his soft hand remains resting on my cheek.

“I’m sorry. Maybe I just need some time to get passed him and then we can try again?” It’s far from what I want to do, but I’m someone that wants to please and comfort those around me. Probably another reason that I want to be a nurse.

“Yeah, okay. You know where to find me,” he says with a smile, the one I get at the diner. A complacent smile.

He turns to leave and as he reaches the stairs, I have the overwhelming urge to thank him again. Not just for asking me to join him and his friends, but for taking a chance on me.

“Cole,” I call out to him and wait for him to turn around. Words don’t need to be exchanged, I’m pouring my gratefulness to him in my eyes. Understanding my unspoken thanks, he nods and smiles before taking off.

Stepping inside my apartment, my eyes immediately drift to the letter on the counter I’ve read and re-read a hundred times imagining Devyn’s facial expressions as he scrawled each word.

The sense of betrayal I felt this morning weighs heavier than before. Devyn and I aren’t together and we never were anything more than a fleeting moment of lust. But the day and kiss spent with Cole feels like an unfaithfulness toward something that I wish existed.

The overwhelming urge to cleanse myself rockets through me like a comet in the night sky. I strip free from the confines of my clothes, practically tearing the garments from my skin in my haste.

I step into the water before it even has a chance to warm, the shower pelting me with chilled water, but the icy temperature shocks the emotions from my body. My tears join in the arctic waterfall, and as the shower finally heats up and turns to a scathing temperature, my body slouches under the stream.

My feelings for Devyn are stronger than I imagined or could have ever predicted. Romantic involvement with a stranger had never been on my radar, but maybe that’s why the pain is so raw. The emotion hit full force when I let my guard down, when I allowed myself to feel as if I belonged.

The shower isn’t as refreshing as I had hoped, and as I twist my long blonde strands of hair into a knot at the top of my head, I pull on a pair of gym shorts and a loose shirt. It’s late afternoon, but I have no desire to go anywhere in town.

Grabbing the stationary I had set out earlier, I pen a letter of response to Devyn. I tell him about the hike with Cole, about what everyone in the town is up to, about his car getting sent back to LA, even though I’m sure he knows about that already. If one was able to ramble in letter form, then I’ve mastered that ability.

I leave a piece of myself on the thick paper when I write that I miss him too, that he took a part of me with him when he left, but that I’m trying to keep my head held high.

Pausing with the ink dripping from the calligraphy pen leaving a mark similar to the Rorschach inkblot test, I consider my next thought as unfettered darkness passes through me. I want to make him hurt, the same way I was hurt when he left. It’s silly and uncalled for. I want to tell him that I wish he hadn’t stopped in our town, that I wish I hadn’t laid with him, that I wish he hadn’t affected me the way that he has.

But there is no reasoning toward my vengeful words. Because I don’t feel that way, not even in the slightest. That’s the crazy thing about feeling so strongly toward someone, the emotions wage war with each other. The hate, the love, the lust, they battle for reign, continually knocking each other free from their throne.

With one final deep breath, I sign my name with a yours always as a valediction.

Sliding the letter into an envelope and readying it for the mail, I resolute myself to sending it out tomorrow. Back on the couch, I think about all the things that could go wrong. He may not receive it, he may ignore it, he may have already moved on. The latter sends a pang in my chest.

But he should move on. I should move on. We don’t belong together. We’re like a messed up version of Romeo and Juliet, two star-crossed lovers destined to meet, but instead of the poison and dagger in the Shakespeare play, Hollywood wields an unforgiving weapon in the form of gossip and photographs. Truth holds no power over the desire to watch someone crumble beneath the words of falsehoods.

I don’t belong in his world and he doesn’t belong in mine. I almost consider taking the p

recious letter I just penned and tossing it in the garbage but decide against it. The idea that he actually receives the scrap of paper is comical as it is. I’m certain that his cousin or another assistant sorts through the hoards of mail the actors must receive. I chuckle at the thought of the items they may have to toss.

I silently beg my phone to ring, as if he hears my yearning for his voice. But I’m met with silence.

Grabbing my laptop and flicking on the television, I settle in to get ahead for some of my classes in the fall. As the night falls and I finish a quick dinner, the screen switches over to an old show – Devyn’s old show.