Reel (Hollywood Renaissance 1)

“Tell me again,” she whispers.

I don’t have to ask what she means. She wants the same words I want to hear.

“I love you.”

A contented smile lights her eyes, christens her lips. “And I love you back.”

60

Neevah

Canon loves me.

It’s my first thought, and absolute joy and a sated body coax my lips into an irrepressible smile. The previous night plays out in full panoramic color projected onto the walls of my memory. It was measured not in hours or minutes, but in kisses and whispers. At first, we had urgent, impatient, frenzied fucking. Then languid, lazy we’ve-got-all-night loving. We ordered food. We climbed into Canon’s oversized tub, my back against his chest, and talked until my fingers and toes wrinkled, and the water grew cold. He shared his dreams with me, bright and unfinished like uncut diamonds kept in a bag no one else has seen. I shared my aspirations with him, which have been revised since the diagnosis. They’ve gone from winning a Tony to living to see my next birthday.

It’s funny how we speak of the future like it’s promised. Now, I feel less and less like I can assume anything, even tomorrow. It does lend life a certain preciousness it’s easy to take for granted. It’s a different perspective that forces you to change your lens. I do believe I’ll beat this. If Canon has to scour the whole country, we’ll find a kidney for me, but facing something like this changes you.

I roll over in the rumpled sheets, breathing in the coupled scents of our bodies. I’m alone, and I wriggle over to Canon’s side, fitting my head into the dip in his pillow.

“You got it so bad, girl.” I laugh at myself ruefully. It’s true, but at least so does he.

He told me so last night.

The best and worst of life make strange bedfellows. I’ve worked so hard for years to have an opportunity as big as Dessi Blue, and I’ve gone years never feeling for anyone even an ounce of what I feel for Canon. I should be high on possibility, and yet the future is as uncertain in many ways as it is bright.

I sit up, tucking the sheets under my arms.

What time is it?

I grab my phone from the bedside table, shocked to see it’s after noon.

“Good grief,” I mutter, swinging my legs over the side of the large bed. “I’ve slept half the day away.”

The production schedule has slowed significantly—partly because we only have music to finish, and partly because I need it to be slower, and it’s still a lot. I could literally lie right down in the bed and go back to sleep.

When I stand, I stagger and sink back down into the soft mattress for a second before trying again. A tiny hammer taps behind my eyes and at my temples. My ankles and feet are swollen. So are my hands. This is part of the disease, I know that, but it’s a cruel reminder that despite the drugs that manage these symptoms so I can get through each day, my kidneys are still failing. Toxins that should be filtered from my body aren’t leaving efficiently. And every day without a new kidney, it will only get worse.

I have to call Terry. Mama promised to give me today and I’m taking it. I’m facing enough crap without thinking about the most awkward conversation in the history of awkward conversations.

I know we’ve been beefing the last twelve years, but could I have your kidney?

No more awkward than I fucked your fiancé and I’m having his baby, sis.

And who’s to say she’ll even be a match? We won’t know until we try, and I know we need to try. Sighing, I grab underwear from my suitcase, but ignore my clothes, instead opting for one of Canon’s USC hoodies slung over a chair. For a bachelor, Canon keeps his house very orderly. I’m sure someone helps with that, but still, his closet is as big as my tiny apartment in New York. One whole wall for shelves of shoes. A segment of his closet is dedicated to suits, and I remember how incredible he looked that night on the rooftop. His collection of sweatshirts, jeans, button-ups—they’re all color-coordinated and neatly arranged.

My body protests, begging me to crawl back into bed, but I push myself to venture downstairs. The house looks even more impressive now that I’m not distracted by hunger and nerves. I wander through expensively decorated rooms, each screaming interior design. There’s no way Canon would slow down long enough to shop and create this beautiful space.

“Where are you?” I ask the empty room. Nowhere on this floor.

Spotting a door ajar beneath the floating stairs, I hear the rumble of voices. Tiptoeing down the steps, I peek around the corner. A huge home theater takes up most of this floor, outfitted with four rows of movie-theater seats and a huge screen dominating an entire wall. Canon is slumped in a seat in the front row, a pad on his knee, his eyes fixed to the screen. His laptop rests at his bare feet, open and frozen on what I recognize as one of the French Riviera scenes.