Charming Like Us (Like Us 7)

But his reaction was the same as mine. Like he knew this was a monumental stepping-stone in his life.

I love this apartment for that reason alone. I know what it means to Charlie, and I’m probably the only person outside his family that he’s let use it. He’s told me multiple times, Anytime you want to stay here, Oscar, it’s yours. We don’t have a buddy-guard relationship, but there is a level of respect and kindness that exists between us.

Despite this current Houdini situation.

“You regretting this show?” I ask Jack as he finishes buttoning his slacks. “Now’s the time to back out.”

Jack smiles, but it’s a weaker one. “I’ve considered it.”

Rare surprise hits me. “Really?”

He slips his arms in the button-down. “Probably not why you think.”

“I’m thinking it’s because Charlie can be a pain in the ass.”

Jack laughs. “I’m fine with that, really. I just don’t know if I can put a crew through this. Fuck, I don’t know if a crew would want to do this.”

“Why do you?” I wonder.

He fishes buttons through his shirt. His mouth opens, then closes, then opens again. “Honestly…being a creator of a show has been a lifelong goal. I’m stoked to be where I am on the docuseries, but I’m also just one of many execs on We Are Calloway. But this…this would be mine.” He tucks the button-down in his slacks. “And like, sure, don’t attach your dreams to a sinking ship, but I’ve also never closed a door to an opportunity this big.”

I didn’t realize how much this means to him. “You were the extra-credit, straight-A high school student, weren’t you?” I sweep his frame. “And the category is, overachiever.”

He looks me up and down. “Didn’t you get straight-As? Yale, right?”

I nod heartily.

But the room deadens until I vocally answer, “But I wouldn’t call myself an overachiever.” Jack and I—we have a lot we can relate to.

Ivy League grads.

Little brothers ten-years younger.

This, though, this is where we diverge. “I don’t have lifelong goals that kick my ass up the rungs of a career ladder,” I say, our eyes locked. “There is no yearning for more when I have exactly what I want right here. I had the whole fight harder, achieve greater when I was a pro-boxer, and I landed flat on my face.”

I’ve failed too many times in my life to think sticking any type of dreams on any ship will sail me to shore.

Jack slips on his shoes and tells me, “I can’t imagine a life where I don’t pursue what I want…” His voice drifts off with his eyes.

Is it selfish to wish he was thinking about me?

I push some curls off my forehead. Jack is so driven, so optimistic, so hopeful that he can achieve the pinnacle of success—whatever that is to him, and now I know it’s this show.

I’ve felt failure, and it’s a shitty fucking thing.

Maybe I can try to make this shit show about Charlie Cobalt actually work—for him and his dreams at least. It’s a scary prospect, because for my job, burying this show into the ground would be easiest.

A notification pings my phone. “Our ride is here.”

Jack spreads out his arms, my slacks molding his ass and my button-down a little tight on his chest and biceps, accentuating his muscles. “Perfect fit?” His flirty smile causes my mouth to curve up in a grin.

If you were my boyfriend, I’d fuck you.

I nod a few times. “Yeah.” My grin fades knowing he’s nothing to me, just a guy I’m working with. “Perfect fit.”

11

OSCAR OLIVEIRA

“Maison bondée,” Gaspard tells me outside the cabaret. “Je ne sais pas s'il est à l'intérieur, mais vous êtes invités à regarder.” Packed house. I don’t know if he’s inside, but you’re welcome to look.

“Merci,” I say as Gaspard lets me and Jack into the side entrance of Le Chat Rouge.

Jack slips me a quick glance, not the first one I’ve noticed when I’ve spoken French.

As we move further into the playhouse, I tip my head back and whisper, “Holding in a question, are you coming down with a fever?” I rest the back of my hand to his forehead. Just in a flash of a second.

His smile grows, bending closer to me. “You have a lot of friends in Paris?” That’s not the question I expected.

We pass dressing room doors. “They’re acquaintances, not friends.” I only talk to these people if I need something. Same goes for them. And if they’re in New York or Philly, I’m only a phone call away to help them out.

His voice is hushed as he says, “Looks like your phone is bloated too.”

I told Jack his phone must be bloated with the numbers of friends. It feels like he’s telling me his catalogue of friends aren’t as close to him as I thought. Can’t read his features well in the dark, and we don’t have time for a longer conversation.