Flaming

“I’m gonna walk. It’s not that far.” In truth, it’s a forty-five minute walk Zakary will have to brave in the rain, but he doesn’t want Jonatho to worry. “Which hotel are you staying at?”

“Oh, the assistant director Rosario and her girlfriend have a spare floor at their place nearby, so they were gracious enough to house me during my time here. It’s pretty nice. I get my own space plus free meals when Rosario feels up to cooking one of her delicious spreads.” He smirks. “Truth be told, I wasn’t sure I’d like Dallas. But it’s growing on me. It’s not all ‘yeehaw and cowboys’ as I thought it’d be.”

Zakary snorts. “Most of Texas isn’t what people think.” He scratches at a spot on his neck. “I’m glad you’re enjoying your time. Rosario and Amber are the best hosts you could have asked for.”

“I’m ever so grateful.” Jonatho gives one of his dashing smiles.

Zakary has to avert his eyes. It’s nearly hypnotizing, to look at that handsome face for too long. How can a playwright be so good-looking, magnetic, and talented? “Well, I’d better get going before the rain gets worse. I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

“You’re really going to walk? You don’t have an umbrella.”

Zakary shrugs. “It’s okay.”

Like some kind of magician, Jonatho whips one from thin air and pops it open, then sweeps it over them. Suddenly, their bodies are close together.

Very close together.

Jonatho smiles. “Fine. If you’re so opposed to taking a nice, cushy car in the pouring rain, then I’ll walk you so you don’t do it alone. I like a little adventure, anyway.”

Their arms touch. Their faces are close. “But Rosario’s place is—”

“I can Uber back, no big deal. Plus, I think I like your company.”

“Oh.” Zakary’s face burns. “O-Okay.”

Zakary doesn’t remember leaving the awning of the theater, but suddenly the playwright is walking him home, half huddled under the umbrella, close enough to feel each other’s warmth. Considering Zakary’s height, he ends up holding Jonatho’s umbrella as they walk side-by-side, squished together under its protection. The rain is so noisy, the pair of them can barely exchange a word as they walk down the street through countless busy intersections. Before Zakary realizes it, they’re already crossing the bridge over the Trinity. Once or twice, Jonatho makes a comment, and Zakary pretends to hear him, returning a shy smile and awkward nod. Jonatho starts talking on and on about the play, complaining about the actors, or the rushed production schedule, or—well, in truth, Zakary catches next to nothing of what he’s saying, so he could be talking about unicorns for all he knows.

Until the rain suddenly lets up on the other side of the river to a mere trickle, and Zakary catches the words: “Everything is riding on this show, to be honest. I guess it’s no surprise I haven’t had a hit in years. Sure, maybe there are still some who regard me like I might as well have won that Pulitzer seven years ago, but I’ll never be satisfied until I really win one. And I’m determined to. Where else are all my dreams and efforts leading me? Did you know a producer from New York City is here in Dallas visiting family—someone who’s been impossible to get ahold of up there, a really big deal—and he’ll be there tomorrow in the audience? He’s a friend of Oliver’s, apparently. This is the exact opportunity I’ve been waiting for, and now it’s here, and yet … I just don’t know what it is that gives me pause about my show. I feel like it’s missing something, yet I can’t put my finger on it. It’s some kind of zing my work usually has. This show has to be perfect.”

Zakary only keeps his head down as they continue, only another block or two from his place. They’ve apparently been walking a lot faster than he expected. Or has an hour already gone by?

“You’re thinking something.”

Zakary lifts his eyebrows. “What?”

“I can tell. I can see the gears turning in your eyes.” Jonatho nods more certainly. “Yeah. You’ve definitely got something to say about my play. Do you know what it is that’s bothering me that even I can’t see? You watch the rehearsals every day from the wings like a hawk. You know the lines. You must have an opinion.”

Zakary laughs it off—though even his “laughs” are tiny and nearly inaudible. “I don’t know.”

“Look, you can’t rely on those adorable dimples, pouty lips, and sensitive eyes to speak for you forever. I tried that at your age, and … well, I’ve since learned more effective ways to communicate. You have to use your voice sometimes, like you did today in rehearsal when you were an actor.”

“I … wait, what? No.” Zakary lets out another breathy, soundless chuckle. “I’m not an actor. I was just … I was just saying the lines. I was being a … a ‘coatrack’ or whatever.”