“Speaking of WAC,” Ambrose says, “filming starts for the next season in August, and Google calendar keeps incessantly reminding me that August 1st is in five days.”
Five days left of pre-production is nothing at all, and with that blanket of urgency, we spend the rest of the time in the weeds of budget and schedule.
No matter the side projects, We Are Calloway is the number one job. The production and crew have dedicated years and heart and sweat into this docuseries. And we have the awards to show for it.
If I prioritized a Charlie Cobalt spin-off over We Are Calloway, the other exec producers—who are decades older and more seasoned than me—would be irate.
Ali, Ambrose, and I finishing discussing next season and the famous ones before saying our goodbyes. On the table, I bury my head in my arms. I’ve got to figure this out.
My phone vibrates next to me. Lighting up. I click into the text.
We should talk. Can you meet me at the penthouse tomorrow morning? – Oscar
Blood drains from my body, and my hand falls slowly down the side of my face.
We should talk.
Three notorious words that no one likes hearing or reading. My high school girlfriend said that before saying, “We’re going to different colleges, Jack. Let’s just do our own thing. We should see what else is out there.”
I agreed. Time to move on. Find the college sweetheart. Settle down after the career is built.
But I never found anyone I loved more than my ambition.
But Oscar and I aren’t a thing, so he can’t break-up with me.
He can bail on the show.
Lump lodged in my throat, I scrape a hand across the back of my neck. But what if he does want to bring up him and me? Our flirting?
I drop my hand and focus on the meeting spot.
The penthouse.
About a month ago, Maximoff, Farrow, Jane, Thatcher, Sullivan, and Luna all moved in together in a glittering Philadelphia high-rise. I’ve been to their penthouse a handful of times.
Over the years, after filming them for so long, I consider myself friends with Maximoff and Jane, and more recently Sulli. It’s not a typical friendship, but they’re American royalty. Not much about them is typical.
I stop just staring at the text and my fingers fly over the keypad. I message back: Yeah, no problem. What are we talking about?
Seconds later, like Oscar is poaching my confidence, he replies.
The show. – Oscar
My stomach flops, almost in disappointment. I realize I kinda wish he replied with us. My phone pings with another text.
And Jack. Bring my sweatshirt, bandana, belt, button-down, and slacks with you. Thanks. – Oscar
Shit.
I rub my lips. I didn’t forget that I had his sweatshirt—something he lent me in Scotland when we were snowed-in. I didn’t forget about his bandana that I took when the wind picked up in the Scottish Highlands. I definitely haven’t forgotten about the belt he let me borrow in Anacapri before Maximoff and Farrow walked down the aisle.
Or more recently, the button-down and slacks from Paris.
I never picked a date to return them. It kind of feels like once those items are gone, Oscar will be gone from my life too. I realize with Charlie’s show, we do have more than a few articles of clothing keeping our worlds tethered together, but it’s different. The show is professional. Work.
The clothes were personal. Friendship. I almost laugh. Yeah, my daydreams definitely don’t put Oscar Oliveira in friendship territory.
I’m not straight.
I’ve known that for the past two weeks. Since the flight to Paris.
And I’m starting to realize my future map can have multiple destinations that I can drive down. Husband. Wife. Spouse. It feels better to take the question marks off those possible futures. Less like staring down the street into dense fog. More like staring at forks in a path. But fuck does it make me nervous.
My stomach cramps the longer I read the text. Every second I wait to reply feels like a depletion of my confidence. I fight that feeling by typing quickly. Yeah, okay. I’ll bring them tomorrow. Let me know a time.
I hit send.
13
OSCAR OLIVEIRA
I block out laughter, splashing, and loud chatter on the rooftop terrace of the Philly penthouse. Like the adult that I am, I just went ahead and texted Jack. Told him to meet me tomorrow. My legs are submerged in the private pool, and with my phone cupped in my hand, I stare and stare and stare at his reply.