slowly. Precisely. “You told me part of her job was to report to Ron and R.J. about what you do off set, especially anything objectionable. Writing fanfiction critical of your character arc is more than objectionable. It’s grounds for firing you, and potentially actionable in a legal sense. Believe me, I know.”
When it came to his own fanfic transgressions, the email earlier that day had only strung his nerves that much tighter. The prospect of imminent doom didn’t appear to inspire so much as a single fidgety twitch in his best friend, however.
“Well, she caught me a week ago, and I haven’t heard a peep from Ron and R.J.” Still sprawled back against the couch cushions, Alex shrugged. “I didn’t think that was the sort of thing she’d report. Guess I was right.”
The drone of terrible folk music and the buzz of the sewing machine stopped, and both men looked toward the guest room. Moments later, Mel and April emerged, smiling.
“I think we almost have it done. Just a few more pieces to attach, and one more fitting. We’re leaving the sewing machine here, but it shouldn’t get in your way, Alex.” Mel bumped shoulders with April. “Then it’s time for My Chemical Folkmance’s new costumes, exclusively designed by April Whittier.”
April snorted. “Tim Gunn taught me well.”
“I’d be happy to talk to one of the show’s costume designers, if you two wanted some insider tips or tricks for cosplaying Lavinia.” Arms crossed, Alex drummed his fingers against his biceps as he glanced toward Marcus. “Who do you think is the best bet? Marilyn? Geeta?”
April smiled at her guest. “Thanks, Alex, but Marcus already offered to talk to someone for me. I told him I didn’t want to cheat.”
So far, she’d refused to show Marcus her sketches or her costume-in-progress, saying she wanted to surprise him when it was done. Secretly, he hoped the outfit was tight. Very tight. But he hadn’t said so, because she would look gorgeous either way, and he wasn’t a complete jackass.
He turned to Mel. “We’re going to grab dinner soon. Do you want to join us?”
By now, she and Pablo had visited the apartment several times for sewing purposes, and Marcus had met the rest of April’s closest colleagues at least once, after joining them for lunch at a restaurant near their office. To their credit, they’d treated him pretty much as he’d have expected them to treat any boyfriend of April’s, despite the occasional cell photos taken of them by other customers as they ate.
He liked her coworkers, and he liked the way April seemed comfortable in their presence, still herself in every essential way. Plainspoken. Practical. Confident. A couple of weeks ago, she’d even stopped looking surprised every time they texted her about socializing outside of the office.
In her colleagues’ company, he hadn’t said much, to be honest. Mostly, he’d eaten his lettuce wraps and listened. But every word he had uttered had been his and his alone, rather than lines from a character he’d scripted long ago.
It was a self-administered, low-stakes test of sorts. One measuring his nerve, his willingness to grow and change.
He wanted to be a man she could respect, not just privately but in public too.
More importantly, he wanted to be himself whenever cameras weren’t rolling.
It would take time. Effort. But so had everything else he’d achieved over almost four decades, and no matter what he’d been told as a child, he wasn’t and had never been lazy. Just unsure, or not quite brave enough to do what was necessary.
“Thanks for the invitation. I wish I could say yes.” Mel wrapped one of her many, many scarves more securely around her neck. “Saturdays are my date nights with Heidi, though. Another time?”
The assumption: he wasn’t going anywhere, so they would have plenty of occasions to eat dinner together in the future.
He smiled at her, pleased. “Of course.”
Once they’d all said their goodbyes to Mel and she’d disappeared into the dusk, April headed toward the master bedroom to gather her purse and a sweater while Marcus finger-combed his hair in the entryway mirror above the console.
“Should have played Narcissus instead of Aeneas,” Alex muttered.
Marcus raised a middle finger in his direction.
When April reappeared in the living room, Alex beamed at her and proffered his elbow with a courtly flourish. “To your chariot, my lady?”
“Uh . . .” Her cheeks turned rosy, and she made a weird choking noise as she accepted his arm. “Okay. Thanks.”