She was still talking on-screen, and suddenly he could hear her.
More than that. He couldlisten.
“—thing I adore about Peter is that he puts as much effort andemotion into a small role as he does into a role like Cyprian,” she said, leaning forward in emphasis. “Because he’s a master of his craft and committed to giving his colleagues and audience his absolute best, every time. So in those movies and television shows where he remains in the background, or plays the friend or coworker, or nearly drowns in a creek in front of the world’s most dramatic lifeguard-slash-vigilante—hi, Marcus—if you pay attention, his acting is . . . brilliant. Just as brilliant as his performance as Cyprian. Every time.”
Her brown eyes were soft and sincere, her gaze direct. After so long together, he could recognize her lies, and he could reckon with her truths. If he paid enough attention.
He was paying attention now.
This was the truth, as she saw it.
“Peter Reedton’s work ethic is unparalleled, anyone who truly gets to know him adores him, and he’s an absurdly gifted actor,” she declared firmly. Almost aggressively, as if daring the audience to argue with her. As if she’d gladly take on every single one of them if they dismissed his worth, and she’d win. Of course she’d win. “He deserves all the praise he’s gotten and more, and that would be true with or withoutGods of the Gates. Our show was merely the means by which the world finally noticed what he was doing all along. In every project, big or small.”
She fucking meant what she was saying. If he only played bit roles for the rest of his career, she wouldn’t give a shit. She wouldn’t think less of him. She’d still consider him a success, because he cared about his coworkers and worked hard and was good at his job.
Her love and appreciation for him didn’t depend on accomplishments or money.
They depended on him. Just... him.
Motherfucker. Hewasa goddamnknäppgök.
On-screen, she flicked her wrist dismissively. “Still, he’s askitstövel. A fact is a fact.”
He hung his head. Yes. Also that.
But he couldn’t help but smile, despite the acid churning in his gut, because her comic timing was impeccable. The audience was laughing too, which meant they apparently knew her pet name for him, as well as its English translation.
Correction: Thatwashis pet name.
Now she didn’t call him anything at all.
Cupping a hand around her mouth, she pretended to whisper to the unseen audience. “Also, Jeanine is right about those thighs. Don’t tell him I said so.”
Someone off camera wolf-whistled—it sounded like Carah—and Maria grinned at whoever it was, even as the theater audience laughed again.
Then her face faded to black on the screen. She was gone.
His breath shook as he dragged it into his lungs. When he closed his eyes, her afterimage flickered to life, burned irrevocably onto his retinas.
From the sound of it, the video presentation had moved on to clips of Cyprian’s scenes with Cassia, and normally he loved to watch Maria’s work. But—
Ramón’s lean, strong hand clasped his and squeezed.
Maybe Peter should be embarrassed by how tightly he clung to his friend’s hand in response, but he wasn’t. He needed that support, that reassurance, as his world upended itself.
All his certainties had rattled and heaved and cracked down the middle, and there he was, standing in their rubble. Shell-shocked. Helpless to do anything but piece those certainties backtogether, but this time in a different way, in the right way, so they wouldn’t collapse around him ever again.
He had to question everything,everything, he’d thought he understood about himself and Maria. And he knew exactly where to begin.
Why had he been so goddamn determined to take a role that didn’t even fuckinginteresthim, when he knew it would make Maria unhappy?
Yes, retirement and health insurance and living expenses required savings, but he wasn’t hurting, and neither was she, and both of them had long careers still ahead, with a lot more options open to them after having starred inGates. ThoseGatesresiduals weren’t insignificant either. And even before landing the role of Cyprian, he’d managed to support himself with his acting. He’d made a decent, if not luxurious, living. So had she.
Hell, if they got married and worse came to worst, they could always move to Sweden and let the fruits of socialism feed them for a while. For all his teasing about the Swedish system, the prospect of a guaranteed comfortable retirement and health care... well, higher taxes didn’t actually seem that terrible a price to pay. Literally.
What happened to his mother wouldn’t happen to him. To them. It couldn’t.
And if he didn’t need to take the role for money, why else would he accept? If he meant to show other casting directors that he could handle a leading role on television, hadn’t he already done that withGods of the Gates?