After My Lover Erased Himself to Be My Ghost

It was raining in London. It always was. I sat on the edge of my plush hotel bed. My laptop was open on my lap. The screen cast a cold blue glow in the dark room. Outside, city lights blurred through the wet glass.

Forged in Fire premiered at the fall festival two days ago. The reviews were everywhere. I told myself not to look. I told myself I didn't care. I was Saylor Montgomery. I had two Oscars. I didn't need to read blogs about a supporting actor. But I pulled up the browser anyway.

Every major outlet led with his name. Briggs Owens.

"A staggering debut."

"The revelation of the season."

"Briggs Owens bleeds on screen."

I clicked on an article from Variety. There was a photo of him on the red carpet. He wore a simple, sharp black suit. His hair was pushed back. The pink laser scar under his left eye was covered by expensive makeup. He didn't look like the quiet boy who made my oatmeal. He looked like a movie star. He looked untouchable.

A strange, heavy feeling twisted in my chest. It was pride. Complicated, unwelcome pride. I gave him that role. I made the call to Robert Mitchell. But Briggs earned the applause. He took the absolute wreckage I left him in, and he spun it into pure gold.

I hated it. I hated that I felt proud. I hated that his face still made my stomach drop.

I snapped the laptop shut. The room went pitch black. I picked up the hotel phone and ordered room service. I asked for a steak and a glass of red wine. Twenty minutes later, a waiter wheeled a silver cart into my room. I tipped him and locked the door behind him.

The food smelled rich and warm. I sat in the chair and stared at the plate. My stomach was tied in knots. I didn't take a single bite. The steak grew cold. The fat hardened. I drank the wine, but it tasted like ash in my mouth.

Two months later, I was back in California. I sat at a round table inside a massive white tent on the Santa Monica beach. It was the Independent Spirit Awards.

The tent was loud. Crystal glasses clinked. People laughed and kissed each other's cheeks. I wore a backless silver gown. My hair was pulled back tight. I smiled at the right people. I clapped at the right times. I was playing my part perfectly.

Then the lights dimmed. It was time for Best Breakthrough Performance.

The presenter opened the envelope. She leaned into the mic. "And the Spirit Award goes to... Briggs Owens, Forged in Fire."

The tent erupted. People cheered loudly. My chest tightened so fast I couldn't breathe. I kept my face perfectly still.

Briggs stood up from a table near the front. He buttoned his dark suit jacket. He walked up to the stage. He moved differently now. The timid, eager boy was completely gone. His steps were measured. His shoulders were broad. He radiated a quiet, magnetic power. He looked dangerous.

He took the trophy from the presenter. He stepped up to the microphone.

"Thank you," he said. His voice was deep and steady. It echoed through the huge tent.

He thanked Robert Mitchell. He thanked the cast. He thanked the crew and the studio. He spoke for exactly forty-five seconds. He was composed. He was polished.

He never said my name.

I felt a sharp sting. I told myself it was what I wanted. I wanted a clean break. I wanted him to move on.

But then, right before he stepped back from the mic, he stopped. The applause started to build in the room. He didn't move. He just looked out into the sea of faces.

His eyes found mine.

It was exactly one second. No more. But the current that passed between us was violent. It hit me like a physical strike. The noise in the tent vanished. In my kitchen, he used to look at me like he was waiting for permission to breathe. On that stage, he looked at me like he owned the air in the room. He was looking right through my armor.

I didn't blink. I didn't look away. I slipped my right hand under the table. I pressed my thumb hard against the inside of my left wrist. My pulse was frantic. It beat like a trapped bird against my skin.

He turned and walked off the stage. The spell broke. The room breathed again.

In the weeks that followed, Briggs's transformation was complete. It was public.

I couldn't escape him. His face was on the cover of GQ. His billboard was on Sunset Boulevard. He was the topic of every industry dinner. His agent called him Hollywood's most exciting new voice. The offers poured in. Scripts, campaigns, leading roles. The boy I kept hidden in my Malibu house was now the center of the world.

I was in my office one afternoon. Maya walked in holding a stack of mail. She set it on my glass desk.

"He got the lead in the new Fincher project," she said quietly.

I didn't look up from my script. "Good for him."

Maya lingered. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other. "He got his first major studio paycheck yesterday, Saylor."

I stopped reading. I knew she was going to tell me anyway. Maya always knew everything. "And?"

"He didn't buy a sports car. He didn't buy a watch," she said. Her voice was soft. "He wired a massive sum to that facility in upstate New York. Greenfield. He paid for six months of care in advance."

I stared at the black words on my page. They blurred together. Greenfield again. The mystery debt. I didn't know who was at Greenfield. I didn't know what kind of sickness or debt required that kind of money. But it proved one thing. He belonged to someone else's tragedy.

"Where is he living?" I asked. The question slipped out before I could stop it.

"He rented a penthouse in West Hollywood," Maya replied. "But my friend at his agency says he doesn't go out. He doesn't go to parties. He doesn't celebrate."

"What does he do there?"

"Nothing," Maya whispered. "He just goes home. He sits in the empty apartment. And he stares at the wall for a long time."

I swallowed hard. The silence in my office felt heavy and thick.

The power dynamic was gone. He wasn't my secret anymore. He wasn't a nobody who needed my money or my connections. He was my equal now. The whole world wanted him.

But he was still paying off a ghost. And I was still running from mine.

"Thank you, Maya," I said. My voice was completely flat. "That will be all."

She nodded and left the room. The door clicked shut.

I dropped my pen on the desk. I pressed my fingers to my wrist. I closed my eyes. I could still feel the heat of his gaze from the stage. He was out there. He was huge. And for the first time, I felt like I was the one hiding.