Colin didn’t burst into tears when he got home that Sunday afternoon from his weekend with Hamilton. But he did lay down on his bed, in the dark, for a long time, only getting up to pee when he absolutely had to.

How could there already be an ache where Hamilton had been, when only a few hours had passed since he’d seen him, since they’d been inside each other?

He finally got up and poured himself a stiff drink, which eased some of the ache, at least for a few minutes.

It wasn’t just that being with Hamilton was something he’d miss, it was that his time with Hamilton had been what he’d looked forward to. Every time he woke up and realized that the dawn meant he was one day closer to the next time with Hamilton. Every time he saw something bizarre happen on the streets of New York, and he thought, I’ll tell Hamilton, he’ll laugh at that. Every time he examined his face in the mirror, ruthlessly harvesting any nose or ear hairs that dared to show themselves, because after all, Hamilton’s face would be right up against his and he’d see every flaw.

He was sad. But it was bittersweet, because he could tell himself, Fuck, at least this time I said it. It wasn’t like Ty, there would be nothing left unsaid, he couldn’t torture himself with all the ways it might have been, no day after day of “if onlys.”

Colin finished off his drink and shook his head. Of course he was going to treat me like a second grader confessing his love for his favorite teacher, Mrs. Jones. It was childishly ridiculous to expect Mrs. Jones to return the favor.

He picked up the script for The Recluse. It cheered him up, to turn its pages, to get lost in the character of Callum.

How funny it was, he thought, that a guy named Colin O’Neill had invented an alter ego, Neil Callum, and here he was, about to play the part of a guy named Callum. It was like the character was written for him, like the universe had just… woken up one morning and decided it was time for Colin to fulfill his destiny.

And then, he had come to LA, and to the audition. And then, he had walked into the room, where Clarice had told him he’d be auditioning for the casting director, Elaine Taylor, the director, Jeffrey Wallace, and the writer, Henry Davis.

And there, slouching in the writer’s chair, was the spitting image of Hamilton Dillon.

Only this wasn’t Hamilton. This was a guy in an old t shirt, his hair a bit wild, his face unshaven. The facial recognition software in Colin’s head gave him a 100% match, but the impossibility of it made his circuits override every shred of evidence.

And then, the writer looked up, and saw Colin, and his eyes widened. And Colin knew.

Looking back on it later that night, he couldn’t believe it. How despite his shock, he’d given the performance of a lifetime. How Colin O’Neill had collapsed right then and there, but Neil Callum had taken his place so smoothly that nobody at the table even noticed.

The old joke about the Actor’s Nightmare was that you got on stage and you realized you didn’t know any of the lines, that you didn’t even know what play you were in. Colin’s nightmare had always been that he could be letter perfect, but the audience would hate him anyway, would judge him, would pelt him. It had never ever factored in the possibility that the man he loved would be sitting there watching him, revealed not to be who he thought he was at all.

But Neil Callum, that graceful artist, that master thespian, had no fear. And as Colin watched, horrified, curled up in a corner in shock, Neil did the audition.

“I’m onto your boyfriend, Callum,” Elaine read from the sides in a flat voice, giving him nothing to bounce off.

“And we’re onto you,” Neil replied savagely. “I know what you’ve done. You stole the book, so you could sell it, so you could get as much of P.Q.’s money as you could, before he died and left it to someone else.”

“You don’t understand. He’s not even family.”

“No, he’s not. But P.Q. didn’t sign a letter putting his family in charge, did he?”

“That’s right, he didn’t. And the old man didn’t sign the one that put Harvey in charge, either.”

“Yeah, well, ‘the old man’ attested that he did, and that’s what matters now, isn’t it? Now give me the goddamn book.”

Four eyes were upon him, riveted, as they covered several more pages, Colin completely off book for all of them. The other two eyes, Hamilton’s… Henry’s, were cast down, a stunned look on his face.

And while he didn’t look at Hamilton, or whoever this was, Colin addressed his words to him, his unfeigned rage. Neil Callum was acting, but he was drawing on Colin’s feelings, his unfathomable hurt.

“Thank you,” Elaine said. “You’ve earned a callback. We’d like you back in three hours.”

“Thank you,” Colin said, with a winning, head-shot smile. And then he walked out.

He heard a bang on the closing door, someone pushing it back open in a hurry.

“Colin!” Hamilton… no, “Henry” shouted after him.

Colin sped up. “Don’t talk to me,” he said without turning around.

“I never thought…”

Colin whirled around, the anger on his face stopping Henry in his tracks.

“You used me.” Colin laughed deliriously. “You know, I read this script and I fell in love with it. I thought, God, this character really speaks to me, as if he was speaking my inner thoughts… because he was. Because every intimate thing I ever whispered to you, you went home and wrote it down.”

Henry was speechless, the pain clear on his face. But Colin didn’t give a fuck about Henry’s feelings right now.

“You know, I never resented a penny I spent on you. All the thousands of dollars. But it wasn’t enough, I guess. You had to take more. You had to…”

His voice broke. “You had to take my trust. You had to steal that. You bastard.”

He broke into a run before Henry could see his tears.

“Colin!” Henry cried out after him, but Colin was out the front door before Henry’s shout finished echoing in the lobby.

* * *

Colin made a beeline for Roz’s house. He burst into tears the minute she closed the door behind him, the outside world no longer able to see his grief.

Roz was always prepared for a crisis. She maintained a bottle of champagne in the fridge and Callebaut chocolate in the pantry.

“Fuck it,” she said, regarding the champagne flutes. “These are too small for emergency doses.” She pulled out the brandy snifters and filled them up, hoping to get a laugh out of Colin, to no avail.

Slumped in defeat on the couch, he took it without comment and drank deeply.

“That’s good,” he said. But then he thought of Hamilton – Hamilton would know the vintage, would recommend it, would know which swanky bars had it in their cellar.

“I should have been him the whole time. ‘Neil Callum.’ Neil doesn’t fall in love with escorts. Hell, Neil doesn’t fall in love. Neil’s not a fool.”

“Honey,” Roz reminded him gently. “If it hadn’t been for your time with Hamilton, there wouldn’t have been a Neil Callum.”

“Yeah. That’s the problem, isn’t it?” Every negative thought, every anxiety, every self-doubt that had relegated him to a sound booth and far away from screen and stage, came rushing back in.

“I was that confident because of Hamilton, and Hamilton doesn’t exist. Everything he said was just… a lie. Something he was paid to say. He saw my fucking miserable dog-like gratitude for every compliment, and he… He conned me so completely that I fell in love with him. I believed in me because he did.”

“You’re right,” Roz said. “Hamilton Dillon doesn’t exist. You always knew that. You always knew that wasn’t his real name, right?”

“I…” Colin blushed. Sure, he’d known it when he first saw it on Rentmen.com, but, over time…

“What do you really know about him? Do you know what he does when he’s not working, what his hobbies are, his interests? If he already has a boyfriend? If he lives with his mother in Queens, or has twenty-seven cats, or has a shrine to some pop star in his living room? Or all of the above?”

Now Colin felt even more the fool. Hell, it was New York City, the height of sexual sophistication. “Hamilton” could have an open-minded boyfriend who was well aware of his job, and was fine with it, as long as the emotional barriers between provider and client stayed up. The thought of him with someone else, right now, talking about his day, about Colin, was…

“He’s an actor, Colin. Just like us. You know, when I was young, I fell in love with Cary Grant on screen, and it was because he was playing those Cary Grant characters, always a dashing ladies’ man. Little did I know he was going home to his ‘roommate’ Randolph Scott, where the two of them would frolic on the lawn in their matching white outfits.”

She refilled his glass.

“You fell in love with a character. Some part of you always knew that, you know. Hamilton was a fiction, you paid him to tell you what you needed to hear. All of which is true – that you’re a sexy dude, that you’re a great actor, but nobody could tell you that but an incredibly charming and handsome man.”

Colin nodded. “Yeah. That’s not what hurts. I mean it is, that I fell in love with someone who doesn’t even exist, but… What kills me is that all that I confided in him, everything about me, he just used as material for this script. I was just… fodder for another character. It’s so humiliating I can’t even…”

His phone rang. He picked it up and laughed. “Oh shit, it’s Clarice. I was supposed to be back for the call back. They must have called her, mad as hell.”

“Well, pick it up and apologize. You can’t make an enemy out of Elaine Taylor.”

“Yeah,” he sighed. “Hi Clarice, I’m sorry about this aft…”

“You got the part. Congratulations. This is a huge step up for you, Colin.”

He was stunned. He was sure Hami… Henry... would have had given the others some bullshit reason Colin was all wrong for the part, and they’d called Clarice to cancel the callback. They must have outvoted him, Colin thought.

“But I can’t take it,” he tried to tell Clarice. “It’s… It’s hard to explain. See, I mean, I knew this guy Hamilton, and I…”

“Colin. I don’t want to hear about your personal life, unless you’ve been diagnosed with terminal cancer and I can’t get you insured on the picture. Take the fucking part or I’ll murder you in your sleep. This is it, this is the big time. Now or never.”

It was true. It was now or never. He could go back to his little life, Taco Fuckin’ Bell and boner pill voiceovers for the rest of his career.

Or Neil Callum could take the phone from him, and answer for him.

“You’re right. This is the opportunity of a lifetime. And I’ll take it.”