I yanked the towel over the beer spill, noting that the edges of my screenplay were dripping. Marshall, the drunk from just up the road in the Mission, who’d apparently been a seasoned San Francisco drunk for “longer than I’d been alive,” had pushed his elbow into the beer glass and sent it flying. And now, at nearly eleven in the evening, I was disgruntled. Wondering just why the fuck I was working at my brother’s bar in my home city.

“Honey, you should turn that frown upside down,” Marshall said, slurring the words. “Because you don’t look good without a smile.”

I rolled my eyes at him, conscious that he wouldn’t remember it tomorrow when he inevitably stumbled in around lunch time. “Lift your arms,” I sighed, watching as he brought his dripping sleeves into the air. “Marshall, I think you better call it a night tonight.”

Marshall leaned in to me, almost leering. I knew he was generally harmless, yet I felt that familiar twinge behind my eyes. Working in bars my first few years in Los Angeles had taught me that not everyone was a good guy.

“Baby, why don’t you let me have a beer to go?” he asked. “Your brother always lets me do it.”

Annoyed, wanting the dark bar to myself, I poured him a pint in a Styrofoam cup and handed it across the bar. I watched as he stumbled toward the dark doorway, catching his foot on the rug and nearly tripping. On the other side of the doorway, a man stood—his leather jacket flipping in the sudden evening wind. This man held open the door for Marshall. Marshall spat out slurred words I could just barely make out.

---

“That girl in there. She’s quite a bitch.”

“I’m sorry? What did you call her? That woman who suited you up for the night, when it seems you’re drunk out of your mind—is a bitch?” Wesley’s words grew louder, brasher. “I don’t suppose you want to repeat that, do you?”

I watched as his fingers twitched. A feeling of recognition rose up in me, memories of the years when Wesley had stuck up for me, fought for me.

But Marshall was so sloshed he just grumbled and eased past, stumbling down the road. I noticed my rapid, beating heart and tried to ease my nerves by mopping at the edges of my script with my towel. Goddamn, it looked foolish—all these white papers, splayed out across the bar.

“Hey there,” Wesley said, striding forward, riding a wave of arrogance. He threw that horribly attractive smile toward me, flashing his white, all-American teeth. His eyes, though, seemed strangely far away. They held a different emotion I couldn’t place.

“Hi,” I said, my tongue nearly sticking in my mouth. “Are you looking for Quintin?”

“Sure. Yes,” Wesley said, giving me a shrug. He folded himself atop one of the bar stools and blinked at the empty joint. “Seems you scared them all out.”

“It’s after eleven on a Wednesday,” I said. “We close soon, anyway.” I watched his eyes trace a line toward the taps. Without speaking, I settled a glass under the spout and filled it with a frothy finish. I set it in front of him. How much I had given him, as a younger girl? My virginity. My love. My hopes for a future… Gross.

And now, the dream I’d rushed off to Los Angeles to chase—in his absence, mind you—was null and void. I was back, scraping at bar dirt like a rat. He was probably grateful we’d stripped of one another long ago.

“He’s not around anymore, anyway,” I finally said, speaking of Quintin. “I told him he should take the night off. He’s been out-of-his-mind busy lately.”

“Ah. I see,” Wesley said, his eyes still heavy. He stared into mine, just as he had as a much younger man—with a kind of erotic need, an inner desire to thrust me against the wall and whisper hungrily into my ear.

“Yes, well,” I said, trying to speak through my nerves. “It’s good he let me have this job. On the weekends, the tips are insane. I’m hopefully going to fight through my debt…”

“Hmm,” Wesley murmured, sipping his beer. “How long have you been back from Los Angeles, anyway? Every other time I came to visit Quintin, you weren’t around.”

I paused, surprised at the question. Was he genuinely interested in what my life had been like the previous ten-plus years? I leaned toward him, pressing my tits against the top of the counter. Tension between us felt suddenly elevated, the air sizzling with so many things unsaid. That last fight, when we’d just stormed away, both ready to take on our separate lives… Had it worked out for him?

“Well, I was trying to work as an actress,” I said.

“I know,” Wesley said, his voice lowering. “I saw a few of your movies.”

My lips pressed into a small smile. “You did? They were mostly B movies, at best. I hardly ever had more than, like, fifteen lines.”

“I saw them. I saw the—the one of you in Thailand, on that beach? They had you go almost naked,” Wesley said. He leaned closer to me, his breath lowering. “You know, I saw that in a weirdo theater in Alabama, maybe six years ago. And I remember listening to all the guys around me talking about how hot you were. What a knockout. And I remember thinking, goddamn them. I had you first. I was supposed to have you for good.”

What the hell was I supposed to say to this? “Ha, good one,” I said, lamely. I began to organize my sheets from the screenplay, forcing my eyes away from his. I hoped, prayed, he would keep talking while simultaneously hoping he would strut away from Station to Station Pub forever and never utter my name again. I’d been through enough.

“Come on,” he said, his voice coaxing. “You must have some kind of response to that.”

I drew my eyes toward his penetrating, blue ones. Each and every cell in my body screamed out for his touch, while my mind questioned him and his intentions. Were the last ten years apart just an accident, an experiment we shouldn’t have ever conducted? We were good together. Our bodies, our minds, our sense for adventure—it had all come together in a kind of explosion. And we’d tossed it away.

“I couldn’t hack it.” I tilted my head. “The lifestyle was rough, Wes. It was always waiting for the next movie to come along. And then you’d take a commercial, just because you thought that, maybe, fuck it, at least you’re acting and getting a check in the mail every once in a while. Suddenly, you look in the mirror and you realize you’re past age thirty, and it never happened for you. And on top of it, my boyfriend—my ex-fiancé, Tyler— Well. I had to get away.”

I felt I was word-vomiting at him. I blinked into his eyes, incredulous. I hadn’t told anyone this, not in the month or so since I’d returned like a dog with my tail between my legs.

Wesley pointed toward the screenplay, still damp from Marshall’s beer. His fingers were thick, his forearm muscular. I wondered what it would feel like to have his hands up my shirt, to have them spread out over my chest and feeling at the dark brown nub of my nipple…

“What’s that?” he asked.

“Oh, this? Oh, um. It’s just…”

But suddenly, he tore up from his stool and grabbed the papers. He splayed them out on the bar and stared hard, eyes darting quickly left to right across the pages. Within seconds, his face grew serious.

“You’re writing a screenplay,” he said.

“Well, sure,” I sighed, knowing I couldn’t hide it from him a moment longer. He was staring down at a page that read, “EXTERIOR - NIGHT - MISSION DISTRICT,” and it felt strange, as we were just steps away from that kind of reality.

“I see,” he muttered, nodding as he flipped through. “You actors never really want to appear in other people’s things. You want to write your own.”

“Not many of us, actually,” I said. “I just realized I’m better at this side of things, even. Or that I get more pleasure out of it. I don’t know.” I paused for a moment, my brain feeling fizzy. “I actually have this dream that I’ll be able to star in it, one day. And direct it myself. Ha. But I doubt the funds from this place will ever add up enough to bankroll a film.”

Wesley slid his fingers along the page, licking at his lips in an almost provocative way. My own lips ached to touch his. I hadn’t kissed anyone since I’d left Tyler’s place in such a huff, my ears ringing with what he’d told me. That I’d never make it on my own without him. That I might as well starve. And that maybe—just maybe—that starvation would help me land better roles.

God, he’d been an ass. I really fucking knew how to pick ‘em.

“I can’t believe you saw that movie in Thailand,” I said, feeling the air grow even tighter around us. “And now, you’re here. And I haven’t seen you in— Well, since I was a much different, much happier girl.”

Wesley’s eyes flickered toward mine. He dropped the screenplay back to the counter and sipped the rest of his beer, gesturing with his head. “Why don’t you pour yourself one and sit with me, like old times?”

I saw no reason to refuse. The bar was more or less clean—the glasses stacked, upside down, stretching across the counter by the sink. A bag of chips had been left near the radio, wide open, only a few of them nibbled out. That had been my dinner. Just another after a long string of depressing dinners.

I perched beside him, an IPA in my hand. I felt the heat from his muscles and the depth of his upper bicep as my arm brushed his when I turned on the stool.

“Remy, you made it, you know?” Wesley said to me, his eyes flickering. “You were in loads of movies. And now, you’re a screenwriter. You set out to do all the things you wanted to.”

“So did you,” I said. “You travel across the country, with no one to answer to. It’s beautiful. It’s what we dreamed of doing together there for a second. Just us, a truck, and a dog.”

“Right,” Wesley laughed. “You were always so bogged down about how we didn’t have a dog, when could we get a dog? Ha. Always wanting to make a family.”

I took a long drag of beer. We sat in silence with one another for a moment, both of us swimming with memories. It was clear that he thought of me fondly. That all those sun-drenched days on the road hadn’t obliterated us.