If there was anything more difficult than two co-workers pretending they weren’t secret lovers, it was two co-workers pretending they weren’t ex-lovers after a bitter split.

Which, Henry kept reminding himself, he and Colin were not. So why did it feel that way, to him and, obviously, also to Colin?

Colin was a pro, Henry was relieved to see. All through the production, he met Henry’s eyes when Henry gave him notes, and nodded, and said thank you. But there was nothing behind them. All the same, Colin was making it easy on Henry, or easier than it could have been.

But there were moments, in the first week of production. At the table read, when they got to the introduction of Dallas Harris, Colin let out a bitter chuckle, and Henry knew that only now was it obvious to Colin – Hamilton Dillon, Dallas Harris, con men, forgers of papers and feelings, liars, out for the main chance.

And Henry felt sick to his stomach. Had he, unconsciously, written Dallas Harris as he saw himself? A user of people, a slickster, a bad man?

Then, as might be expected on a film shoot, the ending was filmed the first week to accommodate schedules, locations, et cetera. The actor playing Dallas was Ric Mason, and he was physically perfect for the role. He was a total Matt Bomer type, and Henry’s enthusiastic “yes” vote at the casting session had been shared by Elaine and Jeffrey, who’d seen the same sinuous charm Henry had seen. (They’d offered the role to Matt Bomer, who, to Henry’s painful disappointment, wasn’t available on such short notice.)

And that first week, watching Callum declare his belief in Dallas’ innocence, his undying love for him, and watching them kiss passionately…

Henry felt an emotion that he, a man of the world, a sexually liberated and non-judgmental soul, hadn’t felt since he was a teenager.

Jealousy.

It was so shockingly unfamiliar it rooted him to the spot. All at once he felt the stabbing pain of seeing the man he desired kissing another man, an insane hatred of Ric Mason, a man he barely knew, and the sudden wave of sorrow as one part of him reminded him the forgetful other part that You’ll never have that. Love is for other people, not for you.

Henry had to leave the set. Because more than seeing Colin kissing another man, deeply, passionately, what he knew he couldn’t bear would be Colin turning to him afterward, looking at him with eyes burning with rage. That was you, who I thought you were, you did this to me.

But the mercy of it was, it was a tight schedule, with only twenty days of filming. Then they’d all go their separate ways, and Henry could begin to lick his wounds. And, he knew, then so could Colin.

* * *

Henry went dutifully to the dailies, the screening of the day’s footage. And with the artist’s cool ruthlessness, he could step back from Colin the man and watch Colin the actor and, even better, watch Callum the character do exactly what Henry wanted him to do, be who he wanted him to be.

At the climax of the story, the old recluse dies, and Dallas and Callum race about town to unearth his will before the wicked sister could get the fake one validated. Originally, Henry had written the pair dashing to Europe on a grand adventure, but a budget is what happens to plots.

All the same, of course right (and love) triumph, Dallas gets a job as a legitimate authenticator, and he and Callum ride into the proverbial sunset.

On the last day, they were doing pickup shots back in LA, reshooting a scene they’d filmed in Vancouver that the director wasn’t happy with.

It was the first meeting between Callum and Dallas, and the sparks that flew between the two actors were amazing. The chemistry was undeniable, and for a moment Henry wondered if they were having an affair. And there it was again, that hot knife in his guts at the thought of anyone, especially the actor playing Henry’s literary avatar, being with Colin.

“That’s a wrap,” the director said, and everyone cheered. It had been a good shoot, unplagued by accidents, natural disasters, or high drama. It was a good film, too, and everyone was a bit sad to be leaving it, to be moving on to God Knows What Piece of Shit Clusterfuck might be next on their resume.

Everybody understood perfectly well why Henry was in tears. He had seen his baby go from the first line he wrote all the way to the finished film, and the exhilaration, the relief, the exhaustion, were well known to anyone who finished a hard but good piece of work.

Well, not perfectly well. As Henry got his backslaps, so too did Colin, each man dancing carefully to make sure they didn’t run into each other, didn’t have to hug, to touch, to reignite the pain that they could now both leave behind.

* * *

The cast party required strategic maneuvers Sun Tzu would admire. Each man moved to counter or anticipate or force the move of the other around the room, so that no proximity could allow a third party to pull them both into the same orbit.

Henry was suddenly overcome with unreasonable anger. This was his party, too. This was the culmination of his lifelong dream, too. And here he was, unable to enjoy it. And it was his own fault.

The director’s house had a deck with a view of the city. Henry stepped outside into the warm LA summer evening, nodding at the smokers but keeping well away. He leaned on the railing and let himself sag, exhausted.

Somehow he wasn’t entirely surprised when Colin joined him there, silently. Both men, it seemed, had been worn out by the dance.

At last, Colin spoke. “Nice party.”

Henry had to laugh at the classic opening line from one stranger to another. “Yeah.” He paused. “I’m sorry, Colin. About all of it.”

Colin was still for a moment. “I was in love with you. It hurts. To find out that…”

Henry cut him off, gently. “No, you were in love with him. Hamilton. Mr. Perfect all the time, always says and does the right thing.” He gestured at his shorts and t shirt, unchanged for the party. “This is me. Until just now, totally broke, with two pairs of shoes, not Hamilton’s imaginary walk in closet full of them. Me, Henry, I’m a struggling writer, with borrowed suits, and a couple dollars in the bank. I’m a slob who likes Netflix and ice cream, not fine dining.”

He laughed. “You might as well know now, there’s yet another of me. Dillinger, straight guy who does gay jerk off porn.”

Colin looked up, surprised.

Henry nodded. “Yeah, I can play that too. Mr. Blue Collar Brooklyn.” He went into character abruptly.

“‘Yeah, okay, I’ll jerk it for the camera but I ain’t lettin’ a queer suck my dick.’” Then he was back. “Although, ‘Dillinger’ did recently break down and let someone do just that.”

He regretted it, seeing Colin flinch at the idea of Henry with another man, but now was the time for radical surgery, Henry thought.

“And I’m not telling you that to hurt you, but so that, when you find out about too, which you probably will, that you don’t think I kept that from you either.” He sighed. “This is who I am, I guess. I’m Henry and Hamilton and Dillinger and Dallas. I’m all of them, none of them, I don’t even know anymore.”

Henry turned to look at Colin. His face was expressionless, staring out over the city, but a single tear fell down his cheek as he spoke to the city.

“You stole from me. You stole my identity for your screenplay.”

“No, you inspired me. Thinking about us, the way you were more than just a client, that made me question who I am. Was I leading you on, was I a service provider or really just a con man? And when I thought about that, I had my script. I’ve been blocked for years, but you, you were the catalyst I needed to tell this story.”

“Yeah, but your con man was all noble and shit. He did it for love of the old man, the recluse. What did you do it for?”

Henry wanted to spill that, too, to tell him about Christina and The Bill. The truth would exonerate him, if Colin believed it, but why would he? How insanely ridiculous it sounded, and Colin would laugh and call him a liar again. I did it for my family, that sounded like just what a sociopath would say. Like Walter White, for god’s sake.

“Well,” Colin said. “At least I know your real name now. Next time I get a script with Henry Davis on the title page, I’ll know what to do with it.”

That hurt more than anything. But Henry remained silent as Colin turned to leave.

There goes your best chance at love, Henry thought, and his writer’s brain kicked in. All you have to do is the Hollywood thing, chase him and fall to your knees and confess all.

But then the other part of him answered. You could, if you deserved him. But you did lie, you did steal, you did use him. Let him go. Let him find someone better. He deserves better.

And with that, he let Colin go.