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“Do you want to live in the sun?” he asked quietly. “Or do you want to go back in the shadows?”
Marco is my calm, Mom is my home, Nana is my conscience, but Charlie is my wide-open sky, my free-dancing, stargazing wild rumpus.
He’s enormous. Oh, the writer, my brain sings back to Charlie in the trailer. Bearded, frowning, eyes like moss, with a scar through his— Shock is a cold hand on my shoulder, a complete standstill in my brain and chest and veins.
It’s the voice of Sam Brandis, jogging down the path, showing up out of the blue fourteen years too late.
“Tate, Milkweed is mine. I wrote the film.” I squeeze my eyes closed. But—“The writer is S. B. Hill.” “Sam Brandis,” he says quietly. “Hill was Luther’s last name. I legally took it before he died.”
He shifts slightly. “I can’t see a clock, but I can see our screenwriter. And he does not look happy.”
Lol
“I mean, I am playing his grandmother in this scene. I’m sure he’s not enjoying watching this.” “Yeah, I don’t think that’s what this is.”
Lol!
“Married?” “Your wife? On the phone? I heard you talking to Katie. About the girls?” His expression clears. “Katie is my ex-wife, Tate. Ex.”
For the first time in my life I get it: home isn’t always a space; it can be a person.
