Spring, 1923
Los Angeles
He walked into the theater just in time to see the last few minutes of the rehearsal. Normally he watched just about all the rehearsals for her plays, but she had told him not to come to these. It was her first play with these actors, in this theater, and just talking about it made her nervous.
"What if I can't do it?" she asked. "What if I'm not good enough to have moved up so far, so fast? I've only been doing this for three years. It took Marissa twice that to get where I am!"
"You wouldn't be there if you weren't supposed to be," he assured her. "Everything happens for a reason, you know."
She cast a skeptical look his way. "Are you getting philosophical again? Never expected that from you."
He shrugged. "I do a lot of things no one ever expected."
She hurried to the back of the theater after the director finished giving his notes. "So, you finally got to see it," she said. "How bad was it?"
"Surprisingly, not at all," he said as they began to walk outside.
"Surprisingly? What happened to ‘you're more talented than you realize’?"
"You believe every flattering thing you're told?" His tone was light, teasing.
"I rarely believe anything you tell me," she said, laughter in her eyes.
They started up the street, walking close together on the narrow sidewalk. He ignored the urge to take her hand when it accidentally brushed against his. Witty, sarcastic banter? Yes. Touching her? No. Not if you like being her friend. And he did like being her friend. He liked it more than he cared to think about.
Winter, 1918
He'd finally gotten his wish. He'd been sent home. All it had taken was a bullet to the chest. The doctors didn't know how he had survived. They all said it was a miracle. But it didn't seem like a miracle to him. It was more like a curse. He'd just traded one hell for another. His life, the life he'd always loved so much, suddenly felt like a prison. No one wanted to talk about what happened. They all acted as if he had never even left. It was infuriating.
Spring, 1923
The feel of her hand brushing against his again brought him back to the present. Is she doing that on purpose? No, she couldn't be. That was impossible. She was his friend. Nothing more. You'd better stop thinking like this if you want to keep it that way.