Beginnings and Ends (Short Story) (3 page)

He yanked his T-shirt over his head, tossing it onto the floor as Robin looked up at him and smiled. If Robin had his way, Jules would walk around the house shirtless. Jules knew that, too.

Robin’s smile was beatific, his eyes a flash of heaven and heat as he continued to gaze up at Jules, as he used his extremely talented mouth and creative tongue to say
I love you, too, babe
, in ways that made Jules marvel.

“You’re my life,” Jules tried to tell him, and apparently it came out clearly enough, because Robin responded by taking Jules more deeply into his mouth as he wrapped his arms around Jules in an embrace that pulled him even closer, his
hands touching, stroking, exploring, even as Robin looked up at him with another flash of those blue eyes.…

And Jules was done. With a shout of Robin’s name, he came in a rush of pleasure that rocketed through him, and made him laugh out loud.

And Robin was laughing, too. He hugged Jules tightly before sitting back, except his laughter triggered a more complicated emotion, and his eyes filled with tears—eyes that still looked haunted.

Which made Jules stop laughing, fast, and crouch down beside him to touch his hair and his beautiful face. And even though the last time he’d brought the subject up, Robin didn’t want to talk about it, he said, “Have you thought more about ending the series? About doing something else for a while?”

Robin kind of laughed as he wiped his eyes. “Funny you should ask, because … Yes. Lately, it’s all I’ve been thinking about. You know, what would I do if I didn’t do
Shadowland
.”

“Movies,” Jules suggested. Robin got sent hundreds of scripts, and some of them were actually really good.

“Small roles,” Robin said, nodding. “Nothing that would put me on set for more than a few weeks at a time.”

“I could transfer to California,” Jules said. “And you could take bigger roles and come home every night.”

“But you hate L.A.”

Jules kissed him. “I love you. And living closer to Sam and Alyssa wouldn’t be a hardship.” Jules’s best friends lived in San Diego. And Robin’s sister Jane and her family lived there, too.

“But Prop 8—”

“We’d keep our house and our Massachusetts residency,” Jules said. “Until it’s overruled. It’s just a matter of time.”

Robin nodded, still so serious. “You know what I really want to do?” He swallowed, as if whatever he was about to say was a secret he was nervous to share. “I’ve been thinking about it. A lot. Ever since you, you know, first brought up my doing something else. Besides
Shadowland
. I started thinking about what I really, really,
really
wanted to do. I mean, I love acting. I do. And I know how lucky I am to have the career that I’ve had. And I know that if I completely take time off, I’m in danger of disappearing. Out of sight, out of mind.”

Jules interrupted him. “There’s a difference between disappearing and simply choosing, for a while, to play a character a little less demanding than Joe Laughlin.”

“Yeah, I do know that,” Robin said. “But I
have
thought about taking that kind of a break—two or three years. Although, if we lived in L.A. I could still work enough to stay on the radar, even while the”—he cleared his throat—“baby’s still just, you know, a baby.”

“Baby,” Jules said. Holy shit.

Robin searched Jules’s eyes as he gazed at him, trepidation on his face. “Every time we’ve talked about it, it’s always been like,
someday when we have
kids
, like it’s a million years away. And I know that sometimes when people say that, it’s because it’s safest to push the discussion out into the future, but what they mean is that they don’t really want kids, but they’re afraid to say it and—”

“I want kids,” Jules said. “I really do. I meant it when I said it. But since I’m not in a position to stay home—”

“I am,” Robin said earnestly. “I mean, I will be.”

He was serious. Jules laughed. “Oh, my God.”

“It’s what I want to do,” Robin told him with complete conviction. “More than anything.”

“Oh, my God,” Jules said again.

“I’ve been thinking about it a lot,” Robin said. “The logistics. Adoption versus finding a surrogate, and I’d really like to do the surrogate thing. Not with me, though, not with my, you know—and not just because alcoholism can be hereditary, but because … well, I just really want us to have your baby.”

Jules kissed him, because he could no longer speak, not even another
Oh, my God
. But then he realized what Robin had just said, and found his voice, because that could not go uncorrected. “Our baby,” he said.

And Robin smiled.

Boston, later that same evening

Art Urban’s car was in his parking spot when Robin and Jules arrived at the studio.

“Want me to go in with you?” Jules asked as he pulled the car over near the door—close enough to drop Robin off, but leaving open the option of parking so that they could both go inside.

“No, that’s okay,” Robin said. “This isn’t going to be that hard. And it’s not going to take that long. I mean, if you want to, you can certainly come in—”

“I’ll wait in the car,” Jules said, smiling at him. “I’ve got some phone calls to make.”

“To Yashi and Deb,” Robin realized. Jules would want to tell the top members of his staff about his request for a transfer, both so that it wouldn’t come at them out of the blue, and so that they could, if they wanted, request to go with him.

“And to Sam and Alyssa,” Jules said. They’d already called his mom, who had been beyond excited but not surprised by their plans to make her a grandmother.

Robin had called Janey. His sister and her Navy SEAL husband, Cosmo, had been similarly psyched. And then Robin had called Cosmo’s mom, Lois, who was
the closest thing to a parent that he had, since his own mother had died when he was a child, and his asshole of a father was … not worth thinking about.

Lois had been so happy for Robin that she’d started to cry, which had made Robin cry. What a mess, but a really happy mess.

Robin now gave Jules a swift kiss and climbed out the car.

“If you need me …,” Jules said.

Robin leaned down to smile at him through the open door. “I know.”

The walk into the studio felt different. Less foreboding. The building itself seemed less menacing. It didn’t loom over him, as if about to swallow him up, the way it usually did.

And Joe Laughlin, who usually started shifting and stirring inside of him when he walked through the small lobby, was oddly still and silent, as if he were holding his breath.

Maureen was at her desk outside Art’s office. Art had cheerfully named Richie West’s admin after his longtime assistant, even though the two were nothing alike. Art’s Maureen was a youthful sixty-something, opinionated, and unafraid to speak truth to power. She was also quick to share a bawdy joke. She greeted Robin with a hug and a noogie atop his head.

“Is he in?” Robin asked her.

“For you, honey? Always.” She didn’t bother with the intercom. She just knocked on Art’s door as she opened it. “Zip up your pants, turn off the porn, and get ready to do your best groveling. It’s apology time, A.U.”

She was talking, of course, to Art, who immediately stood up from behind his desk, pants already zipped. Thank God. “Jesus, Robbie, I am
so
sorry—”

“It’s okay,” Robin said. “And I know Enastacia and Grant won’t make that mistake ever again.”

“They’ve both given me letters of resignation.” Art held them out, exhibit A and B.

Robin didn’t even bother to glance at them. He just took them and tore them in half before he handed them over to Maureen. “Call them both and tell them we don’t accept their resignations. I want to see them on set in the morning or I
will
find them and kick their asses.”

Maureen smirked at Art. “Told ya he’d say that.” She smiled warmly at Robin. “You just won me fifty bucks,” she said, then closed the door behind her.

“That’s very generous of you,” Art said as he motioned for Robin to sit. He came out from behind his desk to join him at the grouping of comfortable sofas and chairs that filled most of the room.

“It was a mistake,” Robin said. “A stupid one. Like I said, it won’t happen again.” He looked at Art, who was wearing sweatpants and sneakers. “Are you coming from the gym, or going? Because I don’t want to slow you down.”

“Going, but it’s okay.” Ever since his heart attack, Art had made a point to work out every day. Fifty pounds slimmer, his leaner-but-still-round face was a picture of good health, and behind his trademark horn-rimmed glasses, his eyes were bright and clear. “The night is young. What’s up?”

Robin looked at the man who’d revitalized his career with this show and this character that he’d written specifically for Robin, a character that hundreds of actors would’ve killed to play. And he just said it. “It’s time,” he told Art.

And Art being Art, he knew exactly what Robin meant. It was time to end the show, to go out with a bang, to move on to other projects, other endeavors, other glories, other risks. And he smiled.

Broadly.

“Thank you sweet Jesus.” He reached for a pile of scripts that were on the coffee table—there were six of them in the stack. “I was hoping you were going to say that,” he told Robin as he handed him the scripts. “I think it’s time, too. In fact, I’ve thought that for a while. I’ve been working the writing room’s balls off, so as not to recycle story lines. But this …” He tapped the scripts. “This is all me.”

Robin laughed as he realized that Art himself had already written the end of the series. He was now holding the dramatic and no-doubt thrilling conclusion of
Shadowland
in his hands. And he wanted to flip to the last page of the last script, to see …

“No, you don’t kill yourself,” Art told him. “Jesus, did you really think I’d do that to Joey?”

“Yes,” Robin said, and Art laughed.

“Yeah, I thought about it,” he said. “But he’d never pull the trigger. He’d be too afraid of surviving with massive brain damage.”

“Part of me can’t believe I’m doing this,” Robin admitted. “Working with you has been an amazing—”

“Why do you think I picked you?” Art interrupted him and then answered his own question. “Because you’re one of a very short list of quality actors who is truly fearless. Because you aren’t afraid to take risks, whether it’s to come out to the world by kissing your boyfriend when you goddamn know you’re being filmed by a news camera—or to know when a show like
Shadowland
has run its course.”

“It’s not just about
Shadowland
,” Robin felt compelled to admit. “It’s about playing Joe and—”

“It’s killing you,” Art said. “I know. I’ve been watching. You need to do something lighter for a while. A six-week guest spot on
30 Rock
.” He reached for his phone. “I’ll call Tina.”

Robin laughed. “Wow. Thanks, but after we finish here, I’m taking a long vacation. And then Jules and I are going to L.A. for a while.”

“
The Office
, then,” Art said. “I’ll call Ricky. But tomorrow. He’s in London and I learned the hard way not to wake him up.” He stood up. “Go home and read those scripts. And get me your notes ASAP. If you have notes. For an A-lister asshole, you don’t give very many notes.”

Robin stood, too. “I don’t see the point in changing perfection.”

Art grabbed him and kissed him noisily on the cheek as he laughed. “You’ll work with me again,” he said as he opened the door and held it for Robin. “You fucking better.”

From
Shadowland
, Episode 63, “Trouble in Paradise”

Starring Robin Chadwick Cassidy as Joe Laughlin

Los Angeles, present day

I fucking hate L.A. And I’d been prepared to hate the filming of
Awaken the Dawn
, but playing the bastard son of some stupid British duke has been surprisingly un-awful. Or maybe it’s working with Irene that’s been … different
.

What’s not different is our time off-set, attending parties, having lunch, being seen. It’s relentless and soul-crushing and I’m about to go mad
.

Or maybe my current madness comes from the fact that I haven’t had a drink or popped a pick-me-up since our wedding day. Maybe that’s what’s making me feel on edge
.

Irene catches her lush lower lip between her perfect teeth as she ponders the choices on the menu, as if she’s going to order something other than romaine lettuce, dry, with some plain grilled chicken, no butter, no oil, lemon on the side.

She catches me watching her and smiles. “What are you having?”

“A burger,” I say. I want a beer, but I don’t order it. “With fries.”

“I hate you.”

“I know.”

But she doesn’t hate me. Although Billy does. He hasn’t spoken to me for weeks. Not since the night we got back from Vegas. I can still see the hurt in his
eyes—
You’re a fucking asshole, Laughlin
—as he moved his shit out of my place and into his truck
.

“Excuse me.” The voice is familiar, and I’m too stunned to move as Irene turns and smiles kindly up at the man who has approached our table.

“I’m so sorry,” she says, and she manages to sound truly apologetic, “but we’re having lunch. After we’re done, if you’re still here, Joe’ll sign an autograph for you.”

“No,” I say, the word squeezing out through a throat that’s too tight.

Irene looks at me in wide-eyed surprise, thinking I’m saying,
No, I won’t sign autographs after lunch
. But that’s not what I mean.

Uttering that
no
has released me from my odd paralysis, and I manage to look up and into Tommy’s brown eyes. His dark hair is shorter, and his face is a few years older but he’s more handsome than ever, if that’s possible.

He looks good. He’s in shape, the polo shirt he’s wearing hugs his chest, and his jeans fit … nicely. “He’s …” What? “An old friend,” I tell her.

But he corrects me. “A former friend. And I’m sorry, it’s Irene, right?”