He’d forgotten. He hadn’t remembered. Colby had some sort of secret—
Something that wasn’t bad, Colby’d said. That comment felt so long ago. Eons. Eras. Geological time.
Colby’d said it was nothing to do with their relationship, or not exactly. Something Jillian knew, but no one else.
Something, from the phrasing, that Colby thought Jason might need to know.
Need?
Colby wasn’t secretly ill—that was Will Crawford, that was a movie-role character—and Colby had meant to tell him earlier, so it couldn’t be injury-related. But what if there’d been some sort of older trauma? Some harm caused by one of those ex-boyfriends, the last in particular? Something they’d aggravated, doing what they’d been doing together?
Had Colby not liked what they’d been doing? But—not bad—
Jason couldn’t fathom an answer. Couldn’t begin to reach for one.
He stumbled over, “Yeah…you said…”
“You remember the day I did some, ah, dialogue polishing, on set…”
Jason, now snarled hopelessly in cobwebs of confusion, could only nod.
“It’s, er, not the first time.” Colby bit that lip again, cheeks pink but eyes brimming over with anticipation. He’d said he wanted to say this; he looked as if he did, nervous but eager. “I—I do write. I have done for years. Not continuously, not even original screenplays, but—oh, drat, I’m telling this all wrong. I’ve, er, essentially played Hollywood script doctor for quite some time? Most of Jill’s films? A few of her friends? Uncredited, obviously.”
He paused as if expecting Jason to ask a question. Jason’s brain was busy spinning in place, in shocked bewildered snarls of yarn.
That made sense. That made perfectfucking sense. Colby knew about good writing. Colby knew about timing and story beats and dialogue rhythm. Of course Colby was an author.
But—uncredited? No one knew? Hollywood was full of open secrets; everybody knew everyone else’s business…
Why keep it a secret? If that included most of Jillian Poe’s films, that should’ve meant awards, critical praise, skills in demand. Conversations and recommendations. Colby’s name floating around.
“Jillian tells people she has someone,” Colby went on, enthusiasm noticeably fading in the face of Jason’s dumbfounded non-reaction, “but she’s never said it’s me. I’ve asked her not to. I don’t do much really, just tidying up, polishing…it’s always someone else’s project, in the end, not mine, I know. I know it’s silly that I’m even a little proud when I hear my lines being delivered, up on screen, in a theater. I shouldn’t be, it’s not much, I only…I thought perhaps you’d think it was something…I don’t know.”
“Most of Jill’s films,” Jason said. The words emerged like quicksand, tugging at his heart. “Like…Local News. Like…the Golden Globe winnerfor comedy…Local News. And Romeo and Jules—”
Which had been Academy Award nominated. Screenplay, as well as actors and costume design. They’d won for the costumes.
And Colby’d written it, at least the version that’d made it to the screen. That everyone’d loved.
“Er,” Colby said. “Yes.”
“This film,” Jason said. “Steadfast.”
“Yes…”
“You’ve been working on it all along.”
“Yes?” Colby nibbled at his lip more. The spot was turning pinker. “I did mean to tell you sooner. It’s just I’ve never told anyone, and I wasn’t sure how to go about it, and then I wanted to check with Jill, and then I wasn’t sure it would be all that interesting in any case…but I thought you might like knowing…we both like stories…”
“You’ve worked on my scenes,” Jason said. “You’ve written my dialogue. You’ve listened to me complain about lines. You—you know I would’ve wanted to know. We could’ve talked about it. Not like—like…”
He wanted to be jumping up and down and praising Colby nonstop. He wanted to love the fact that Colby was this good, had shared this secret with him, had sparkled at him and been excited to tell him.
And he did love it, he was feeling all that, Colby was even more amazing than he’d known—
But—
He hurt, too. Because Colby had never said anything. Had sat there and listened to him, had handed him new pages and pretended they’d come from Ben the original scriptwriter, a lie of omission if not outright—
Colby had talked about books and stories and characters with him, more than once; Colby had run lines with him, and had—
What? Assumed Jason was too big and dumb to care about the craft of writing? Thought that Jason’s muscles would break a promise and blurt out a secret? Trusted Jason with every piece of himself except one?
He took a step back.
Colby blinked at him, sock-footed and off-balance. The rain let up, a portent. Colby remained dressed—they both did—with his black jacket open but unremoved, because Jason’d been planning to help with that too. It was the same stylish leather one he’d thrown on over Jason’s shirt, once before.