Free Afterthoughts: A Charity McAdams Novella (The Charity McAdams Novellas) by Elizabeth Storme

waiting for me at the end of the street. I approach slowly, trying to figure out what to say. When I reach him he doesn’t look angry anymore, he looks sad, which just makes me feel worse.
    “Brandon, I’m sorry about that,” I start. “I panicked.”
    “ It’s fine, I get it,” he says, without looking at me.
    I know I have probably ruined any hope of a normal night, and to think I was doing this to help cheer him up after hearing out about his mom, ugh.
    “Do you still want to do dinner?” I ask, hoping he will say yes.
    “S ure. Which way to your house?”
    I lead the way and we walk in silence. We get to my house and I let us in. He settles onto the couch and turns on the TV while I go up to my bedroom to s hower and change my clothes.
    I can’t help but replay our make-out session in my mind as I get ready. I have no idea where any of this is going but I do know that I am in way over my head.
     
    Half an hour later I head back downsta irs, feeling much more human, having showered, put on clean clothes, and reapplied a little make-up.
    Brandon turns his head to look back at me as I round the couch. “Feel better?” He asks.
    I nod. “Yes, quite refreshing to be duck-poo free,” I joke.
    He laughs. “Good. So, whatcha got for dinner?”
    “Good question,” I answer, mentally rummaging through my cupboards and fridge to think of something. “I could make spaghetti,” I offer with a laugh.
    “I thought you were trying to save me from a spaghetti dinner. I could have gone to Little Ricky’s,” he teases.
    “Well you could have, but then it wouldn’t be my special recipe! The secret is in the sauce,” I say with a wink.
    Brandon laughs again. “Ricky is a fourth generation Italian chef, I’m pretty sure he knows how to make spaghetti sauce!”
    “True.” I bite my lip, trying to think of another idea. Unfortunately, in all the chaos of the past few days, I haven’t had time to go grocery shopping. I eat a lot of meals at the café and so I rarely keep much around the house in the first place, but right now, my cupboards are especially lean. “We could order Chinese?”
    “No, no, I wanna try some of this secret sauce,” he says, pulling me up from the couch. “Let’s get cooking.”
    I smile and lead the way to the kitchen. It’s a small, galley style kitchen with a breakfast nook attached. Not a lot of room for two cooks but we dive in anyways.
    He helps me cook the meal and we talk about random things, mostly about his movie roles and the places he has travelled over the past few years. It all sounds exciting to me, but there is a slight dullness to his voice that I wasn’t expecting. Acting had always been his passion and yet the way he talks about it makes it feel like he is describing another day at the office.
    “I’ve never actually seen one of your movies,” I confess at one point in the conversation.
    “I didn’t figure you had,” he replies. He turns to look at me but keeps one hand stirring the ground turkey that is browning on the stove.
    “I am happy for you, and the life you have built,” I offer, sincerely. “I hope you know that. I am proud that you were able to reach your goals and be so successful.”
    He nods and glances back at the stove. “You’d be surprised at how little it all means.”
    “How little what me ans?” I say, suddenly confused.
    “The fame, recognition, money, it’s all kinda pointless,” he explains. “I mean, it’s nice to do what you love and I do love acting, but it also makes you feel alone and isolated. No one understands what you do and you’re constantly being watched and harassed. The actual job is a blast but the lifestyle kinda blows. Everyone cheers for you but really they’re just waiting for you to stumble so they can gossip about you and stab you in the back to get ahead in their own career.”
    “That sounds awful,” I say, sadly.
    “That’s just my take, my experience. I’m sure not everyone feels that way. I