Public Relations

Chapter 4: Mia

That was fuckin' weird.

I push it to the far corners of my mind for my drive home - nothing is getting between me and my true crime podcasts right now. But then I'm in the parking garage of my apartment complex, my car still running, both hands 10 and 2 on the wheel, and it's not computing.

What was that entire interaction?

No part of me believes that he was worried about answering interview questions; if he was, we could've arranged a Zoom call for that. 

The next best theory is just that he's lonely. He's used to posting content 3-5 times a day, or going live, or responding to comments. Taking that away rids him of so much of the social interaction he gets from work. It isolates him.

"We are entitled to need people and not say why," I remind myself under my breath. "Go get your dinner."

According to Sean, he hadn't eaten yet when I texted him right after leaving Brett's house and he promised to wait.

I don't bother heading to my place first; even though it's across the hall, I don't have the energy to stop in, change clothes, and leave again. Knowing me, I'd plop down on the couch and lose the motivation to get up again. It would be another dinner of microwaved soup and crackers, or a thirty dollar meal delivery.

I let Sean know I'm walking up so he can unlock the door. I peep my head inside, welcomed by the smell of garlic and baked fish. It's a few degrees warmer in here, evidence of how much time he's spent in the kitchen. He's hovering dutifully over a sheet pan of potatoes and asparagus.

I reach to the right as I drop off my bag and flick the light switch once, twice. Sean looks up at me.

His face lights up when he sees me walk in, his features cracking into a beautiful display of delight. I find myself mirroring his expression, waiting dumbly by the door while he washes his hands. He crosses the distance between us in three easy strides and wraps me into a hug.

I melt into the warmth of him, the coziness of it. His hands settle at the nape of my neck and he smooths my hair down, comforting, holding me. A kiss is pressed to my forehead before he pulls away.

Fish okay? 

I flash him two thumbs up, then a chef's kiss. Perfect.

He strolls back to the counter where he's seasoning his sides, completely focused on the cooking. I make my way over to his bar stools and take a seat where I can admire him while he works. I try not to think about how similar the position is to being at Brett's house.

Sean's home is messier than usual, and the baseline is pretty messy. Pots are stacked in the sink, papers scattered across his tiny table in the corner. Blankets are strewn across the back of the couch and the arm chairs, pillows are arranged in various corners where he's probably sat down for a break. The cat's toys litter the floor, bells and strings and catnip balls. 

He turns to face me, his grin still reaching his eyes. I had an audition today. It went really well.

I raise my eyebrows and cock my head. Really? Tell me more.

Sean has been an aspiring actor since we met two years ago, when we were both fresh from school and living in apartments that sapped up every dime we had. I'd moved in a couple months before him, having secured the PR job over the summer. He followed suit later that fall, coming in as a dream of a man with hair the color of rust and a heart too pure for LA. Acting, he'd told me, was his passion, especially now that they were making space for the Deaf community. 

He'd landed several gigs since we met, too. The demand for sexy, Deaf men isn't extremely high, but the supply is pretty limited. He's talented and he's hot, and he signs fluently - exclusively, really. It's all they need to drool over him. I'm confident in his ability to take hold of this niche, to succeed in it and maybe even branch out into general Hollywood.