Spectacular

Chapter 1

Chapter 1“Mom…” Standing in sunshine, next to the large windows of an upper-floor Raven Studios hallway, Jason Kent-Mirelli ran a hand through his hair. Tried to breathe. He was an actor. He could manage that. “Why didn’t you call me earlier? Is Dad okay? What happened?”

“He’s doing fine, it’ll be a quick procedure, they said—”

“Mom, he’s getting a hip replaced! Tomorrow!”

“Well, we knew you and Colby were busy with the new project and meetings and all. We didn’t want to interrupt.” Donatella Mirelli’s voice managed to gently pat her son on the shoulder, being patient with him. “I’ve texted your sister too, but she shouldn’t worry, she’s in the middle of bar exam prep. And you shouldn’t worry either. This is routine.”

“Maybe it is if you’re not Dad!” Jason glared at the sunlight. It seared his eyes. Too hot. Like his shirt, suddenly: long sleeves that he wanted to shove up. So he could get to work. “Of course we’ll come over. Tonight?”

“Only if you’d like to,” his mother said, far too calmly for Jason’s peace of mind. “I’ve taken a few days off at the restaurant, and your Aunt Coco will be coming by, too. We just wanted to let you know.”

Jason pressed fingertips to the spot between his eyes. Exhaled. “Mom, you know I want to be there.” He did. Of course he did.

The sunshine burned at the nape of his neck, when he turned away from it. The hallway was deserted otherwise, as it had been when he’d gotten the text and instantly ducked out of the meeting room to call back.

The world lay blank and pale, suspended behind the scenes of a Hollywood studio building. Hushed. Empty.

Except it wasn’t empty. Because when he looked up he found blue eyes and long legs and slim wavy-haired concern, and all of that became his anchor, his fixed point, his answer. Colby, having just come around the corner, stayed quiet but crossed to Jason’s side and set a hand on Jason’s arm: here with him.

“We’ll come over,” Jason said. “We’ll help with getting the house clean and set up, find the old wheelchair if he needs it—we can do some cooking, so you don’t have to bother—”

His father would be fine. Probably. Theoretically. People got hips replaced every day.

Most of those people weren’t Luca Mirelli, one-time best stunt driver in the movie business, until that on-set crash had left him with a limp and a lot of scars, metal and pins and bolts and replacement joints, holding pieces together to heal. Jason’s father, being Jason’s father, had philosophically accepted that accidents happened, and he was still alive, and anyway he loved his profession and the long Mirelli family legacy of stunt work and movie magic, from dusty historical spaghetti westerns and gladiators to modern-day glittering blockbusters, on the ground and making them all possible. He’d started training other drivers—and sometimes actors who needed to know the basics, including his own son plus a few of the ever-increasing horde of cousins—instead.

Safer, these days. Instructing, consulting, advising. But more safe didn’t mean perfectly so.

Colby’s hand tightened a fraction on Jason’s arm. Colby adored Jason’s parents, and they adored him right back. They’d scooped him right up into the family, a big exuberant Italian-American hug, even before award-winning adorable romantic-comedy movie star Colby Kent had officially become their son-in-law.

Colby had, Jason knew, been hesitant but happy: shy, in the way of someone who’d never known that parents could love without conditions, without critique or neglect. Tentative, because Colby had a lot of bad memories associated with touch. But willing to try, softly bright-eyed when Luca called him son, and excited to explore variations of homemade pesto with Jason’s mother.

Who announced now, on the phone, “Well, your father says you don’t have to come if you’re busy, but he might like to see you, at least when he gets home,” while the father in question shouted, from a distance, “Don’t let your mother make you feel guilty! I’m fine!”

“No you’re not!” Jason retorted. “You’re getting a new hip! Again!”

“It’s only a hip, I can live without it!”

“The point is you don’t have to!”

“Your father,” Donatella sighed, over a continuing background grumble about everyone fussing too much. “So, Jason, yes, come if you would like, but only because you would like, and only if it’s no trouble, understand? I mean it.”

“Right,” Jason said, planning the fastest drive, overnight packing, some sort of quick pasta dish, hand-grips and anti-slip precautions for around the parental house, a call to his father’s usual physical therapist. “We’ll be over later this afternoon, we’re about done here anyway.”

They weren’t. But they could be. Colby nodded.

“Let me know when you’re heading over,” his mother agreed, “and the two of you be careful, too, and don’t drive too fast, Jason Lorenzo.”

“Who, me?”

Both his mother and Colby got very amused; Donatella said, “We love you both, we’ll see you later, go on,” and said good-bye, and went to deal with Jason’s father or surgery preparations or taking-a-day-off restaurant requirements or all of the above.

Jason breathed out, slowly. Sunlight hit his shoulder like a punch of gold. The air tasted simple, clean, lightly cold because the air conditioning was on in the building.

Colby’s hand was warm on his arm. Jason put his own atop it.

Colby said, “I can pop back in and tell Jillian we’re done for today. We are, in any case; it’s gone well.” It had. The script—one of Colby’s, of course—was a delight, a sparkling clever old-fashioned murder mystery at a family mansion. The characters were multilayered, individual, memorable; the lines were memorable too, wry and funny and pointed. Jason had not been a producer on a film before, not involved in those initial decision-making processes; Colby had been, more than once, and was a helpful guide to everything Jason didn’t know, as usual.

They’d been going over notes on Colby’s script. Planning the production timeline. Looking at locations. Tossing around a few names that Amanda, Jill’s usual casting director, had suggested. One or two had been a surprise; Jason’d had the vague impression that Finn Ransom had mostly retired from acting after some sort of injury, or at least was very selective about roles these days. But Colby had loved that idea, because evidently younger Colby had been a fan of pretty-boy bisexual teen idols with their own sitcoms, and surfboards, and ridiculous floppy blond hair.

That was unfair. Finn was a gifted actor, and Jason knew it; he’d seen Last Knight and League of Tomorrow, like everyone else on the planet. He still didn’t like Finn’s hair.

Right now the hair and the casting suggestions and Colby’s script didn’t matter. Or at least could wait. Anyway, Colby was here with him. Hand in Jason’s, in a hallway, in sunshine.

Colby said this time, “How can I help? I imagine you’ve got a list of what needs to be done, so just tell me, whatever you need.” His voice was expressive as ever, lyrical and storied, a palimpsest of all the places he’d lived, growing up. His eyes were concerned, wide as the sky, watching Jason with love. “I don’t want to interfere, because of course your family knows best, but if it would help, I could make some calls, or offer whatever assistance might be most useful? Or simply do some baking?”

“Definitely baking.” He gathered Colby’s hand into his, brought it to his lips, brushed a kiss across those helpful fingers. “I think we’ve got everything he’ll need—not like we haven’t done this before—but I want to make sure the house is clean, and they’ve got food so Mom doesn’t have to cook, and nobody’s bothering Dad about that heist movie that wanted him to teach movie stars about synchronized drifting….do we have ziti? Or some sort of pasta, at least?”

“If we don’t I can make some. But I think so.”

“Love you. I’ll give Uncle Frankie a call about the heist movie—maybe he can step in—oh, s**t, no, he’s busy with that superhero thing, he’s doing all the car chases, but maybe if I call him, he’ll know someone—”

“Not from the bike,” Colby said. “Wait until we get home. I’ll just tell Jill we’re fine but heading out, and she can check in with me later about the script revisions and clarifying those flashback moments.”

Jason winced. “You wanted to do some work, tomorrow…”

“I still can. From your parents’ house. Or the hospital.”

“You…” Jason paused to look at him. Colby looked back: beautiful and generous and unwavering, at his side, on his side. Wearing blue, today: several shades of blue, in tidy pants and lighter shirt and striped cardigan. The cardigan had tiny rainbows for buttons: unobtrusive, colorful, visible. “Will you be okay?”

“I’m fine,” Colby said. “Worried about your family. Should we go? At least the motorcycle will be faster than a car, at this time of day.” He did not flinch from Jason’s gaze, saying it.

Jason agreed about the bike—he knew Colby liked the feel of it, the rumble and purr, Jason’s control of speed and power—but mentally added another item to the list of concerns. Colby was being truthful, and did adore Jason’s family, and these days was mostly okay with large crowds and chaos and noisy exuberant bodies.

Mostly. Jason’s family had a lot of exuberance to spare.

Colby added, “I’ll go and hide in your old bedroom if I need a bit of space,” which was practical and meant that Colby had thought about it too. “Your father likes my browned butter and rum cake. I can make miniature versions; they’ll bake faster. Do you want to stay over, or come home? Whichever’s easiest; I can throw things into an overnight bag.”

Of course he would. Just like that. Messily, too, because while they were both decent at living out of suitcases—part of the job—Colby tended to pack for travel using the shove scarves and boots in until they fit someplace method, versus Jason’s tidy compartments and checklists. Jason said, swinging Colby’s hand lightly in his, holding on, “You’re perfect.”

His husband’s cheeks went pink, because genuine compliments still caused that response. “Oh no. Was that a yes? Will you feel better if we’re there all night?”

The honest answer was yes, but Colby wouldn’t. “Um…I mean, we live twenty minutes away. We can go home.”

Colby looked at him for a second, and said gently, “Perhaps we should bring some things, just to be prepared, and see what your mother would prefer?”

“Oh,” Jason said. “Right. Yeah. We can do that.” And he held Colby’s hand, while they went back down the hall, while Colby put his head in the door to explain to Jill that they had a bit of a family emergency, everything was fine, but they did need to go, and tomorrow’s lunch plans could be rescheduled, and he’d work on revisions and they’d talk later.

Jason loved that his husband was good at talking. He wasn’t, though he tried, and he thought he did okay. Not eloquent, but okay.

Colby always loyally said he was just right, in the right moments, coming up with the right words when it truly mattered. Jason liked to think that might be true. It didn’t change the fact that Colby was indisputably better at chatter with a purpose, deliberate direction or quicksilver diversion or real raw truth under flowing airy storybook-accented words.

Jill nodded, told them she hoped everything went well, and instructed them to call her if they needed anything. Colby agreed, and steered Jason off toward the stairs and the parking lot and the waiting motorcycle, out in sunshine, into a world blue and gold and merciless and spinning with plates to juggle, literally in the case of the pasta. Waiting for him to take the next step and the next, to handle it all.