Date: Sat, 12 May 2018 22:24:34 -0700
From: christopher <breakingthroughstory@gmail.com>
Subject: Breaking Through 20

A very big thank you to all of the readers who have taken the time to send
kind messages for the story. I very much appreciate it. Please send any
feedback, complaints, and correspondence to breakingthroughstory@gmail.com.

The usual disclaimers apply. This is fiction.

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Chapter 20

Armie stepped back to admire his handiwork. Chris' office -- their office,
really, though Armie did most of his work while pacing the kitchen or
sitting at the dining room table -- was usually free of clutter, but there
was no point in hiding the slew of awards he'd earned for "American Made."
Man Booker Prize. National Book Critics Circle. Both the "Los Angeles
Times" and "New York Times" Awards. It was rare for one book to sweep so
many different honors, but Chris managed. Armie had put the newest trophy,
the National Book Award, up on the shelf with the others. They weren't even
his, but he beamed.

They'd been in the new house for a month now. Armie convinced Chris that a
little more space couldn't hurt and though he was proud of the fact that
he'd bought his glass house by himself, there was no shame in selling it at
a profit to get something bigger. When a bigger house, something more
traditional with a touch of Spanish architecture that was just down the
canal came up, Nick had gotten their offer in before the house even got
listed. It wasn't huge, nothing like Armie's Castle in the hills, but it
had a garage, a spare bedroom, and was situated on a corner, giving them
canal views on two sides of the house. He'd get Employee of the Month for
sure with the price they paid, but it was something they could call theirs,
not Chris' and not Armie's.

"It's hot out there," Chris said from downstairs. Armie didn't even have to
go downstairs to know that Chris would be rummaging in the kitchen after
his run, but he made his way down to confirm it. Chris, glistening with
sweat, had already managed to get coffee prepped and a bagel in the
toaster.

"We're going to watch the final cut today," Armie said, leaning against the
kitchen island. "Do you have time?"

"Yeah," Chris said, not looking up from the grinding, pouring and
waiting. When he was satisfied with how things looked, he finally turned to
face Armie. "That was really fast."

 "We finished shooting the whole thing in three weeks," Armie said. "HBO
doesn't play around."

"Guess not. I have a phone call about the movie rights to the book and then
I'm free."

"Who did you end up picking?"

"Nobody," Chris said. "I don't think this one will make a good movie."

"Nobody is going to pay you to not make a movie," Armie said. "You're not
making sense."

"It's just a phone call," Chris said. "Maybe someone will figure something
out." He handed Armie his mug and leaned over to give him a kiss on the
cheek. "David says it's about optics. I need someone to buy it so that I
still look like I'm a big deal."

"I get that," Armie said. "But I don't get why you don't think it can be a
movie. If you write it, it'll be what you want."

"I'm not going to write it," Chris said. "It means too much to me to even
try."

Armie took a long, slow sip of his coffee. They'd talked about it time and
time again, but Chris' stubborn streak was showing with this. "Did you
pack?"

"I have clothes up there."

"Whatever you say," Armie said. He knew better. He'd already packed a few
of Chris' most-worn things in an overnight bag.

"I'll get showered and we can go," Chris said. "I'll take the call while we
drive."

"Are you sure? You want me eavesdropping?"

Chris raised an eyebrow. "What sort of secrets would I be keeping about
work? You know everything about me."

"Just wanted to make sure," Armie said.

Chris practically inhaled his bagel and bounded upstairs, showing an
uncharacteristic burst of energy for the early hour. Armie was more
accustomed to him being a little more low-key, but since they'd gotten back
from their month on the island, Chris seemed like a ball of energy. While
Armie worked on his movie, basically spending every waking hour on set in
the San Fernando Valley, Chris tried his best to let ideas marinade and
form before jumping into another project. He'd hammered out a script that
HBO liked enough to green light, proving to himself that he still had some
mojo in the movie business.

"I'll be quick," Chris said from the shower. Armie had followed him up,
making sure he'd gathered up everything they needed. "I'm excited to see it
all done."

"It's good," Armie said. "Way different from watching the dailies."

"I'm sure," Chris said, his voice muffled by the shower. Armie paced the
bedroom, but there was nothing else he could think of bringing. "Is my
Kindle charged?" Chris asked as he dried himself off.

"Yes," Armie said. "Everything is ready."

"You're the best," Chris said, kissing him quickly. "I mean that."

Armie grinned and ran his hand over Chris' cheek. "I couldn't have done
this without you."

"You did," Chris said, making his way to the closet. "I was hardly ever on
set."

"You know what I mean," Armie said. "You always have to kill the
sentiment."

"That's what I'm here for," Chris said. He'd gotten half-dressed, rifling
through his closet looking for his favorite grey T-shirt, but coming up
short. He pulled on a different one and stepped back out to the
bedroom. "Okay. It's time for you to blow me away with this movie."

The ocean on their left, Chris did his best to stay awake as they made
their way up the coast. Armie focused on the road, but his mind was still
going over the movie again and again. What would he change, what could he
change? He tried bouncing ideas off of Chris, but he had been going through
the same thing. He wrote the script in record time, with an ongoing back
and forth with Armie. It wasn't Chris' favorite way to work, but he
managed. With both of them involved, there was no real way to get an
objective opinion. What they both knew, though, was that it was
good. Really good.

"I forgot how cute these little towns are," Armie said. They'd only gone up
to Santa Barbara together one time before. It wasn't familiar to Armie yet,
though he hoped it would be eventually.

"Yeah, it's Summerland, but not like the Michael Chabon novel. That was
different."

"Those houses are right on the beach," Armie said.

"I used to ride my bike down to Summerland," Chris said. "My friends and I
would go to Montecito down to Summerland and go back home. It would take
most of the day."

It was rare for Chris to talk about his childhood. It usually only happened
when they were traveling, Army noticed. Even when he'd bring up his own
stories about growing up, Chris wouldn't really share. When he did, it
always caught Armie off guard, like he was getting a glimpse into something
very secret, almost sacred. Armie had always known that he'd have to give
Chris time to open up. He just never knew how long it would take. They had
a lifetime together, so he wasn't worried.

"We had these big, heavy beach cruisers," Chris continued. "It wasn't the
best idea, but there's just something about being on a bike with the ocean
air. It's so freeing."

"Did you do it a lot?"

"A few times," Chris said, his eyes still fixed on the coastline. The first
time Armie went up to the house, he had a million questions. It was akin to
walking into Chris' past, only without a narrator. He held back, only
asking a few, choosing instead to bask in it all and try to soak up the
history as best he could on his own. Now, it wasn't a stretch to consider
it their house. Something they shared, even though Armie was still treading
on foreign soil.

"More than a few times," Chris said. "I had a lot of free time in the
summer."

When the Tesla pulled up to the cottage, Armie surveyed the
neighborhood. In the golden afternoon sunlight, it looked almost
unreal. Perfectly manicured lawns and old trees stood alongside the
perfectly preserved houses. The trees that lined the neighborhood were so
old that their branches almost touched each other over the street. Chris
had said that in the spring, the jacarandas bloomed, filling their branches
with tiny trumpet-shaped purple flowers. After a few weeks, the blossoms
would fall to the sidewalk and offer up a satisfying crunchy squeak with
every step. Seaside Santa Barbara was a far, far cry from the modern houses
on the canals, where the newly built homes were made to look old stood with
dilapidated beach houses, their original hippie owners fighting the
establishment by letting their houses stand alongside the new arrivals.

"Should I carry you over the threshold?" Armie joked as they approached the
front door.

"Very funny," Chris said as he unlocked the door. The familiar creak
brought a soft smile to his face and as the same furniture he grew up with
greeted him -- Jake had only added a few pieces here and there -- he felt
warmth spread over his body. This was home, even though he'd called so many
other places by the same name. They walked past the dusty furniture and
into the kitchen, where Chris opened the window and did the same to the
back door, hoping to get some fresh air into the old house. Armie noticed
Chris walking through the house with a quiet confidence he didn't exhibit
anywhere else. He knew where everything was, from the huge pieces of
furniture to the light switches.

"Okay. You do what you need to do," Chris said when they both arrived in
the kitchen.

"I'm not ready for that just yet," Armie said. He leaned back against the
countertop after plugging in the refrigerator, the gently hum the only
sound in the quiet house. The kitchen was the only place that showed real
signs of renovation. It was all Jake's doing, Chris had said during a rare
mention of his ex. They'd needed a place to cook, after all, and appliances
from the '60s weren't going to cut it. "You stay here. I'm going to get
some groceries. I don't want to sit down to the final edits and have to
leave again."

"Whatever you say," Chris said. They were there for Armie to make any
last-minute changes to the movie without any interruptions. Chris had
tossed out the idea of coming to the house and Armie immediately agreed,
eager to get some of the creativity that hit Chris every time he went
up. "I'll wash the sheets and clean up," he continued. "Sorry, I should get
drop cloths or something for next time."

"I won't be long," Armie said, kissing Chris on the cheek. Chris turned to
look out the kitchen window, with its view of the Pacific and the
eucalyptus trees in the backyard. It was, Chris noticed, the same scent of
the canals. He wondered if he'd been drawn to Venice Beach for that very
reason. Chris made his way through the house, wiping the dust off the sofa,
tossing the bed sheets into the washing machine, and making sure that
everything was in working order. He had hired someone to look after the
house, but the caretaker probably didn't do much cleaning.

A simple bookshelf had all of his books on it, in both hardcover and
paperback editions. He had a new copy of "American Made" in his backpack,
ready to sit next to its siblings. Chris had removed all evidence of Jake
after the divorce. The photos were tucked away in a box, along with
knickknacks they'd picked up in town. Jake's road bike was probably still
back in the detached garage, though. He told Chris that he'd come get it,
but he was certain it never actually happened. There was no trace of Armie
in the house at all, but there'd be time for that.

Chris made his way to the backyard, where there were two old wooden patio
chairs set up around a tiny table. Sitting down, he closed his eyes and let
himself take a few deep breaths. He felt so removed from reality, even
though they were really just two hours from Los Angeles. It was an escape
in every sense. It was almost enough to make him completely forget about
all the bad things that had happened up here, too.

The buzz of the washing machine got him up out of the chair and back into
the house, but not before he pulled the cover off of the barbecue and made
sure everything was still in working order. He knew without asking exactly
what Armie would be bringing back to eat. Without a fully stocked fridge,
it would be steaks for dinner.

Just as Chris started the dryer, he heard the front door open and
shut. Like it had been growing up, the front door stayed unlocked until
bedtime. "The place looks great," Armie said as he unpacked everything. "I
forgot how cute it is."

"We should come up more often," Chris said. "It's here for us."

"Yeah, I always forget," Armie said. "It's quicker than a flight to the
Caribbean. And Texas."

"I think the movie is great," Chris said. "Really good. There's a lot to be
happy about. Try not to focus on the tiny things, okay?"

"I know. I'll try," Armie said, lifting Chris' hand to his lips. He kissed
the knuckles softly, barely grazing skin, his eyes, half-closed, looking
into Chris'.

Chris unpacked the rest of the groceries, letting Armie settle in with his
computer open on the tiny dining room table. He went out back, getting
everything set with the barbecue so that Armie could cook when he was
ready. By the time the fire had blazed and settled down, Chris saw Armie
inside, headphones on his ears and a look of deep concentration on his
face. He was scribbling in a notebook, his eyes darting around wildly as he
surveyed everything that was happening on his screen.

"I need you to do me a favor," Chris said into his phone, his eyes still
locked on Armie.

"Anything."

"Jake, buy my movie rights. Don't let anyone make it. It means too much to
me." With his past record the way it was, everyone expected an announcement
about a movie right after any news of a book. Chris didn't even have to
tell David, because everyone automatically assumed that there'd be an
adaptation. This time around, however, Chris wasn't as enthusiastic. With
something so personal, he couldn't think of any way to translate it from
the page to the screen.

"I'm not really budgeted for that right now, Chris. I wish I could help
you."

Chris sighed. After a pause, he finally said what he'd practiced over and
over in his mind: "A dollar. I'll give it to you for a dollar."

"You're being ridiculous. I love the book, but you're not thinking this
through," Jake said. Chris had sold the rights to one of his books for
seven figures. The idea that he'd do it for a dollar wasn't just absurd, if
anyone read about it, they wouldn't believe it.

"I've thought about it. My agent says I need to sell it, but nobody needs
to know for how much and nobody will care that it doesn't ever
happen. They'll forget all about it. David just needs to put out an
announcement."

"I can call my lawyer," Jake said, his voice low and quiet. "I'll get a
contract written up if that's really what you want."

"I'll tell David it's happening."

"I don't really understand, but I know better than to say no to you."

"I'm making sure nobody can do it," Chris said. "Including me. I want
people to experience this book, not watch it. You know exactly what I
mean."

"Okay, if that's what you want."

"Thank you," Chris said, leaning against the house. He didn't know what
else to say. Small talk seemed ridiculous at this point and there wasn't
anything else he could think to bring up. "Email me everything. I'll take
care of everything on my end."

"I'll talk to you later," Jake said. "The girls miss you. Let's all get
together."

"Yeah," Chris said, even though he knew it probably wouldn't happen until
the holidays, if at all. "Let me know." After he hung up, he quietly
slipped back into the house, hoping not to interrupt Armie. Seeing him
still hard at work on his computer, Chris tended to the laundry and
straitening up everything in the bedroom. Jake's help brought a wave of
relief and Chris could turn his focus to helping Armie with whatever he
needed. So much attention had been about his book and their quickie
wedding, Chris felt that it was about time for his focus to shift to Armie
and the movie's final cut.

"I've seen it so many times, I don't know if I'm just overanalyzing it,"
Armie said as he watched the two steaks sear on the grill. He knew better
than to touch them, but his nervous energy was begging him to flip and flop
the two pieces of meat. He held back. By the time the coals had turned
white and ashy, glowing with red embers, Armie had watched half the
movie. He took a break to cook, but he couldn't get it off his mind.

"That's exactly what you're doing," Chris said. "Just step back for a
little."

"It's got both our names on it," Armie said. "I don't want to let anyone
down."

"Are you happy with it right now?" Chris asked. He let Armie's comment
about both of their names slide. Armie was the one taking a bigger
risk. This was his first time directing. Chris being involved in a movie
wasn't anything new at this point. If anything, his track record proved
that it was more of a detriment. With so few bona bide hits, Chris often
wondered why anyone would want him to involved with anything at this
point. The critical clout could only go so far when he couldn't back some
of it up with legitimate success.

"Yes, of course," Armie said. He gave in and poked at one of the steaks. It
was still too soft to be medium-rare. "It's what I wanted it to be."

"Then it's done," Chris said. "You can't keep trying to tweak it. If anyone
knows about that, it's me."

"You're right." Flip. Perfect. One more minute just to get some grill marks
and they'd be ready. "You're exactly right. Can you check the ravioli?"

Chris stepped back into the house, leaving Armie to man the grill solo. At
the stove, Chris watched as the pockets of pasta boiled up and floated to
the top of the pot. Carefully fishing out each one, he plated half for
himself and the other for Armie. It was something he could handle, even
with his less-than-rudimentary skills at the stove. Baby steps had lead to
proficiency in warming up already-prepared foods. Their steaks were on the
dining room table by the time Chris turned around to check, Armie already
sitting down, eyes glued to his phone for just a second.

"Okay. I'm not going to think about it the rest of the night," Armie said,
letting out a long breath and settling in his chair.

"But that's why we came up," Chris said. "So you could think about it."

"Right. But I'm letting everything marinate right now."

Chris didn't say anything to that. Instead, he focused on the lobster
ravioli and practically drooled waiting for the steaks to rest before Armie
sliced them up. He stepped back into the kitchen to pour out two fingers of
whiskey for Armie, who took it with an appreciative smile. "How many books
did you write here?"

"A few," Chris said. "Right at this table."

"I wish we spent more time here," Armie said, looking around. "Without
having to rush back down, you know?"

"I'd like that," Chris said, watching intently as Armie stood up to cut up
their meat. The middle was still red, a stark contrast to the brown
sear. "The first time you were here, we only stopped in. We didn't even
spend the night. There's no rush this time, we can stay."

"I wish I could have met your grandparents," Armie said. It was the right
thing to say, though it was completely sincere. "Do you think they'd like
me?"

"They liked everyone," Chris said. "So, yes."

"Would they be proud of you?"

"Yes," Chris said again. "My grandma always told me that I could tell
stories better than anyone. She never discouraged me from pursuing writing,
even though I was convinced I'd be a nobody. She just wanted me to do
something I loved."

"And look at you now," Armie said.

"Sitting at the same table I was when she was still alive," Chris said,
grinning. "But I do have a very handsome husband to go with it and I have
two National Book Awards, which I'm sure she wouldn't have expected."

"Look at you, being all proud for once. I'm so used to you being humble and
unassuming."

"Grandma and grandpa would be proud is all I'm saying."

"I get it," Armie said, taking a slow sip. He reached over and touched
Chris' hand, Armie's fingertips tracing along Chris' wedding band. "I'm
also very proud of you. And I love you very much. I just wish I could enjoy
this whole thing without a huge distraction."

"We've got time," Chris said. "Trust me. There's not much to this place."

"How much of what I think I know is true?"

"Probably most of it, to be honest. And if you're with me even with all the
stuff that might not be true, then you're either crazy or I've managed to
convince you that I'm worth the trouble."

"And now we're back to self-deprecation."

Chris shrugged, smiling. "I noticed that you put a photo of us on the
bookshelf."

"What do you think?" Armie asked, arms crossed over his chest. It was a
selfie he'd taken on Grand Cayman, the two of them in a huge hammock right
on the water. It was in a simple wooden frame and sad proudly beside photos
of Chris and his grandparents.

"It really ties the room together?" Chris joked. "No, it belongs. You
belong. This is me, so this is us now."

The next morning, Armie woke up in the usual tangle of limbs. Chris was
latched onto him, their legs entwined. Chris' arm was draped over his chest
and his slow, even breathing let Armie know that he was nowhere near ready
to wake up. True to his word, Armie didn't think about the movie at
all. Instead, he occupied himself by asking a million questions about the
things he saw around the house. Every photo had a story, every piece of
furniture, too. There was a faded sticker of Wolverine from the X-Men
comics on a doorframe at about knee height. Chris said he'd stuck it on
there during one of his birthday parties as a kid and it had been there
ever since. The huge scratch in the hardwood floor? It was there as long as
Chris could remember. The creaky floorboard in the hallway? Chris stepped
over it without even thinking. Armie seemed to step straight onto it every
time, sending a loud boom echoing through the house. The whole thing was
the perfect distraction for Armie and a chance for Chris to relive parts of
his past he was sure he'd forgotten.

Armie blinked a few times, doing his best not to move at all, taking in his
surroundings in the soft glow of the morning light. After his grandparents
had passed, Chris never moved into the master bedroom. They were, in
essence, in his childhood room, minus the fact that it had been cleared out
and there was newer furniture. While grandma and grandpa's things had been
stowed away, their room was basically unchanged. Armie peeked inside the
night before to find things eerily orderly. Almost devoid of personality,
it was sterile and cold. He didn't know what else it could be or how he'd
change it, but it wasn't a place he felt comfortable entering. Armie noted
that Chris never went inside, either. The door was always half-open, as if
someone would return at any minute.

Slowly separating himself from Chris, Armie slipped out of bed, grabbing
for Chris' underwear from the day before and slipping it on before he
rubbed at his eyes. He checked his phone as he made his way to the kitchen,
making sure to step over the squeaky slat. He wondered how long it would
take him to feel at home in this house, in a place steeped in so many
memories that didn't involve him. The glass house was only just starting to
feel familiar when they packed up Chris' things. Now, they had a new place
to get used to, only they'd be doing it together.

The haze of waking up made it easy for him to ignore his laptop, but he
made a new promise not to think about his movie for the rest of the
weekend. It was done. He'd watch it through one more time just to make sure
and then give HBO the final package. After that, it would be out of his
hands and all he could do is wait. He paced around the house, looking again
at everything they'd talked about the night before, running his fingers
over the built-in bookshelf and the curiosities within.

He felt a pair of warm arms wrap around his stomach and a lazy smile spread
across his lips. Chris nuzzled at his shoulder blade, pulling their bodies
together. "Good morning," Chris said into Armie's skin. He felt Chris'
hands run down his chest and stomach, settling on his sides.

"Couldn't sleep?" Chris asked, his voice still gravely.

"Didn't want to wake you," Armie said, running his hand over Chris'. "Just
woke up early."

"You look ridiculous in my underwear," Chris said, leaving soft kisses on
Armie's spine.

Armie chuckled. "You always say that."

"Since when do you wake up at dawn?"

"This house is really special to you. How come you don't come up more?"

"It wouldn't be special if I was here all the time," Chris said. "And this
house has a lot of ghosts."

"Not actual ghosts."

"No. It's got a lot of memories. I can only take it in small doses."

Chris pulled himself away from Armie, a wave of goosebumps spilling down
his arms as the cool air hit them. Armie turned around when he felt Chris
shifting. He wrapped his arms around Chris' waist. "It's incredible seeing
it. Actually seeing it," Armie said.

"You're so sappy," Chris said, resting his head on Armie's shoulder. "But
we can stay as long as you want. Add some new memories."

Over their first pot of coffee, Chris explained how the kitchen had gone
from a retro eyesore to something a professional chef would have at their
own home. Stainless steel replaced an almond-colored stove and a slab of
plain white granite replaced terra-cotta hued tiles on the countertop. It
certainly wasn't anything amazing, but it made a staid eyesore into a
functioning kitchen. He motioned out to the backyard, wondering out loud if
a set of string lights wouldn't make it a little nicer. Chris loved them,
even if they made everything look a little like a beer garden or country
fair.

"Maybe we can get rid of the fence outside? Does it look silly?"

"No, that white picket fence looks like it belongs," Armie said. "It adds
to the suburban fairy tale."

"And what about my grandparents' room. Is it time to get to that?"

"That's up to you," Armie said. "I can't push you into that."

"But I'm sure you think it's creepy. You shouldn't feel that."

"You said it, not me."

"Okay, that's it. We'll make it our house. You and me, just like back at
home. It's a new start for everything."

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