White Space Season 1

eyes. The sarcastic curl in her lips.
    So when Cassidy played host to Jon’s sexual desires in last night’s dream, he was shocked to see her. It didn’t seem right to think such thoughts about Sarah’s sister, as if it would offend the memory of Sarah. Nor did it seem right to Cassidy, to project his unresolved feelings for Sarah, onto her.
    Jon woke up hard, guilty, and unwilling to relieve himself.
    He turned off the faucet and stared in the mirror, more exhausted than he should be, and wondered what it was about the island that made it feel like both home and prison. Perhaps, he considered, there were too many bad memories here. Every familiar sight, sound, and person served as constant reminders, giving the memories so much more weight on native soil.
    He left the bathroom and turned on the TV, shuddering at the thought of what he might see, with half his attention aimed at the screen and the other half cast on the room service menu, trying to decide what he wanted for breakfast.
    Fortunately, there was nothing on the news linking him to Sarah, at least not yet. Just more about the school shooting and the memorial from the day before.
    Jon tossed the menu on the table, ran his hand through his hair and sighed, feeling like an asshole for thinking everything on the menu sounded like tired beach town crap. He didn’t want cereal or oatmeal or yogurt or smoothies, nor did he want an omelet or pancakes or waffles. He wanted almond crusted French toast with brioche or challah bread, and strawberries. Sure, they’d probably make it for him, but he’d rather just order from the menu than feel like a jerk for the rest of the day for being too demanding.
    Just order what you want, man. Don’t always worry what everyone thinks.
    Jon picked up the phone and asked if room service made French toast even though it wasn’t on the menu. The man on the other line said, yes, of course. Jon was glad the man didn’t add, “Anything for you, Mr. Conway.” Jon also asked if he could have some strawberries and a small cup of almonds. The man said of course.
    Good enough.
    Jon thanked the man, hung up the phone and waited for his breakfast, trying hard to remember the dreams he’d had before the sex ones. Whatever the dreams had been, they must’ve been awful. He vaguely recalled waking up screaming and seeing his covers clear across the room.
    Growing up on the island, Jon often had nightmares, though he rarely remembered them. The nightmares were usually coupled with exhaustion and headaches. Just like he was feeling now.
    He slept like a baby everywhere else, except, it seemed, on Hamilton Island.
    Jon laughed out loud. Sleeping like a baby fit the description of his island sleep more than the sleep he usually got. Babies didn’t sleep through the night. They woke up every few hours, often screaming. Jon laughed again, but mid-chuckle thought of the baby who was now nine, and probably his.
    The dull ache inside him felt like a scream against the silence of the hotel; his fault for wanting a private floor. That was how it had to be. Jon didn’t want people tiptoeing around him. That was even worse than public fawning.
    This was the life he chose, and he wasn’t bitching, not even to himself. Jon couldn’t count the number of times he’d been out, wanting nothing more than a moment alone, when a fan started freaking out and screaming, drawing eyes like bees to a hive. Sometimes people played it cool, coming up to him and starting regular conversation about everyday stuff, but nearly every exchange was either about his work, or Hollywood gossip, and Jon didn’t care to talk much about either.
    Even that was better than the eyes on the island, where he wasn’t just Jon Conway of Darkness Everlasting, but he was also Jon Conway of The Conways .
    There was a light knock on the door, and then a polite exchange with the attendant as he made a small show of setting the food in the middle of Jon’s room. Jon tipped him $20, feeling the usual discomfort, amplified by the island. Jon had never been able to find the just right in his tip. Too little felt wrong and too much felt arrogant.
    The French toast looked great. Jon took a look, salivated, and got ready to sit. As he did, the hotel phone rang.
    “Hello?”
    A slight pause, then, “Good morning, Mr. Conway. This is Lydia, from downstairs at the front desk. I have a Cassidy Hughes on the line. I tried telling her you weren’t here, but she said she knew you were.