Reel (Hollywood Renaissance 1)

“His loss, our gain. You were made for the stage, for the movies, to perform. Anything that would’ve taken that from you couldn’t have been right.”

The hostess brings our food and drinks and we both dive into our meals, leaving my family drama behind, talking about the movie and politics and music between mouthfuls. My body revolts whenever I’m around him, all heart-pounding and weak-kneed, but when we talk, it’s the best conversation. There’s an ease underlaid with a steady hum of desire. I tried to convince myself that it was just me, that he didn’t feel it, too, that I was delusional, but the heat in his eyes, the strike of lightning when our fingers brush accidentally at the bread basket, tells me the truth.

I think he wants me, too.

“So did you talk to your family today?” he asks, when we’re almost done with our meals.

“To my mother briefly. It’s awkward at home because they have a child together. They married. They have this whole life, and I don’t envy it one bit. I would have been miserable as Brandon’s wife, but the hurt doesn’t go away. He’s just as responsible for what happened, but she’s my sister. It just hits different, that betrayal. His mother’s family is in Virginia, and sometimes when they go there for the holidays, I’ll go home.”

I drag a fork through the remains of my mashed potatoes. “Otherwise it just causes tension for everyone because they’re all used to it. My mother and aunts and cousins—they’ve seen Brandon and Terry build a life there. It’s only when I come back around that everyone remembers how it all started. It makes me feel like the problem.”

“Do you miss her? Were you and your sister close?”

I think of sitting in the Palace Theatre beside Terry, tears streaking down my face with Aida’s song coursing through me. Gushing to my sister all the way home that I had discovered what I was made to do. I recall Sunday mornings in church, passing notes back and forth, giggling behind our hands when Mama pinched us. Remember us roller skating through our neighborhood, braids and beads flying in the wind. Singing Brownstone’s “If You Love Me” at the top of our lungs while washing dishes after supper, a whisk as our microphone.

Terry was my best friend.

“I miss what I thought we had,” I finally say, surprised by the tears I have to blink away. “We couldn’t have been what I thought we were for her to do that to me.”

“Do they seem happy?”

“I haven’t seen them very much, but they’re still together, so I assume.”

When the server comes to clear our plates, she hands us new menus and asks if we’d like dessert.

“Oh, no,” I tell her, smiling at Canon. “I must have been at least a little homesick. I made my mother’s apple cobbler. I’ll have that when I get home.”

“Apple cobbler is my favorite.”

Those words, on their own, are completely innocent, but paired with the sparks firing between us, it’s a dare I can’t ignore. I won’t.

“You could . . .” I falter, gulping down my nervousness and tossing caution out the window. “There’s plenty. Cobbler, I mean. You could—you could come over.”

While the invitation hangs over us, my breath seizes in my throat. My foot taps noiselessly beneath the table and I clutch my dress for dear life while I wait.

I can imagine his reasons for keeping things platonic between us. He doesn’t have to articulate them. I’m not that obtuse, but I want to tell him I don’t care. I don’t care about the power dynamic. I don’t care if people find out and think he gave me the part because we’re sleeping together. What the hell do I care if the cast talk behind our backs or speculate that he’s repeating his mistake by getting involved with another actress?

If I could say all of that, I would, but I don’t think I have to. I pour it into my eyes and let the anticipation flow from every part of me. If he can read me as well as he claims, he’ll know. If I’m glass to him, he’ll see.

“So, dessert?” the server asks again.

“No.” He hands the menu back to her, but doesn’t look away from me. “We’ll have dessert at home.”

29

Canon

I thought I’d learned my lesson.

I promised myself and Evan I wouldn’t get involved with one of the actresses again. Yet here I am at the door of Neevah’s rented cottage under the pretense of cobbler. Light pours over her on the porch while she retrieves the keys from her purse, illuminating every reason I should follow her inside. When she opens the door and walks through, I hesitate, standing on the porch. Here’s my chance to stop this. What are the odds of not fucking Neevah Saint if I go in?