On Screen & Off Again

Now Wilhelmina

Now WILHELMINA

T he entryway to my incredibly empty temporary home is... incredibly empty. And dark. Like, who designed this place?

Dax leaves his bags by the door. I lead the charge into the living area, which morphs into the kitchen and dining space like a traditional apartment. Except super nice because this is being paid for by bigshot Hollywood money, so on the one hand you’ve got low, crappy lighting, but on the other hand, nonsense furniture that’s expensive.

Here’s another thing I forgot about that comes with being famous—people will throw a lot of money at you in ways you wouldn’t expect. In the type of limo they send you to ride to your premiere in. The swag bags you’re given at events. Free, fancy food at exclusive restaurants.

“Welcome to my haunted... Restoration Hardware?” I say, gesturing grandly and confusedly around before perching on the arm of the couch. “Bathroom’s over there if you wanna change or anything.” I point out a closed white door down a dark hall.

What I don’t want to admit to myself is that Dax looks fine wet.

Like, fine . And I don’t want him to change his clothes, I just want to look at him a while longer, his T-shirt clinging to his torso.

Dax pulls his shirt out and away from his stomach, which is toned . What the actual fuck is happening? He flaps the material, trying to get it to dry, and I almost have to reach up and physically rip my eyeballs away from staring at him with my hands, like I’m Bugs Bunny.

I shouldn’t be ogling him like this. I know that. Deep in some forgotten cavern in my chest, I completely know that. He’s my co-worker for fuck’s sake. I need to focus. This isn’t some balmy, beachy vacation, this is work. A job. My first in, like, a millennium.

But oh , I know and he knows that we are so much more than two people on the same payroll.

“I’ll be okay,” Dax says, taking in the place. He nods towards the wall behind me. “You’ve got a fireplace? That’s cool. Wanna light it?”

“We could,” I say. “But I don’t know how.”

“To... start a fire?” Dax asks me, quirking his brow. “You break into houses for fun—isn’t arson next on your list of hobbies?”

“Alright, Tom Hanks in Cast Away , whatever. Let’s see you do it.”

“Oh god, that’s a great movie,” says Dax, tipping his head back in comedic reverence.

Then, like he’s been here a thousand times, Dax heads into the kitchen and starts opening drawers. He’s in there six milliseconds before he emerges tossing one of those fireplace lighters up into the air then catching it again, as though to prove a point.

“Grab two of those,” he says to me, pointing to a basket of logs wrapped in orange and black paper.

I do what he says and bring them to the fireplace. “Now what?”

Dax reaches up and takes one from me, his forearm brushing my hand. My stomach somersaults at the feel of it, and Iwatch him move fluidly, loading the log into place. “Hand me the other one.”

I hand it over. The rain is loud and clattering against the chimney outside and the echo fills up the quiet room like another living thing sitting between us. Dax clicks the lighter to life and presses its flame to the log. I watch the fire catch, kissing its way along the paper with a crackle.

After a moment, the room is glowing. Dax sits back on the floor, arms behind him, legs long, and pulls off his shoes. Idrop down to the floor beside him. When I glance at him, and he looks over at me, it’s like not one second has passed since the summer we were seventeen. There’s quiet except for the rain and our breath. I look around for something to say.

“This is weird—”

“This is nice—”

“Jinx!” we shout at the same time.

Fuck, I missed this. We both erupt in ugly laughter and Daxon leans all the way back until he’s lying flat on the floor, his body shaking. I lean against a nearby chair, grinning giddily into the fabric as I watch him. He’s exhausted-laughing. The infectious, ridiculous kind that takes you over and doesn’t let go until you’re wheezing for air.

Plus, he’s wearing his glasses. The dorky grandpa aviators that he makes look sexy. I’m in so much trouble.

“Oh my god—” he starts, but I cut him off.

“No, you have to buy me a Coke. That’s the rule.”

Dax’s perfect face falls as he realizes what he’s in for. I am a totalitarian jinxer. He gestures grandly as though to ask where the hell am I supposed to buy you a Coke at midnight in a South Carolina suburb in the pouring rain?

“That’s not my problem,” I say.

He scoffs, incredulous. Then he’s up and heading into the kitchen. I’m up, too, like a freaking jack-in-the-box, springing to my feet and literally skipping after him, wet hair sticking to my neck. Dax dips and pulls open the fridge, rooting around the bouquet of chocolate-covered fruit, and random, trendy organic whatever, until he zeros in on a little red can.

“Free Coke. Sweet.” I snatch it from the fridge before he can grab it. But that’s not to say he doesn’t try, swinging around for it as I twirl away, trying a bunch of ridiculous moves like holding it above my head or dancing just out of reach with it held behind my back.

What I didn’t bet on was how fast he is now. This is has-a-personal-trainer, up-with-the-sun, jogs-for-fun Daxon. My Daxon struggled to climb the tree in our backyard. His favorite sport was Mario Kart .

He darts one arm out and catches me. Locks me in and pulls me close. The laugh falls off my face slow, but all at once, like egg yolk slipping down a windshield.

Our faces are almost touching, the Coke can slippery in my fingers where I clutch it behind my back. Dax digs around with his free hand inside his jeans pocket and fishes out a black wallet. He flips it open one-handed. Coaxes a dollar bill out with his thumb.

I raise my eyebrow at him and try not to count the dusting of freckles across the bridge of his nose. Fourteen. Damn it.

“I didn’t say how much it costs,” I point out. “You’re short.”

Daxon rolls his eyes at me and maneuvers another dollar bill out. He’s able to collect the bills in his fingers, close the wallet and stuff it back into his pocket without dropping it, which is weirdly the sexiest thing I think I’ve ever seen.

“Oh, dang, I should’ve mentioned. We don’t take cash,” I say, and instantly bite back a laugh. Dax looks ready to drop-kick me to another galaxy, but he can’t hold that expression long and the laughter takes him, starting in the eyes and melting its way warm and flowing across his cheeks. Down to his lips.

Those fucking lips.

Probably because I’ve been staring at them, I don’t notice the way he’s looking at me. He’s closer. Not just his face but his entire body. Our shoulders touch. Our stomachs brush. His eyes say what’s it gonna cost?

Don’t. Don’t do it. Stay focused. But I can’t help myself. Ican’t physically stop it from happening.

For the first time in seven dry, terrible, lonely years, I crash into him like a wave devouring the shore.