Now Daxon
Now DAXON
W il knocks on the door of my rental at eight that morning, and even though I’m running on fumes, itching for a real night’s sleep, I have to stop myself from sprinting to answer.
Relax, Daxon. Deep breath in. Deep breath out. Be cool.
The first night of filming is always weird and funky, and no real amount of rehearsal is going to get you where you need to be on that first take. The costumes are starchy, the lighting keeps getting adjusted, the lines, the accent, the characterization—all of it is bumpy, at best.
Except that, last night? It wasn’t. Nothing was off, nothing took too long or didn’t hit right. I should’ve known, honestly. Nothing Wil touches is ever less than the best you’ve ever seen.
Her short, copper hair is wet from a shower and pushed behind her ears, her tired eyes hidden behind sunglasses. And in her hands are two coffees, with a script and a tabloid magazine tucked beneath her arm. “Rise and shine, my little Thirty Hottest Under Thirty superstar.”
I roll my eyes and take the coffee from her, shutting the door behind her once she’s in.
“Yikes.”
This is the sort of thing that makes my stomach shrivel up. Eyes on me like this.
Since puberty kicked down my door and I grew like six inches overnight at seventeen, my body’s changed and kept on changing. Which, as a fat kid with a warped body image, was a lot to process.
There are so many people on this planet who are fat and gorgeous exactly as they are. Handsome and capable. Worthy and strong. With love they deserve. They don’t need to change. I know they aren’t less-than.
But as a pre-teen star of a huge kids’ show, I never felt like one of those people. I always felt wrong or shameful. We actually did an episode of Marnie about Dougie being bullied for his weight, which was eight different shades of awful.
Dad and Pop frequently suggested that I work with their personal training team. Not out of judgment, I don’t think, but from a place of caring. Maybe a little pity. And I hated the gym. There’s a unique kind of embarrassment when you walk into a gym as a fat person, that kept me away for a long time, even when my body went from bigger to straight size.
But I figured out as I grew that exercising doesn’t have to be miserable and humiliating. That if it feels right and my body’s happy, that’s enough. And I like feeling stronger. I can run further than ten feet. Lift weight I never imagined.
Which, in Hollywood photoshoot land, translates to a fairly embarrassing spread of me in the tabloid Wil had under her arm, where I’m pulling a white T-shirt up over my oiled stomach, faking like I’m getting undressed and smoldering at the lens.
“You’re number five!” she says, flipping the page to a picture of my face. “How do you feel knowing four people out-hot-ted you?”
“I’d like to thank Dad for his cheekbones, Pop for his confidence, and the mystery woman who donated her eggs to my cause for, uh...” I drift off, trying to be funny, but on two hours of sleep, failing spectacularly.
“For your debilitating nerdiness,” says Wil.
“Yeah, that feels right.”
We laugh and she pulls the sunglasses to the top of her head. “Freaky—this place is exactly like mine.” I watch her walk into the living room and stop at the dining table where the Millennium Falcon sits, partially assembled. Even the way she turns her head three-quarters back to me is dry with sarcasm. “Minus the Star Wars Lego. Oh, Daxon.” Wil shakes her head solemnly.
“Look, it’s Lego or competitive bowling. You pick your poison, Wilhelmina.”
She turns for the couch with the kind of smile you try to bite back but can’t, and sets her coffee down on the nearby table. I watch her wiggle out of her flip-flops, sit with a bounce, and pull her feet up and under her crossed legs. I sit beside her. My arm stretches out along the back of the couch. Not close enough to hold her, but close enough that if she wanted me to, I would.
In about four milliseconds, I would.
I almost pull it back because the temptation is so real.
This pact between us... I hate it, but it’s the right thing to do. I can respect it. I know how important this chance is for Wil and I’m not going to do anything to threaten that.
Wil, who’s been turning pages in her script for our upcoming scene, glances up at me. I catch her eye, and we smile and look back down to the thick packets in our hands.
Heat.
Heat all the way from my hairline to my little toe.
Electric heat.
Dangerous heat.
“Page thirty-two?” Wil asks.
I nod and bite my thumbnail for something to do that isn’t walk my imagination back through our kiss in the kitchen . You haven’t lived until Wil Chase grabs you at random and kisses the soul out of your body. Ten million out of ten, would recommend.
TO THE STARS – OFFICIAL SCRIPT
EXT. THE PIER – NIGHT
NICK helps to lift the lap bar as the Ferris wheel comes to a stop and they climb out. AMY and FRAT BOY wander the game booths, laughing, genuinely seeming to have a great time together. LILA scowls after them.
LILA
Alright, she’s had her fun.
(lifting her cupped hand to the side of her mouth to call out for AMY)
Time to g—
NICK
(cutting her off)
You know what you need?
LILA
A restraining order?
NICK grins at her and shakes his head.
NICK
Cotton candy.
LILA
No, thank you. I’m just fine.
NICK
I don’t think you understand what you’re missing.
LILA
And what am I missing?
NICK
(in disbelief, accusingly)
You’ve never had it before.
LILA
So?
NICK
So, you have no idea what you’re missing.
His endless enthusiasm is unfortunately incredibly contagious, and as LILA looks ahead to where AMY and FRAT BOY have turned a corner to another row of booths, she decides to let herself try something new.
LILA
Show me, then.
NICK offers her his arm with a victorious, beaming smile.
NICK
It’d be my pleasure.
We see NICK steer LILA to a nearby booth selling cotton candy and offer a stick of pink fluff to her. LILA plucks off a tuft and tries it. She’s horrified.
LILA
You can’t eat this!
(she laughs)
It’s pure sugar.
Spotting AMY, NICK places a hand on LILA’s back and steers her behind a nearby game booth, trying to covertly overhear AMY and FRAT BOY’s conversation.
NICK
Okay, now, very important: keep your voice low and keep yourself out of sight. This is the perfect place to spy on those two.
LILA
I’m not spying, I’m just being concerned. There’s a difference. And I can’t hear anything they’re saying from here.
NICK
Not a problem. I can help. I read lips.
(adlib nonsense)
My “adlib nonsense” impression of Lila’s sister, Amy, is so high-pitched that my voice cracks and Wil chokes on her coffee as she goes to take a sip.
“JESUS!” she cries between heaving laughter. “Prepare me next time!”
I lean my head back and let the laughter take over, my script slipping down my stomach and sliding to the floor. “Oh god, we’re fucked,” I say.
“No,” says Wil, her own laughter ebbing now. “We’ll be okay. That was cute. That was, like, prime Dax.”
“ That was cute?” I ask her, grinning but furrowing my brow with doubt.
Wil swallows, her eyes falling to her lap then sweeping back up to hit me with a look . I can tell she’s tired. That she’s been awake all night, high as a fucking kite on the one thing she loves most in this world. I would know—I’m right there with her.
And maybe part of her is relieved to be here with me. At least, part of me is relieved to be here with her .
Okay, all of me.
“What?” I ask her.
Wil studies me. “I just gotta know,” she says, an eyebrow lifting. My stomach tenses, waiting for what she’ll say. “Do you think you should’ve made the Top Three?”
I chuckle and reach for her. “Okay, that’s it, now you’re gonna get it.” Wil shrieks as I pull her over to where I’m sitting and we laugh, our smiles doofy ones, happy ones.
She slips unapologetically onto my lap, a leg on either side of my hips.
Our eyes meet.
She bites her lip.
“Can I just tell you...” she starts. “And I’m delirious and sleep-deprived and not thinking, really, but I am. Because I can’t stop thinking about this. About you. How much I fucking missed you.”
Her fingers reach out and brush my hair back with a reverence, an earnestness that I’m genuinely concerned might make my heart explode out of my chest.
Goosebumps flush down my body.
“Dax?” Wil breathes, and it’s like she’s asking if we can rip up that pact and grind its smoldering pages into the cement with our heels. “Did you miss me too?”
I pull her as close to me as I can get her, hands taking her face in their grasp.
“You have no idea,” I say. But there’s no air in my lungs so it comes out strangled.
And then I’m seventeen, nervous and fumbling. But at the same time, I’m twenty-four, grown and sure.
And her script is sliding off the couch, forgotten, my hands are tangled in the coolness of her damp hair, she’s pulling away my T-shirt before ripping off her own and if you asked me about the pact we made last night, I would look you dead in the fucking eyes and, with all the seriousness in the world, tell you I’ve never heard of it.
TO THE STARS – OFFICIAL SCRIPT
EXT. THE PIER – NIGHT
In NICK’s mind, this is starting to count as a first date. In LILA’s, it’s her first taste of rebellion, and it’s delicious. This boy is unsuitable in every way. But after holding up his end of the bargain and helping to spy on AMY and FRAT BOY from the Ferris wheel, his smile eases the tension in her soul. She’s willing to give him this chance.
NICK
What’s it to you if your sister’s running around with a guy like that?
LILA
Amy has a responsibility. And I’m older, I’m supposed to make sure she sticks to it.
It’s a line her mother has been repeating to the two of them verbatim since infancy. All well-bred southern girls are destined for proper marriages to wealthy, well-bred southern men. You don’t pop the bubble of a life spent attending society dinners and afternoon teas; you don’t let yourself even hold the needle.
NICK
Which means...?
Upstairs, Wil lies with her head in my lap on my bed, wearing only my Han Solo T-shirt, which fits her more like a dress. I will one thousand percent be high-fiving myself about this later. But for now, I lean against the pillows, idly curling sections of her red hair around my finger. Afternoon sun spills in through the windows and we read through tonight’s scene.
LILA
The choices she makes now determine her entire future. She doesn’t have time to ride Ferris wheels and share popcorn with someone so...
NICK
So... what?
LILA
Someone who would find themselves far more comfortable in a zoo, I’ll bet.
NICK
Yep, that’s it. I was trying to put my finger on it, and you’re right. A gorilla. That’s what he reminds me of.
(a beat)
So, you’re husband-hunting. That it?
Wil lowers her script. “What’s that sound?”
I listen and realize it’s my phone, which is lying forgotten on the carpet almost completely under the bed. Wil sits up and I lean down, fishing with my hand until I pull it up and press it to my ear. It’s one of our second assistant directors, Kim.
“Are you able to get to set a half hour before your call time tonight?”
“Sure, yeah. What’s up?” I say.
“Greg wants to have a quick cast meeting before we shoot.”
Wil watches my face as I speak, and I trace a pattern on her knee where she sits, now in front of me—a lopsided, lazy heart. She grins at me. I grin back. “Sounds good.” Our eyes are locked on each other.
“Great. I’ll give Wil a call.”
“Oh, she’s right here, I can pass the message along.”
As soon as I say it, I have to stop myself from cringing. Wil and I are friends. We have so much history. It’s expected that we spend time together away from set, right? We’re the leads. We have to build up the chemistry. But how much of that we should let people in on is one thing, and whether or not this is anything at all is another.
“Oh...” says Kim, and it’s a loaded “oh.” Like, oh. “Great.”
“Great,” I parrot, and then pull a face at myself. “We’ll be there.”
“Good. See you both soon.” She hangs up.
“Oh my god,” says Wil. She swats my thigh.
“I panicked.”
“I noticed.”
I pull both of my hands through my hair in exasperation, my stomach churning now with embarrassment and anxiety. All of the things you’re not supposed to do after you sleep with your best friend and co-star for the first time in seven years, I’ve just done. I slapped a label on us. Hell, I flipped on a flaming neon sign above our heads with arrows pointing at us that reads: THEY JUST HAD SEX.
“I didn’t know what to say. What should I have said?” I ask her, my eyes wide. Wil was always the smooth one. She always had a plan, a maneuver, the perfect cover.
“I don’t know,” says Wil. “Not that I’m pantsless in your bed!”
“I didn’t say that!”
“It was heavily implied,” she says.
“Okay, so... they know. Maybe.” I lick my lip and stare at the mattress. A moment passes and then I can’t help myself. Our pact is on the floor, bleeding out. I have to ask. “By the way, what does this mean?”
“My pantslessness?”
“Among other things,” I say, and my lips rise at the corners.
Wil’s eyes draw a long, slow circle across the ceiling as she thinks of an answer. Finally, they land back on me and her jokester’s smile settles into a soft frown. She’s not a tidal wave. Not now, anyway. She’s quiet and softer, the mirrored surface of a glassy lake.
“I don’t know,” she whispers.
“Me either,” I say.
“Maybe,” Wil starts, “it shouldn’t have happened. I mean, we had a pact. I told myself I was gonna take this seriously and focus and...”
It’s a little like taking a knife to the balls but I nod, cool and calm and hoping desperately that the shattering feeling in my chest isn’t translating to my face. “Right.” I swallow and there’s something heavy in my throat.
“Dax,” says Wil, and her voice is weirdly measured, like she’s about to tell me that I’m adopted or something. “I’m sorry, I can’t do this with you right now.” She slips off the side of the bed and onto her feet, looking for her jeans and pulling them on. “This opportunity is everything to me. It has to be. I have to...”
“Focus,” I finish for her. “I know. But I just... you and me...”
“I know.” She buttons and zips, looking at me, and I wish she was tidal-wave Wil. That she would come rushing over me, sweep me somewhere far away where we could be whatever we wanted, and I would tumble through the water, completely okay with there being no air, with not being able to see the surface. Everything would be her, would be Wil. In my lungs. In my bones.
“So... we’re...? Where do we...?” I say, and watch her turn and change back into her own T-shirt.
Wil tosses me Han and I catch him one-handed. Already, he smells like her. Sweet, understated citrus and something underneath, indistinguishable, that makes me feel homesick.
“Friends. We’re friends. Okay?”
She’s right. I know she’s right. That’s the smart thing. I try to set my expression in a steely, no-big-deal look. “Friends,” I repeat. “Yeah. Okay.” I can’t help spewing another question, anything to prolong this moment. Wil in my bedroom. “This still, uh”—I work the fabric of the shirt between my fingers—“meant something, right? I mean, it’s okay if it didn’t for you, but for me...”
I need it to have meant something. Because to me, it’s everything.
“Yeah,” Wil agrees with a smile. “It did. It does.”
“It was better than nothing, right?”
Wil’s gaze hits the floor and her smile only grows. When she looks back up at me, it’s with an eyebrow that’s subtly arched and her tongue caught between her front teeth, delighted and embarrassed, maybe, but her eyes are sparkling. “Best nothing I ever had.”
I make a point of sitting across the room from Wil at our production meeting. I even go so far as to angle my chair slightly away from where she sits across from me in the circle.
That’s right, folks, nothing to see here.
Very casual.
But what I can’t stop myself from doing is shifting my eyes to hers across the busy space. They slice through conversations between the crew and cast around us, tear through gossip over takeout containers balanced on laps, and scripts in hands, poised to note any changes. And when they meet, all the things inside of me—organs, blood, guts, you name it—turn into warm blankets straight from the dryer.
“Alright, lemme have your attention here real quick and we’ll get on with shooting.”
Our director comes to the center of the circle and we give him a brief, appreciative round of applause. Wil’s eyes hit me from where she sits. I like that feeling. Her watching, me knowing she’s looking, while a film reel of this afternoon plays over and over in my head.
We’re complicated. We have history. There’s the whole public perception piece to think about, the press. Our jobs.
But those hazel eyes looking into me, through me to every memory we’ve shared, every time I’ve thought about her over the last seven years? God tier.
“I wanted to let you all know that we’ve had a casting change. I know it’s last-minute. But you know this business; scheduling can be catastrophic at best. The role of Lila’s mother, Mrs. Patterson—and I can’t believe I get to say this, you’re all in for such a fucking treat—will now be played by the legendary...”
I watch him extend an arm towards the doorway, watch as a woman appears, slender, tall, fake-tanned, blonde, with a face so familiar it kicks me right in the stomach... especially when my eyes leap to Wil and catch her blanched reaction.
In an instant, she’s seventeen, watching her world begin to shatter all over again.
“Katrina Tyson-Taylor!”