Chapter 7
Ronan
They’re filming this like it’s a documentary. Handheld cameras. Natural lighting. Minimal crew interference.
But make no mistake. This is scripted as hell.
It’s late afternoon and the grocery store has been closed to the public for a few hours so Drivex can get what they need. Bright white lights buzz overhead. Shopping carts are strategically placed. There’s a boom mic hanging just out of frame and extra actors mill about.
Lex and Nash are off filming their scene with a separate crew across town. This morning, all four of us met to rehearse lines and then a hair and makeup crew ran us through the ringer. I have enough product in my hair to withstand a monsoon.
Now they’re ready to shoot Francesca and me, and I’d rather be crashing into the wall at 130R.
She’s pacing outside the entrance with a water bottle in her hand and a tightly wound energy that makes me twitchy.
The makeup girl keeps patting stuff on Francesca’s face, not that she needs any help.
She looks perfect in a pair of faded jeans with frayed edges, white trainers and a simple white sweater.
Her hair is in a high ponytail with wisps of golden blond loosely framed around her face.
She looks nothing like a formula race car driver and every bit a sorority girl who just stepped off the Cambridge campus.
Timmy practically vibrates as he adjusts something on his laptop monitor, his voice high and cheerful. “Okay, darlings! Remember… you’re not here together. You’re both running errands. Totally natural. Totally casual. Then—bam! Trolley standoff and it’s war.”
I stifle the urge to roll my eyes. The lines we had to learn are easy and we’ve already done two practice runs after which Timmy deemed us passable actors. But in reality, most of this commercial is going to be action hijinks as we race around the grocery store.
Francesca glances over at me, her expression unreadable. A larger chunk of hair keeps slipping from her ponytail, and for a second, I’m caught watching the way she tucks it behind her ear.
She arches a brow my way. “What?” she demands, not with hostility but maybe a bit of challenge.
“Nothing.”
“That wasn’t a ‘nothing’ face,” she says, her expression curious.
I don’t reply and Timmy saves me by clapping his hands. “All right… let’s get going. Francesca, you’ll enter from the left. Ronan, from the right. Just do it like we practiced.”
We’re brought two shopping carts, pre-filled with items we’ve supposedly selected. Francesca shifts into position, ready to step into her role as a friendly competitor. But there’s nothing friendly about rivalry on the track. This is all a fucking farce, a complete waste of my time.
I grip the cart handle, the metal cold under my fingers. The cameras roll and Timmy yells, “Action.”
Francesca comes around the end of one aisle as I come around the other way and to my surprise, Francesca runs her cart into mine… which was not in the script. I can tell by the look on her face that she meant to do it. Timmy doesn’t scream cut, so we’re still rolling.
She “notices” me first, and as planned, her expression tightens in a perfect beat of disdain. It looks completely believable and I’m sure she’s pulling on real feelings. She looks down the aisle, then to the teenage stock boy stacking energy drinks on a bottom shelf.
“Excuse me,” she says brightly. “Where’s the Drivex Zero Citrus?”
The kid looks up, feigning awed recognition. “Oh, wow—you’re Francesca Accardi.” And then he double takes, seeing me standing there. “And holy cow, you’re Ronan Barnes.”
“I’m here for some Drivex too,” I say smoothly, and yeah… I’m a good actor. Been doing it most of my life.
“Um…” The kid throws his thumb over his shoulder. “It’s almost gone. Maybe one bottle left, I think. Back aisle, past the cold drinks.”
I’m not quite sure why it happens, but I only know it does. Even though this is a scripted commercial and in no way real, a surge of adrenaline hits me. A competitive tingle runs up my spine.
Francesca is still in her role, preparing to say her line, “I got here first,” but I’m already moving. I ram the end of my cart into hers, jostling it just enough to give me a path and I’m off.
“Hey,” she says in surprise, and I’m not sure if it’s because I’ve gone off script or if she’s improvising.
Regardless, I hear the rattling of her cart as she takes off after me.
We both round the first corner fast, carts squeaking against the floor tiles. I take the inside line and she cuts me off near produce. None of this is staged, this is real. We’re in a race now and I need to beat her to that damn drink.
Francesca nearly crashes into a display of oranges, and I hear her mutter what I’m sure is an Italian expletive under her breath before catching them with one hand.
“Smooth,” I yell at her.
“Better than slow,” she fires back, flying past me when the corner of my cart catches the edge of a display shelf.
The crew trails behind us, three separate camera angles running to keep up. I imagine Timmy’s nearly giddy with excitement or pissed we’ve gone off script.
We zigzag through the aisles like we’re trying to take pole at Silvercrest, not shopping for frozen peas. Francesca nearly knocks over a pensioner-looking actor, who beams at her anyway. I take a shortcut through dry goods. She doubles back and beats me to the drink aisle.
There’s one bottle left, and our carts come to a screeching halt. We reach for it at the same time.
Our hands brush—my fingers close around the neck of the bottle just as hers slaps on top. She glares at me. I tighten my grip.
“I don’t lose,” she says softly.
“Neither do I.”
For a second, I forget the cameras. It’s just her… golden brown eyes narrowed and her chest rising and falling. There’s a spark I can’t name and I can see it on her face… she feels it to. It might be hate, it might be lust, but it’s something.
Timmy’s voice breaks the moment. “Perfect! That’s the energy. Hold that!”
We release at the same time, almost as if the bottle burns us, but really… I think it’s skin against skin that has us scrambling backward.
“We’ll take it from the point they reach the bottle,” Timmy says, coming in to reset it. “Remember… there’s supposed to be a bit of a back-and-forth tugging, so work that into the next take.”
I glance at Francesca as Timmy walks away. She’s resetting her ponytail, eyes fixed anywhere but me.
“Try not to throw elbows this time,” I say, too quietly for the crew to hear. “You nearly took out the old man by the tinned beans.”
Her head snaps toward me. “He smiled at me.”
“Probably because you scared him.”
She rolls her eyes. “Says the guy who cornered like he was trying to murder a trolley.”
I smirk. “Can’t help it if you’re slower in tight sections.”
Her eyes narrow. “You nearly took out a produce display trying to pass me.”
“Still made it there first.”
“Only because I doubled back. If I’d taken the left aisle, you’d still be figuring out how to turn your cart without clipping the milk fridge.”
I step closer, just enough to test the edge of her space. “So now you’re blaming poor route planning for losing? Do you need a race engineer to do your grocery shopping?”
She lifts her chin. “Just stating facts.”
“Well, you go ahead—take the pity win if it’s all you’ve got.”
That jab lands. She shifts her weight, stepping a little too close for my comfort. “Keep telling yourself that,” she whispers, “if it helps you sleep at night.”
We’re eye to eye now. Too close for this to be just acting. And for a second, I’m not sure if we’re about to go another round or kiss.
Timmy claps his hands three times in quick succession. “Places, everyone! We’re rolling again!”
Francesca turns without a word, but I don’t miss the blooming color in her cheeks.
Three takes later, the scene is nailed. Francesca and I battle it out each time, neither one of us wanting to lose, even though the outcome is predetermined. Timmy calls it a “light twist to preserve the rivalry,” which basically means we each walk out of the store with a bottle after all.
In the scripted version, Francesca spots a second one tucked behind some tonic water like it’s fate smiling on her, while I take the one we fought over.
Next up is the self-checkout scene where both of us are scanning our items in sync.
The script calls for us to notice each other and then turn the process into another race to see who can finish the fastest. Timmy promises that will be the setup for the next commercial we shoot for Drivex, and I want to stab myself in the ears so I don’t have to listen to his enthusiasm.
Timmy orders us to practice scanning our items as the cameras, mics and extras are set in place.
We stand at side-by-side self-service checkout registers, scanning real-life grocery items some staffer loaded into our carts.
Francesca slams a frozen pizza down like it insulted her family.
I beep through mine with silent precision.
She keeps looking over.
I pretend not to notice.
But I sense her watching and the tension between us no longer grates like annoyance. Instead, it’s like the edge of a sharp knife, which is entirely unacceptable.
Francesca picks up a bag of crisps—some off-brand flavor with an unfortunate amount of onion branding—and scans it. Nothing happens. She tries again. Still nothing.
“Stupid thing,” she mutters, tapping the barcode harder.
I glance over, and before I can say anything, she overcorrects—slamming the bag down with just enough force to trigger the dreaded voice. “Unexpected item in the bagging area.”
Francesca freezes. Then huffs. “Don’t look at me like that,” she says without turning, clearly sensing the smirk forming at the edge of my mouth.
I watch as she waves her hand in front of the scanner like she’s trying to reset the universe. “I didn’t even put it in the bagging area. It’s in my hand, you idiot machine.”