Chapter 16 #2
Of course it mattered that Ian was a celebrity. It would be like trying to date another species. Our lives were farther apart than just North Carolina and California. There was a gulf between us. Of experience and understanding, expectations and commonality.
“Why are you pushing for me to give Ian a chance?” I asked, rather than admit the truth.
Candace placed her elbows on the desk and leaned forward.
“Because I don’t want you to miss out on something just because you’re scared and too stubborn to admit it.
Ian is so good for you, and you don’t even see it.
I want you to be happy. That doesn’t always mean finding happiness in someone else.
Instead, it can just mean sharing it with the right person. ”
The tiny ache that lived in my chest flared brightly. A voice whispered that I was getting too close, losing too much of myself to someone who could never stick around.
“We’ve been spending so much time together,” I said, testing out a theory. “Maybe that’s all this is. Proximity or something.”
“How does anyone get to know someone? They spend a lot of time together. I don’t think it matters that he’s famous in that regard.”
When I didn’t argue or defend my theory, Candace wondered, “Are you worried things will change when filming starts back up tomorrow? That this has all been some novelty small-town vacation for him?”
A bittersweet grin twisted my lips. “Christmas with the Judds.”
“A holiday special,” my sister added with a small smile of her own.
Call it intuition, but something told me that the return to filming wouldn’t make a difference. Ian would still prioritize George. And I worried some of that would continue to extend to me as well.
“Maybe things should change,” I finally admitted. “It might be easier if we kept our distance.”
“Easier for who?” Candace asked, her tone gentle, her expression even more so.
I shook my head, knowing the answer but unwilling to voice it aloud.
Ian’s presence in my life—in this town—felt natural, easy in a way I never would have predicted.
I couldn’t remember what my days looked like before he was running beside me. Or a time when George wasn’t following along behind me in the fields. Or what it felt like to eat dinner alone in my kitchen, without a drawing from the kid on my refrigerator and a friendship bracelet on my arm.
Three months from now, I didn’t want only memories keeping me company, ghosts from a fraction of my life, haunting me at every turn.
Like a damn mind reader, my sister said, “If you’re worried about getting attached or Ian leaving in the spring, I think you should trust that you’re both adults. Adults communicate. Adults compromise. Adults figure shit out.” She made uncomfortably intense eye contact. “Be an adult.”
I nodded, unable to resist my amused smile to go along with it.
A year ago, I never could have imagined Candace being brave enough to disagree with me.
She wouldn’t have wanted to rock the boat or force an uncomfortable conversation.
She wouldn’t have inserted herself into my business or given me any sort of advice, and, honestly, I would never have considered asking.
It was proof that we’d come a long way since my sister had moved back home. We talked. We communicated. We compromised. We figured shit out . . . like adults.
Maybe that’s what relationships were. A journey. Not a path with one single destination. Maybe you didn’t cross a finish line or reach “the end” when you were dealing with people.
I recalled a little hand holding out a beaded bracelet.
I thought of terrible coffee in a travel mug just for me, a clean-shaven jaw beneath my palm, sneakers hitting the dirt next to mine.
Maybe—just maybe—there was room for the path to grow.
Ian
I got a text from Joan just as I was settling into the hair and makeup chair at 5:22 a.m. on the first day back to filming.
Joan: What do you call someone who takes care of chickens?
Of course, she didn’t give me a chance to respond. She immediately replied with the punchline.
Joan: A chicken tender.
“Mouth relaxed,” the makeup artist called suddenly.
I worked to control my grin. “Sorry, Imogen.”
Me: Are you flirting with me, Joan Judd?
Joan: No.
Joan: Maybe.
Joan: I know people your age are into texting. I thought I could at least try.
Hmm. I wondered what had brought this on. I tried not to read too much into it. Didn’t want to get my hopes up.
The last time we’d kissed, Joan had been confused and unsure. She was the steadiest person I’d ever met. It had been strange to see her so hesitant and indecisive. Knowing I’d been the one to throw her off hadn’t made me feel any better either.
When I looked at her, I felt like I’d never been more sure of anything in my life. If she wasn’t there yet, I wasn’t going to push her. I’d made that mistake early on, and I wouldn’t be repeating it.
Did I want to kiss her again? Of course, I did. I wanted to do a hell of a lot more than that. But she needed to be on board. I didn’t want to be the only thing in Joan’s life that made her question herself.
Me: People my age?
Joan: Yeah. Twenty-somethings.
Me: I will be thirty in like two months.
Joan: How do you want to celebrate? Maybe by eating dinner at 4 pm, and then staying in to play Scrabble.
Me: Ha. Ha.
Joan: We could always go bird-watching. Oh, the VFW is hosting Bingo. We can do that.
Me: You’re hilarious.
“Dorian, please.” Imogen had her makeup brush in hand as she gave me an expectant look. “No smiling right now.”
“Right. Sorry about that. Again.”
My phone buzzed. I relaxed my face and glanced down.
Joan: Just want to make sure you usher in your thirties with style. What do big-deal Hollywood actors usually do to celebrate birthdays? Rent out an entire club?
Yes, frequently, I didn’t say.
Joan: Sink a yacht?
Oof, she’d read about that one, too.
Joan: Orgies?
Me: What? No. That is not my idea of fun.
Joan: Not enough NDAs?
Me: Too many bodily fluids.
Joan: Gross.
Me: You started it.
Me: Besides, I don’t actually like to share.
No follow-up came through, and I could feel my pulse in my throat. She had to know what I was implying. That I wanted her. No one else. Just her.
After maybe the longest twenty seconds of my life, her two-word reply appeared on my screen, doing nothing to calm my racing heartbeat.
Joan: Me either.
I stared at my phone until a throat cleared pointedly.
A quick look in the mirror showed Imogen staring at me, arms crossed and waiting, while my smile grew out of control.
Hurriedly, I typed Good and hit send before placing my phone upside down on the table next to me.
It was a struggle, but I managed to keep my face neutral for the next forty minutes so Imogen could do her job.
After all, I was a professional. At least, that’s what I kept reminding myself.
When I got a break later in the morning, I texted Sophia and had her pass along Georgie’s joke of the day. We’d started doing it a while back. I borrowed Joan’s chicken tender joke. Sophia replied with a photo of Georgie’s giggling face.
Smiling, I quickly checked my schedule, noticing an on-set interview happening this afternoon.
I sighed, refusing to let the intrusion ruin my good mood.
My manager, Gloria, had arranged the interview despite my objections.
The host wanted to tour my trailer on set, and that just felt like a step too far.
But, at least, it wouldn’t take long, and it had already been cleared with the shooting schedule.
Finally, I navigated over to an unread text from Candace. Good thing Imogen wasn’t touching up the fake cut and trauma makeup along my cheekbone because I was definitely smiling now.
Switching over to my thread with Joan, I typed: Do you have plans tonight?
Joan: I was thinking about staying in and watching a movie, actually.
A pause.
Joan: You could come over.
Joan: If you wanted.
I took a slow breath in through my nose and thumbed at the elastic band around my wrist.
Me: Really?
Joan: Sure.
Me: That’s great because your sister texted me earlier and offered to watch Georgie tonight, completely unprompted.
Joan: Sigh.
Alone, in my trailer on set, I cracked up.
Joan: Actually, what is the cast up to tonight? I could watch George if you wanted to hang out with them.
Frowning, I stared at my screen and tried to make sense of the message. Joan had never once asked about my co-stars. Hell, I didn’t even think she knew who played opposite me in the film.
I hit a button on my phone, and a moment later Joan’s confused voice came through. “Hello?”
“Why would you ask that? About me hanging out with the cast?”
“Just a thought,” she said, sounding a little too nonchalant. “You just never mention them. You tell me about the script and filming and wide-angle lens and special effects, but you never mention your co-stars.”
Suspicion had me replying tightly, “I didn’t think you cared about celebrities.”
“I don’t. I just figured they were your friends. I feel like I’m monopolizing all your free time. You run with me. You eat lunch with me. You see me at work. You come to my house for dinner. I thought actors hung out together. Bonded over filming and shit. Like summer camp.”
She was right. That was typically how it went on a set. An intense schedule and working conditions usually bonded actors on a film.
Unless someone was an asshole and kept to themselves.
Apparently, I was the asshole on this film.
I didn’t know how to admit to Joan that those people—the cast and crew—were all fine. But being with them seemed hollow and insignificant. I knew where I wanted to be.
With her. For as long as I could manage it.
Anything else—anyone else—seemed like a waste of what little time I had here in Kirby Falls.
Finding stolen moments with Joan and Georgie felt like what it might be like to have a real life—a normal life. Family dinner on Sunday. Chores and a pet goat to take care of. Someone to make coffee for every day. A little boy to tuck in every night.
But I couldn’t say any of that. She was confused about kissing me. Telling her about these weird domestic fantasies would be admitting too much—enough to make her regret letting me into her life at all.
So instead of a vulnerable confession, I gave her something else true. “My co-stars are fine. We all get along, but they don’t know about Georgie. Only Della does. He’s my priority whether I’m on location or not. I don’t want to lie to them or pretend like I’m available when I’m not.”
Joan remained quiet on the line. Then, finally, she murmured, “Right. That makes sense.”
“So, am I still invited to watch a movie?”
Another pause. “Yeah.”
“Want me to bring a pizza over?”
“That would be nice. Thank you. No silly toppings, though.”
I chuckled. “What’s a silly topping?”
“You probably eat pineapple on your pizza.”
I did do that.
“No way. Only respectable toppings for this Californian. I eat kale pizza. Sometimes I go crazy and get yams with hot honey. Maybe a little crème fraiche.”
“I’m hanging up now.”
“No, wait.” I struggled through my laughter. “Do you want to hear my acai bowl order?”
“I don’t even know what that is.” She sounded horribly exasperated. I loved it.
“Well, I’m making you one. I’ll be over at six thirty. No backsies.”
Joan sighed audibly. “You did not just say, ‘No backsies.’ What are you, five?”
“No, I’m twenty-nine. Which seemed like a very big deal to you. I would have thought you’d remember.”
“Don’t remind me.”
The clock on the wall said I was due back for the next scene and three minutes late. “I’ll see you tonight, Joanie.”
“Bye. Go be Dorian Masters. And there better not be pineapple on that pizza.”
I smiled all the way back to set.