Chapter 31 Jack
The first day of filming dawns bright and sunny, which is quite a contrast to my memory of doing this last time—as is my feeling of cautious optimism.
Rehearsals went well, and despite her nerves, Cynthie handled everything perfectly—if I didn’t know for a fact that she was having a hard time, then I certainly wouldn’t have guessed it. From the second we returned to the table read after her panic attack, she was a total professional.
Despite the countless hours I’ve spent fantasizing about grinding Shawn Hardy’s bones into dust, Cynthie and I haven’t broached the topic of him again. One thing is very clear: Cynthie Taylor has had a rough go of it lately.
And it’s this thought that has had me trying to keep a certain amount of distance between us over the last week.
Not too much—I don’t want her to think I’m avoiding her—but I know I need to be careful, because the more time we spend together, the more time I want to spend with her.
I’m ready to admit that Cynthie is firmly under my skin.
I’m even ready to admit that she’s been there for thirteen years, but it doesn’t change our absolutely shocking timing.
Between the work we have to do, maintaining a fake relationship, the documentary, and her recent trauma, there are more than enough reasons for me to keep those feelings in check. Or at least to make a decent attempt.
So why am I here on set, outside her trailer when I’m not on the call sheet this morning? Let’s call it professional courtesy, because I’m trying very hard to pretend that’s what it is.
I knock on the door, smiling at the sight of her trailer next door to mine once more.
We’re back at Darlcot Manor, and aside from the fact that the equipment looks a bit brighter and shinier, it could almost be thirteen years ago.
Jasmine and Logan managed to get about 80 percent of the original cast and crew back, which is no small feat, and that means that I recognize almost everyone—from camera operators to caterers.
“Come in!” Cynthie’s voice calls, and I climb the steps, pulling the door open.
“Hey, I—” I start before I realize we’re not alone. Cynthie is curled up in the corner of the sofa and Brooke and Declan are perched across from her. Declan’s camera swings in my direction.
“Oh,” I murmur. “Sorry, I didn’t realize you were in the middle of something.”
“No, no, don’t mind us.” Brooke is already leaping to her feet. “We were just doing some preliminary interviews, but it’s great that you’re here. Do you mind if I get Kara to come and mic you?”
I glance at Cynthie, who only looks mildly entertained. Her hair is pulled back, ready for her wig, and her makeup is done, but she’s wearing leggings and an oversize Shania Twain T-shirt.
“Sure,” I say. I guess this documentary business all has to start sometime.
“We’ll just step out for a second,” Brooke says, pulling her phone from her pocket, fingers flying over the screen. “Let you get settled.”
I wait for them to do just that, before I turn back to Cyn, raising my eyebrows. “Is the trailer full of hidden cameras?”
She laughs but carefully switches off the microphone she’s wearing. “Not as far as I know, but I wouldn’t put it past Declan to be peeking through the skylight.”
I huff out a breath. “I haven’t really thought this whole thing through. It’s going to be more complicated than I imagined.”
“We’ll have to be careful,” she agrees, glancing at the mic again as if wanting to double check it’s off. “With us.”
With pretending we’re a couple, she means.
Not for the first time I feel my heart sink at the thought.
Faking a relationship with her when we hated each other—or at least convinced ourselves we did—was torturous enough, but doing it when I can acknowledge I have very real feelings for her is a whole different kind of nightmare.
“What are you doing here anyway?” She tilts her head at me. “I thought you weren’t on the call sheet until this afternoon. I imagined you’d be enjoying a late rise.”
“I brought you coffee,” I say, holding up a pair of travel cups.
“That’s very sweet of you,” she says, accepting the cup with a smile, “but you do know that there are lots of people here who are happy to get me coffee? Or that I could walk over and get one myself.”
“But this is my very own stash,” I confide. “Scott has my trailer set up like a Starbucks.”
She takes a sip, and chokes. “Oh god, Jack, this is like rocket fuel. How many of these have you had this morning?” She gives me a stern look, and in return I try to appear innocent.
“This is my first one.”
“Lie.” She points at me. “You wouldn’t be this upright at six thirty if you hadn’t already had coffee.”
“Fine, it’s my third,” I admit, leaning back against the counter of the thin galley kitchen that faces her seating area, and draining the cup.
Cynthie closes her eyes. “Your heart is going to explode.” She shakes her head. “I’m going to start making you drink chamomile tea.”
“You and what army, Taylor?”
She huffs in amusement. “So aside from bringing me this very strong but very delicious coffee, what are you doing here, really?”
I shrug. “I didn’t want to miss your first scene. And I guess I wanted to check in, make sure you were feeling good.”
Her eyes soften. “I’m doing okay.” Her gaze moves to the window beside her, which looks out over the chaos of the base setup.
“A bit edgy. But no panic attacks or anything. Now that we’re here it’s like muscle memory.
” She manages to smile. “It’s funny the way things work out, isn’t it?
I felt safe here the first time around, happy. ”
“So it’s a good place for you to be now when you’re feeling vulnerable?” I suggest.
“Exactly that.” She nods. “Working for the first time after…” She trails off for a moment.
“Well, I don’t know what would have happened if I’d been on the film I was supposed to be working on now.
I have a feeling it wouldn’t have been great.
Being here, surrounded by people I know.
It helps. I guess we’ll see when I’m on set. ”
“Do you want to run lines?” I ask.
Cynthie’s face lights up. “Really?”
“Scoot over.” I drop onto the sofa beside her and she shuffles down to make room for me. Unfortunately for me (or fortunately, depending on how you look at it) the couch is small enough that when I reach for the script on the table our arms brush against each other, and my heart bumps.
“Okaaaaaay.” Brooke comes bouncing in, followed by the whole motley crew, and Kara efficiently mics me up.
“So, if you’re happy just to keep doing what you were doing, then we’ll grab some footage.
It won’t always feel this intrusive, I promise,” she says earnestly.
“We’ll mostly be melting into the background, but that’s a bit harder to do in the trailers, and I really think glimpses into these spaces will make viewers feel involved. ”
“Sure,” I reply. Kara leaves and Brooke retreats to a corner where she seems to be engrossed in whatever is happening on her phone.
There’s not really any missing Declan, who basically has a camera shoved in our faces, but he tries to be as discreet as possible, and I go through the motions of running lines with Cynthie for her scene this morning.
The problem, of course, is that this is supposed to be behind-the-scenes footage of a loved-up couple, and I don’t know how to convincingly portray that, especially without making Cynthie feel uncomfortable. Fuck, this is such a minefield.
Clearly sensing my discomfort, Cynthie takes charge of the situation.
Twisting herself back into the corner of the L-shaped couch, she stretches out her legs so that they rest in my lap.
She gives me a quick look, and I incline my head ever so slightly.
Then I put my hand on her leg, and she smiles.
We can do this. It’s just about checking in with each other.
I get what she was thinking: we look comfortable together, relaxed.
She leans back into the cushions, and I hold the script in one hand, the other absently running up and down her leggings-clad calf.
She’s wearing fluffy socks, and we laugh and mess around with the lines as we throw them back and forth between us.
Only, the movement of my hand isn’t absent at all.
I’m reading the lines but all my focus is on the feel of her.
And Cynthie Taylor might be the best actress in the whole damn world, but she’s not fooling me.
Every so often I hear her breath catch. When I trace my fingers lazily over her knee and then higher—only slightly higher—there’s color in her face that wasn’t there before.
At one point she squirms, the slightest friction in my lap, and I clench my teeth.
She huffs a tiny chuckle and I get it: I’m not the only one enjoying this.
I just wish we didn’t have a fucking audience.
Then again, if it wasn’t for their presence we wouldn’t be sitting like this in the first place.
Complicated.
Finally, Hannah appears, clutching a clipboard and wearing an earpiece. Her eyes move from the two of us to the camera crew and back, and her smile is on the frozen side.
“Hi!” she says, more chipper than I’ve ever heard her. Panic flickers in her gaze. Hannah is not an actor. I half expect her to start yelling “YES, THIS IS TOTALLY NORMAL BEHAVIOR FOR THEM. BECAUSE THEY ARE A COUPLE. DEFINITELY A COUPLE.”
Instead, she clears her throat. “We need to get you into costume, Cyn,” she manages, and I shoot her an encouraging smile. “They’re almost finished setting up, and Arjun says we’re pretty tight for time to make sure we turnaround for this afternoon.”
Marion has retired since we made the first film, so Arjun has been promoted to first AD, and I know he feels he has big shoes to fill.
Cynthie untangles herself from me and gets to her feet. “Great,” she says, the picture of confidence. “I’ll see you on set?”