Chapter 37 Jack
In the end, Cynthie comes back on set and we shoot the scene without any further incident.
As much as it killed me not to go after her, it looks like Jasmine was right when she said it should be her.
When the pair of them finally return to the room, there’s a new light in Cynthie’s eye, a spark of determination that I recognize.
“Are you sure this is okay?” I ask, quietly. “If it’s not, we can walk away right now, figure something else out?”
“Jasmine already made that offer,” she says, “but I want to do it now. I have all this energy that I want to send somewhere.” At my questioning look, she squeezes my hand. “I promise, I’ll tell you everything later.”
I guess we’ll just add it to the long list of things we need to talk about.
At first I’m hesitant, but it’s clear that she means it, that she’s glad to be working, that she’s fully in the scene again.
I’m watching her as closely as any camera.
Feeling her start to panic during our first take had taken years off my life.
This time when we run through the whole scene, she’s totally present, and slowly we manage to fall into it together, the Emilia and Edward of it all.
“Cut,” Jasmine calls after the fourth take. “I think we got it.”
“That was fucking great.” Logan grins. “Or should I say—” He cuts himself off abruptly, though the words great fucking practically hang in the air. His eyes widen in panic and he clears his throat. “A moving, consensual scene performed by two professionals.”
He and Jasmine huddle over the monitor, watching the footage back, while Cynthie and I slip into the robes that Nisha offers us.
“That last take was amazing,” Nisha says. “I got goose bumps.”
“Thanks.” Cynthie nods. “That one did feel good, right?” She looks to me.
“Yeah,” I agree. “We really connected.”
“That’s it exactly!” Nisha enthuses. “You could see it, the love between the characters. It was beautiful.” Jasmine calls her over then, and she leaves us alone.
Cynthie absently reaches for one of the prop letters that are strewn across the bed behind us, smoothing the paper with her fingers.
“It’s amazing that the prop department made all of these.
” She sighs. “Hundreds of love letters from Edward to Emilia, and they’re so romantic.
It means something, doesn’t it, that she had them for all those years, that she could pull them out and look at them, and see their love story.
‘My soul aches for you,’?” she reads, then she looks up at me and grins.
“And what do we get? A string of aubergines in a WhatsApp chat.”
“I happen to be excellent at crafting a romantic WhatsApp message,” I say. “Full sentences. Not an aubergine in sight.”
“Swoon.” Cynthie laughs. “I bet you even use Oxford commas.”
“Naturally.”
“Okay, we have it,” Logan calls, grabbing our attention and giving us a thumbs-up.
“Moving on,” Jasmine agrees, and the small crew begin the process of clearing out of this setup, on to the next.
Fortunately, Cynthie and I are finished for the day.
In fact, we have the whole weekend off, a rare occurrence in such a packed filming schedule.
Brooke and Declan are walking behind us as we leave, and I throw a casual arm around Cynthie’s shoulder.
It’s become a habit to touch her whenever we see the documentary crew.
Sometimes I want to follow them around, just so I can hold Cynthie’s hand.
As she leans into me, yawning, it feels ordinary in a way that thrills me—like it’s something we do all the time, like I can touch her because she’s mine.
“I’m exhausted,” she admits.
“It’s been an intense day,” I point out, king of the understatement.
“How about a cup of chamomile tea?” Cynthie suggests.
I grimace. “No thanks.”
“It’s soothing.”
“So is sweet, sweet coffee.”
“Coffee is literally a stimulant, you addict.”
We bicker as we make our way into her trailer, waving goodbye to Brooke and Declan.
My arm drops from Cynthie’s shoulders, and I feel the cold bite in the air as she steps away from me.
This too has become habit: shifting in and out of our togetherness based on who’s around.
Only, this part… I don’t like. Constantly stepping back from her is starting to feel painful, especially after what happened this morning.
It’s not like either one of us can claim that was about anything other than what we wanted. There was no one to perform for then.
Cynthie boils a kettle, placing a mug of brackish water on the table in front of me. I sniff it dubiously. It doesn’t just look like a swamp; it smells like one too.
“I don’t see how this can possibly be good for you,” I say. “You’re all falling victim to some sort of scam run by the tea companies.”
“Ah, yes, Big Tea.” Cynthie nods wisely, slipping into the seat across from me. “Just stop moaning and try it while I text Hannah and tell her the scene went well. She hates when it’s a closed set, but at least it gave her the opportunity to sneak off and spend a few days with her parents.”
I take a reluctant sip, and—yep—it tastes exactly like it looks and smells.
“Do you want to tell me what you and Jasmine got into today?” I ask, nudging the cup away from me.
She does, as succinctly as possible.
“I guess it shouldn’t be a surprise,” I say when she finishes. “After what you told me about him. But still…”
“I know.” Cynthie sighs. “At first I felt worse, like I’d merrily sailed past even more glaring red flags, but actually in a weird way it helps me to understand it better.” She pauses, cradling her mug in her hands. “It was so calculated.”
“And how do you feel about that?” I ask.
“Mostly right now I feel mad as hell.” She gives a shaky laugh. “But that’s actually something of an improvement. I’m going to have to think about what I want to do with all this new information.”
I nod. “That makes sense. It changes things.”
“It does, yes.” She sips her tea, her expression thoughtful.
“So, directing, hey?” I ask after a moment.
Her cheeks pink. “Do you think I’m delusional?”
“I think you can do anything you set your mind to.”
“Jasmine and I talked about it. She suggested I sit in on looking over some of the dailies with her and Logan. She was… kind about it.”
Cynthie sounds astonished about this, and I get why—Jasmine being kind is a curious concept.
“She sees something in you. She always has. It makes sense.”
“It does?”
“Yes, but it doesn’t really matter what I think, or what Jasmine thinks. What do you think?”
She puts her mug down, toys with the string of the tea bag. “I think it feels like a challenge. A fun one. Or at least it did before all the Shawn stuff.”
I swallow my anger. “Then it will again,” I say as lightly as I can manage. “And God knows that the last fun challenge you took on worked out pretty well. Two Golden Globes and an Oscar nom well. You, Cynthie Taylor, are a total badass.”
She looks up at me, and a smile breaks over her face, scrunching her nose. “Yeah, maybe I am.”
Fuck, she’s so cute. “We should really talk about what happened this morning,” I say.
Cynthie’s gaze slips away from mine and she sighs. “Do we have to? We both got a bit carried away. It was bound to happen, wasn’t it?”
“Was it?” I ask, watching her.
She huffs out a breath of frustration. “We’ve both admitted there’s an… attraction between us. And we keep being pushed together, having to pretend to be a couple on- and off-screen. The lines are bound to get blurry.” I’m not sure if it’s me she’s trying to convince, or herself.
I don’t know what to say. I don’t know if I should tell her how I feel.
I don’t know if she shares the feelings I’m finding it impossible to ignore, or if—for her—this really is just a physical thing.
I don’t think that’s the case. Whatever this is, she’s opened up to me in a way that I know is unusual for her.
Perhaps pushing her now would be a mistake.
It’s delicate.
“So we’ve got the weekend off,” she says, changing the subject, and it feels like the moment slips away with it. “Any fun plans?”
I groan, letting her have her way for now. “Yes, actually. I’ve been summoned.”
“Summoned?”
“Lunch at my parents,” I say despondently. “I’m going to drive down early tomorrow and stay over in town.”
Cynthie looks at me for a long moment. Whatever is in my face has her own expression softening.
“What if… I could come with… if you like?” She sounds nervous.
“Come to London with me?” I say blankly. “Have lunch with my parents?”
She twists her fingers together. “Only if you wanted me to. If it’s not intruding. I thought maybe I could be your moral support for once.”
Something warms in my chest. “Really?”
Seeing me smile, her expression lightens. “Of course.”
“I’d love that,” I say, and I remember thirteen years ago when she assumed I didn’t want them to meet her because I was embarrassed by her.
I hate that she could ever have thought that.
“I’m not even going to do the right thing and tell you that you absolutely shouldn’t come because it’s going to be a nightmare.
” I hesitate. “Are you happy to stay at my place afterward? That’s where I was going, and I have a spare room. ”
“You’ve stayed at mine,” she says lightly. “It’s only fair.”
“You’ve got a deal.” I grin. “I’ll pick you up at eight.”
THE NEXT MORNING WE SET out on the four-hour drive to my parents’ house. Cynthie claims control of the playlist, which is my first mistake of the day.
“Please,” I beg. “No more Julie Andrews. It’s giving me traumatic flashbacks.”
“Since Petra started playing her, I’ve really got into her back catalog,” Cynthie muses. “The specials she did with Carol Burnett are brilliant. You just have to detach the music from the overwhelming sense of dread and crippling muscular pain.”
When she sings along to “I Could Have Danced All Night,” I forgive Petra everything. That sweet, husky voice fills the car and I sit back and enjoy it.