Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
Jory stood in Spiral Burgers, trying to keep apart from Atlanta’s hipster and financial elite as they filed in for anchovy-beet–virgin blood burgers and rum-vodka-absinthe lighter-fluid cocktails. He hadn’t had lunch again, to prep again for his test, and then he’d had to cancel again because the shoot went over time. Since Spiral was steps away from his condo, he’d forced himself to wade into the infamous burger joint to get some calories in the form of takeout.
After his conflict with Cali, the whole day had fallen apart. With no pepper grinder in hand, Paolo’s performance had become leagues worse than even Jory could have imagined. Paolo knew he was flaming out, which he first tried to cover with bravado and jokes, then with sulky bitterness as he blamed Cali for changing things at the last minute. Who knew a pepper grinder would make such a difference to the hack?
Cali had.
Meanwhile Cali had become quiet and withdrawn. She’d stopped engaging the crew and the actors, only giving the most cursory direction while pouring over her notes, anxiety thinning her lips as she second-guessed, then triple guessed, her choices.
Jory knew he was the reason for the fallout. He’d been out of control all day, a logical progression from the week he’d had. He’d been sleeping for shit. He knew the results from the endoscopy could potentially put his mind at ease, as well as his father’s, but Jory kept thinking back to that time before they’d known about his mother’s cancer. How simple life had seemed, how ordinary. Then the frenzied rush to live life to the max after her diagnosis, the trips they’d taken, his parents’ vow renewal ceremony, the school he’d skipped just to be with her. Then the constant sickness, the treatments, the relentless hope, the desperation, and finally the lonely emptiness that never seemed to end. He didn’t want to think about the possibility, even a remote one, of going down that path and taking his loved ones with him.
Maybe that’s why he couldn’t stop thinking about Cali. She’d filled the vacuum of his thoughts with an unintentional campaign to capture his every waking moment. He tried to keep things professional, but then she’d walk by, and he’d watch her long legs cross the set; or she’d tweak a light, and he’d be delighted by the effect; or she’d make one of the burly grips laugh, and he’d wonder what it’d take to make her laugh like that.
On the other side of the mind-fucking spectrum, there was the nightly call from Howard, “checking in,” which really meant he wanted to gossip, to wheedle information from his operative on the inside, who was forced to try to find damning evidence that just wasn’t there. Jory deflected most of Howard’s questions with variations on “everything’s going better than well,” or by telling convoluted stories that never went anywhere, leaving Howard slightly confused.
If anything, Jory was the problem on set, losing his cool over Cali’s callous view on love. It’s not like he wanted love himself—dragging someone into his morass of possible medical issues was the last thing he wanted to do—but to deny the depth of the real love he’d witnessed between his parents felt like some kind of betrayal. Especially because that love hadn’t been reserved just for them, but had enveloped everyone who came into their sphere. When his mother died, his father had been devastated. But instead of closing off, he’d opened up, merging his despair with Jory’s so they could face their future together in the shared knowledge they had each other.
To hear Cali say love didn’t exist had shaken him. For someone so passionate, so full of creativity and life, to not believe in love felt deeply wrong. Like discovering beautiful colors skimming across water were made by an oil spill. The beauty above covering something ugly underneath.
His skittering mind slowly returned to the present as he vaguely took in the terrifyingly efficient brunette at the cash register when she shouted out, “’70s Elvis?”
“That’s me,” someone called out.
“And—” The brunette peered over her shoulder as a teenager dressed in white prep cook linens handed her two bags: one bulging and sweating grease, the other neat and orderly. The woman turned back to wave Jory forward. “The cheeseburger.”
He reached for his bag and brushed shoulders with the owner of the ’70s Elvis. Immediately he pulled back to apologize and froze when he saw that it was Cali Daniels.
Her eyes widened with horror as she took a step back. She forced out a tremulous fake smile. “Oh, hey.”
She looked tired and drawn. Her hair fell across her forehead, and he noticed the careless waves had tangled in places because of the hectic day. He had the sudden urge to run his hands through her hair to set it to rights.
Cali shoved her own hands in her pockets. “I just got some takeout to take home. To eat.”
“Hence the name takeout .”
Cali sighed and her “friendly” look melted into one of exhaustion. “Yeah.”
Jory immediately regretted his poor attempt at a joke. Was he this much of a dick to everyone? Or was he just noticing it in her presence, each thoughtless wound he inflicted written across her expressive face. He was so tired of himself.
He searched for some small talk to ease the tension. “The production assistant told me this is the best burger joint in Atlanta.”
Cali nodded.
He nodded back.
They awkwardly nodded.
Another customer bustled into the restaurant, pushing his way past Cali to the cash register, forcing her to move closer to Jory. The efficient brunette put their bags down to talk to the new customer while Cali searched for an escape. Nerves assailed him. “I don’t usually eat burgers, but I didn’t have any lunch, and I couldn’t bring myself to translate the bespoke menus at the other restaurants in this hood.”
Cali’s features flooded with concern, all trace of their awkward exchange gone. “You didn’t eat lunch?”
“No.” He frowned as he tried to understand her sudden change. Was she worried about him? An incomprehensible, soft glow bloomed in his chest.
“Why didn’t you eat lunch?”
“Uh …” He shifted his feet, not wanting to admit the real reason. “I usually run at lunch. Or do Pilates.”
A stupefied look replaced the one of concern. “You run at lunch. Or do Pilates.” Her gaze traveled his body as though assessing the truth of his words, and he felt his internal temperature rise.
“I can’t bring weights to work, and Pilates is a good way to train without them. Because you use your body weight.”
“I know how Pilates works.” Cali’s mouth quirked into an almost smile.
He shifted again. Why did he feel so uncomfortable? He was a grown man. He didn’t have to justify himself.
“So, you didn’t eat all day?” Cali asked.
“I had a muffin.” At least he thought he’d had a muffin.
“That’s not eating.”
Jory shrugged. “I just … forgot.”
Cali turned her attention to the brunette, whose focus was back on them, her amenable customer service facade wearing thin. “How can men simply forget to eat? I would never forget to eat.”
The brunette shook her head. “I would never forget to eat.”
Cali shook her head along with her, compatriots in the struggle to understand the ridiculousness that was The Male.
The brunette held up the bags and shook them. “Luckily you have food right here.”
Cali nabbed the two bags and handed his over. “You’re also staying at The Towers, right? Come on. I’ll walk you.”
“Because I might faint from starvation on the dangerous streets of Buckhead?” Jory quipped.
“I’m sorry.” Cali stopped suddenly and brought a hand to her ear. “Was that a joke?”
“I hope so.” Jory wasn’t sure. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had to actively charm someone. Charm used to come easily to him, especially with women. He’d had a lot of relationships in the past, some short, some long, but all fun and interesting and experimental, and never straying into anything too serious. His life as a DP meant long hours and sometimes months away on location shoots. Most women who wanted something deeper figured out he wasn’t physically available and left him, with no hard feelings, for more stable pastures. He’d had vague thoughts of settling down before his health scare but those quickly vanished when the test results came in.
For some reason, he wanted to impress Cali with his adroit sophistication and cosmopolitan outlook, but at the moment he couldn’t string a coherent thought together.
Cali raised her eyebrows at the brunette in a telepathic message. Look at him making a joke …
“You’d be surprised how dangerous this neighborhood is.” The brunette turned to Jory. “The real estate agents can be vicious.”
Cali called over her shoulder on her way out, “I’ll make sure he doesn’t take anyone’s card.” She pushed open the door, pausing for him to follow.
Jory forced a saunter, trying to regain his equilibrium. He stopped when he reached her, holding the door so she could precede him, his grandmother’s etiquette lessons taking over. They walked toward their condos in slightly less awkward silence as he frantically searched through those etiquette lessons for polite conversation starters.
Cali beat him to it. “The condos are nice.”
He was flummoxed again. He despised the production condos; their lack of personality drained his own. He couldn’t help but compare his family’s beach house to the condo. The warm wood floors instead of concrete. The large windows looking over the ocean instead of the city. He’d spent weeks there last year during his scare, swimming in the water alone, breathing in salt air and soaking in the chirps of the sand pipers.
He wondered now what it would be like to share that sacred space with someone who’d never been there. Someone who might appreciate its small miracles. His eyes flitted to Cali and he struggled to remember what they were talking about. “Sure.”
“You don’t think so?” Her voice quavered, the new kid trying to figure out what’s cool.
Oh right, the condos. “They’re fine. The usual.”
“Sure.” Cali grew quiet.
He cursed himself. This might be her first time doing a shoot out of town. He supposed the pampering that was de rigueur for a director could be exciting for a newbie. At least he guessed it could be exciting. He should be able to find something neutral to talk about for God’s sake that wasn’t about the stupid condo or work. She seemed obsessed about food. Maybe that. “What’s on a ’70s Elvis burger?”
“Pardon?” Cali started, as though shocked he would ask her a direct question.
“The ’70s Elvis burger. What’s on it?” He motioned toward her greasy bag.
“Oh. It has deep fried bacon, plantains, and peanut butter.”
Jory blinked. “That’s disgusting.”
“I’m hoping it’s on the delicious side of disgusting.” Cali’s face filled with excitement. “I like all of those things. Why wouldn’t they go together?”
“Because it’s not natural,” he blurted out, appalled.
“Possibly, but I like variety. Change keeps things fresh. Can’t let yourself get stuck with one burger. Plus I need the extra energy. I move around a lot.”
“Yes. You do.”
Cali stole a glance at him, and he could see she was trying to figure out if he was giving her a compliment or not. All Jory knew was when she moved he watched her do it—and watched nothing else.
He put up his hand, counting off his fingers. “You move from Video Village to the set upward of twenty times a scene to give direction when most directors would either yell over the flats or go through Dan. There’s the going up and down of ladders to investigate lights or explore odd angles where you hope to put the camera, which is why I ask Cesare to hide them.”
“I was wondering where the ladders had gone.”
“The ADs are constantly searching for you either in wardrobe or the trailers or in set dec because walking 10,000 steps a day seems to be an interior goal.”
“I’ve always wanted to clock that.”
“I’ll get you the app. And then there’s the obvious knee bouncing.” Jory went quiet, realizing he’d revealed just how much he did watch her. To her, and to himself.
After a moment, as if sensing his embarrassment, she took pity on him. “What did you get to eat?”
Jory eyed his bag, disappointed in himself. It wasn’t a red meat day, and he was irritated he’d gone off his schedule. “Cheeseburger.”
“Yeah, but with what?”
“Just a cheeseburger.”
“Just a cheeseburger?” Her eyebrows furrowed in confusion.
“Just a cheeseburger.”
“You just got a cheeseburger at Spiral?”
“Yes.”
“No habanero relish or fried pickles or onion rings?”
“No.”
“No candied pineapple or creamed avocado or chocolate chips?”
“What? God, no. That’s a thing?” Jory screwed up his face, wondering who had come up with that offense to basic cuisine.
“Huh.” Cali regarded him like he was a bug under glass. A rare, ridiculous bug.
Jory narrowed his eyes. “You’re awfully judgmental about my burger.”
“While you were so open minded about mine. But it’s fine, I get it. You like things simple.” A knowing smile curved her lips.
“Yes.”
“Clear-cut.”
“Yes.”
“Straightforward.”
“I assume there’s tomatoes and lettuce and some kind of secret sauce.”
“Secret sauce? No!” Cali gasped in faux shock.
Jory stopped walking. “What. Is wrong. With my burger?”
Cali giggled. She actually giggled.
He should hate that, but he didn’t.
“It just seems to me that if you’re at one of Atlanta’s most popular burger joints that’s famous for its wacky toppings, you might indulge in one topping of wackiness. That’s all.”
Jory tilted his head back as though beseeching the heavens for guidance. “You think I’m boring.”
“No, no!” Cali backtracked. “I think you have clear ideas of what is the most effective way to be in the world. For example, you might be one of those guys who has a calendar of what you’re going to eat that day. Tuesday, grilled salmon and kale. Wednesday, chicken breast and kale. Thursday, kale with a side of kale …”
“I’m feeling a definite making-fun-of-me vibe.” Jory started walking again, hoping the movement would cover his blush over being found out.
“Not at all. It’s very responsible.”
They arrived at the condo and stepped through the sliding doors in sync.
Jory put on a kindergarten teacher tone he hoped would annoy her. “Wacky toppings distract from quality. When it’s simple you can taste the burger, see if the meat is juicy and thick, if it’s cooked just right, if it’s fresh or organic. You can tell if it’s the real thing. Not some processed crap that is disguised by the taste of a fried pickle.”
“Yeah, but fried pickles are sooooo good.”
Cali pushed the elevator button and he watched her as she considered his point of view. He was suddenly curious about what she would come up with. “I think I like what it means to take the proven basics and pair them with the unexpected. Turn something simple into another thing you’d never imagined if you hadn’t taken the risk. Even if you end up with something inedible in the search. Hey!” A wide smile bloomed. “We’ve got a little metaphor going on with our burgers.”
“No. We don’t.” Jory feigned a scowl.
She returned his scowl with a mock one of her own, shaking her head with him in agreement. Jory remembered a time when he was experimental. His youth had been full of films he’d made just for the hell of it, because they’d touched some chord of inspiration in him. Films that would never lead him to the greater goal of being an A-list DP or a director for Jeff Cummings. Films scoffed at by men who could make those things happen for Jory’s career if he only did a little dirty work. He vaguely recalled that spark Cali so easily exuded with every breath.
He followed her into the elevator, keenly feeling the close quarters of the space. She turned her attention to the floor indicator as the elevator rose and he found himself contemplating her mouth. He got the sudden urge to see if that spark would travel from her lips into his if he kissed her. He made a little growl in his throat and stubbornly turned his eyes to the floor indicator too.
Cali sighed. “My burger is probably going to make me sick.”
“Don’t back down now. You’re in, you might as well enjoy it.”
Cali’s burger bag rustled by his ear. She spoke in an enticingly low voice, “You want to try a bite?”
Fuck yes, he wanted a bite. And if he didn’t get out of this elevator in the next two seconds he was going to push her against the wall and take it. Rules about biting colleagues be damned.
“I’m not eating your gross burger.”
“You might like it,” she sang.
The elevator door opened and Jory stepped across the threshold with a rush of relief. But he couldn’t help turning back as the door slid between them. “It’s Tuesday. I don’t eat peanut butter on Tuesdays.”
Cali gasped. “I knew it! I knew you had an eating calendar!”
The doors shut closed with a whoosh .
Jory walked down the hall, irritated by the smile on his face.