Chapter 11 #2
As soon as the water is closer to my ankles than my knees, I drop Nate’s arm and hurry onto dry land alone.
Death is the last thing I want to think about while in a life-taking body of water, and I don’t want Nate to see the effect his words have on me after the humiliation of needing him to complete what little I did of the activity.
Meanwhile, Nate is making the excursions look easy enough to joke through.
It’s the personality everyone wants for the show, but I can’t help feeling it’s at my expense.
If I’m helping Nate, he needs to pay up too.
Nate emerges and swaps his waterlogged mic pack with a dry one that Jamie needlessly helps him attach. Then I make my move.
When his mic is secured, I ask him a question I know will catch him off guard. “I’ve been meaning to ask you something, Brody. Why do you think your brother doesn’t want to meet me?”
Nate chokes and bursts into a coughing fit that’s a sweet melody to my ears after joking around as if he couldn’t have just drowned. As if we both couldn’t have.
“Hard to say,” he manages once the coughing clears.
“Try.” There’s more silence, and Nate seems to search for the right words but comes up short, so I jump back in. “Is it because he was worried he might be a disappointment after meeting you, the one and only Brody Bannam?”
It’s a joke because obviously he isn’t Brody, but it lands wrong. Very wrong, considering the evaporation of all emotion from Nate’s face.
He clears his throat, and his gaze breaks away from mine as he turns to the crew. “I’m ready to go again whenever you all are.”
Nate avoids me the rest of the shoot, which is fine, given he never answered my question, and I had plenty to do for my actual job. It’s also not fine, since we have no one but each other to talk to that evening when we get back to the bungalow.
“Are you not talking to me?” I ask once we’re inside our supposed oasis after a silent walk back.
There’s a long pause, then an obnoxious observation from Nate. “I’m not not talking to you.”
“Then what are you doing?”
He shrugs, but the gesture is stilted. Nate is choosing to let whatever triggered this go. “Getting ready to order room service. You want anything?”
After today’s events and continued jet lag, I’m more exhausted than hungry.
“Wine,” I say, desperate to unwind. Maybe I’d pour a glass or take the entire bottle, run a bath, and blast Taylor Swift’s latest album.
He picks up the tablet for ordering. “Rosé?”
I raise an eyebrow. How does he know my go-to wine choice? Other than it’s a wonderful wine.
Sensing my question, he says, “You had rosé at dinner last night. Thought it was a preference?”
“Rosé would be great. Do they have a dessert menu? I could go for something chocolate after today.”
Nate scrolls on the tablet. “They have fresh-baked cookies.”
“Perfect! I’ll take that. Nothing goes better with wine than cookies.”
This time, Nate raises a brow. “What about actual food? You’re not having cookies for dinner.”
I couldn’t stomach eating sandwiches, chips, and mango slices from the resort bistro with the crew.
Not when they were all discussing how to edit the footage to make it look like I was taking part.
Instead, I wrapped up my lunch and ate closer to 4 p.m. when my nerves settled, despite Nate being back out on the water.
That was a few hours ago, so not long enough to be starving like Nate.
Cookies are the perfect solution. A person could have one (if they had insane levels of self-restraint), five-ish depending on the size, or the whole dang batch if the world aligned.
With today and the rosé, I’m easily considering the latter two.
“Watch me,” I say. “Actually, don’t watch me.
I’m going to take my dinner to the bathtub for a much-needed break from all of this.
” I wave my hand in a circle to signal needing a break from Nate when really I mean him and the show.
If I’m going to get through Rush, two weeks with him, and another change in plans, I need a few minutes alone to recover.
Nate rolls his eyes and places the order.
My bath is prepped by the time the food and drinks arrive, and Nate has finished setting up a writing station on the deck.
He unpacks the delivery bags, producing a bottle of rosé and a blended beverage sealed in a mason jar.
“You weren’t kidding about the tropical drinks, huh?”
He pulls the jar to his chest in feigned insult. “It’s vacation in a glass.”
“You’re on vacation. Unless you forgot you’re in Fiji?”
“Didn’t forget. I just don’t think this qualifies. It’s work, and my company is somewhat hostile. Probably because she exists on coffee, wine, and cookies.” He hands me a box labeled cookies that’s deliciously warm to the touch.
“A healthy balance.”
He hands me another container.
“What’s this?”
“You don’t have to eat it, but I wanted you to have something else in case you wanted real food or got hungry later.
It’s a seasonal salad with grilled chicken.
Not because I think you should only eat salad or watch your figure or whatever else people sometimes associate with salads—a perfectly innocent and often delicious dish, might I add.
” Nate’s words are coming out in a rush, and I don’t know whether to be insulted or laugh.
Before I can interject, he barrels on. “We don’t have a microwave in here, so I thought this would be the easiest thing to save and come back to later if you didn’t want it now.
I should have thought that through better.
Sorry, let me take that back, and we can pretend this never happened. ”
I pull my stack of food boxes closer to my chest. “No, I want it. Thank you.”
Nate sighs in relief. “You’re welcome.”
I give him a tight-lipped smile. With an arm wrapped around my stack of takeout boxes and my wine and glass pinched in my other hand, I head toward the bathroom only to realize the door is closed and my hands are full. Of course.
“I’ve got it,” Nate says, hurrying over.
“Thanks,” I manage as he holds the door open.
I brush against him as I pass through, the feel of his body against my arm reminding me of the jet ski.
My arms wrapped around him, holding on for dear life—and trusting him with mine.
How, despite the circumstances and the fact he’s Gnat and not Brody, he felt safe.
Confusing, but nothing a long bath and some wine can’t fix.
Maybe it’s the third glass of rosé’s fault or Nate’s general thoughtfulness today, but I decide to bring up Jamie as we’re getting ready for bed.
“Do you think it’s weird Brody never mentioned Jamie?” I ask, hoping the question sounds casual.
Nate pipes paste onto his toothbrush. “Depends. How often do you two sit around just chatting about the film crew?”
“Not often, but I’ve heard a lot more about Dave and Corbin than Jamie.”
He keeps brushing, then spits into the sink. “So you have heard of Jamie.”
“Not in the same way I’ve heard about Dave and Corbin.”
“I guess I don’t understand the question,” he says between brushing.
“Forget it.” I’m already retreating to the bedroom when Nate pokes his head out of the bathroom.
“No, come on. What is it you want to know?”
I sigh, not daring to look at Nate’s face as I ask my question.
It’s too pathetic. “Brody’s never said much about Jamie.
I didn’t really think it was weird until I found out Jamie is a woman and not part of the dude club Brody makes all this thrill-seeker stuff out to be.
I guess I’m wondering if there’s something I should know? ”
There’s a long pause, and I think Nate won’t answer or he’ll retort with something snarky. I’m not sure which is worse. When I turn, though, his brushing has stilled, and he’s considering my question. He goes to the sink, spits, and rinses before coming back out to face me.
“Brody and I have never talked much about his show or my writing, so I can’t say why he would or wouldn’t choose to talk to you about Jamie.
What I do know is Brody talks about you.
A lot. To me and probably anyone else who would listen.
That says a lot more about Brody than any perhaps unintentional editing of minor details, like who all comprises his film crew. ”
He’s right. That says something, even if I’m not sure what. It’s enough that once Nate is asleep, his snores drowning out the other resort guests giggling their way down the pier, I download the eBook of his first novel.