Chapter 8
eight
. . .
Gavin
“Gavin?” Rachel called. “Can I speak with you?”
I turned from the theater’s exit. Tech rehearsal was over, the cast and crew had left, and the whir of the night custodian’s vacuum came through the double doors at the back of the house.
Rachel stood by the stage, clipboard in hand, her face tilted expectantly.
“Of course.”
I strode toward her, hoping this wouldn’t take long. I didn’t want to keep Jordana waiting.
“Are you free tonight?” Rachel offered a smile. “We’re overdue for a catchup. I know I need a stiff drink after today’s rehearsal.”
I rested my hands on the back of a seat.
“For sure. We’ll catch up soon. I need to finish unpacking tonight. Most of my stuff is still in boxes.”
She nodded, her short, curly hair bouncing.
Rachel liked consistency, and she’d had the same haircut since I met her twelve years ago.
Her curls were as energetic as when I’d first spotted her as assistant director on our college’s production of The Tempest, arguing passionately with the faculty director over whether Prospero was a benevolent leader or a ruthless control freak.
“Let me help you!” she exclaimed. “I haven’t seen your new place yet.”
Rachel was the last person who needed to know what would happen at my apartment tonight. Between her warning to stay away from her student, and her laundry list of reasons for hating my book project, this week’s shoot had to stay under wraps.
“That’s okay. I’d rather unpack myself. You can come over when the apartment’s set up.”
“I understand. It’s a big change. You probably have a lot of feelings about moving here.”
None of which we needed to discuss.
“But Gavin,” she continued, “you shouldn’t be a hermit. You went for days in New York without talking to anyone, didn’t you?”
“I like my own company.”
Rachel was right. The past six months in New York had been a darker hole than I was willing to admit.
Showering, shaving, eating regular meals, interacting with other human beings…
all of that had dropped by the wayside. I’d pulled myself out of the pit of despair for lighting and photography gigs, then fallen back into it when they ended.
“People will love you once they get to know you,” Rachel insisted. “If you let them. We missed you at the Mug and Trencher last night.”
Last night.
Last night, I’d come dangerously close to crossing too many lines with Jordana.
And now, she was all I could think about.
Walking in on her with that man-child who treated her like a used tissue. Setting up the stage lights for her. Telling her what I’d do if she were in my bed — I must have lost my mind.
And the impromptu shoot in the diner? I’d been in a fucking trance. Once I had Jordana in my camera’s frame, I couldn’t get enough.
This desire needed to be squashed, and fast. I knew how risky it was to have feelings for a model. For years, I’d been trying to get this book made — to see my work recognized. If I didn’t focus and maintain a professional distance, that dream could be ripped away.
“You should get out there!” Rachel said. “Network. Mingle.”
Two words I hated, a fact Rachel was well aware of. I gave her a withering look, and she laughed.
“How about lunch tomorrow,” I offered. “You can show me around Hawthorne. Give me the Rachel report on everything: the good, the bad, and the ugly.”
“You got it.” She patted my arm. “But there’s nothing ugly in Hawthorne. This town is sweet through and through.”
“So I hear. Get some sleep.”
I turned to leave, but her hand tightened on my elbow.
“Gavin, wait. There’s something else.”
I sighed inwardly. “Lay it on me, Rach.”
The whir of the vacuum from the lobby stopped, leaving a sudden silence in its wake.
“I’ll keep this short.” Her voice dropped. “Did you give Corey a hard time last night?”
I coughed. “You mean Mr. Wonderful? The prince of the theater department?”
“Gavin…”
“I don’t like him. The kid’s an asshole.”
“Some days, you don’t like anyone. Why do you care about Corey?”
I gripped the back of a seat, trying to detach from my annoyance.
Rachel was perceptive, but she had a habit of seeing only what she wanted to see.
I was willing to bet she knew nothing of her lead actor’s darker side.
The story she wanted to believe was that, after years of grinding away at the theater scene in New York, she now taught at an idyllic college in an adorable New England town, where everything was perfect and had been since she arrived four years ago. There’s nothing ugly in Hawthorne.
“His behavior after rehearsal was inappropriate. He needed a reminder that this production isn’t all about him.”
She tapped her pen on her clipboard. “Gavin, you’re not faculty. Yet. It’s not your job to remind anyone of anything. If you want that teaching position next semester, you need to watch how you behave with students. Now, what did he do?”
I tipped my head toward the double doors at the back of the house. “He badmouthed one of your actresses. Right in that lobby. Incited a whole group of guys to join in.”
“Shit. We’ve already had enough problems on this show. Which girl?”
“Are you going to do something?”
“Yes, of course. I’ll speak to the cast about being respectful. But which girl was it?”
“Your lead.”
Rachel took a long, deliberate breath through her nostrils. When she released it, the sound echoed through the empty theater.
“Right,” she said, with grim satisfaction, as if I’d walked straight into her trap. “Let’s discuss that. Specifically, your interactions with Jorie.”
I tensed, releasing the seat to pace up the aisle before turning around. “Is there a problem?”
“If you have to ask, you already know. Seriously, what are you thinking? I saw you at lunch.” Her lip curled. “You brought her a drink, flirted with her… I warned you, Gavin. That girl is bad news for you.”
My hackles rose. “Relax. Take it easy.”
Rachel tossed her clipboard onto a chair. “She’s a student. You know better. Stay away from her.”
I glanced at the glowing green EXIT sign over the side door, picturing Jordana waiting by my car.
“Rach, I know you love to direct.” I tried to speak patiently. “I’ve let you do it before. But this time, you can’t.”
“That was a low blow.” She polished her glasses on her sweater and put them back on.
“Didn’t we say we’d let bygones be bygones?
I know the past year has been awful for you, and I hate that.
But you can’t just rebound with a student.
Especially this student. I’m directing you for your own good, and for Jorie’s.
I will not let you put each other or my show at risk. ”
I shook my head, trying to laugh it off, and took a step toward the exit.
“There’s no rebounding here. Let’s all be friendly and do our jobs, and the show will be fine.”
“No, Gavin.” She moved to follow me, her voice rising, and planted herself in front of the stage. “You and Jorie are oil and fire. You cannot mix. I know what you can do to women, okay? You’re pretty fucking devastating when you want to be.”
Wincing, I folded my arms. The set loomed behind Rachel — Stanley and Stella’s shitty apartment, their grimy little love nest, its own world of sexual devastation.
“That was a low blow.”
She leaned in. “Then don’t screw things up! You’ve been here less than two weeks, and you’re already smitten with a college student who’s quite possibly a sex addict.”
I winced. Was it true? I’d been taking Jordana on her own terms; was she more damaged than I’d realized?
“We’re friends, that’s all.”
“Friends,” Rachel repeated flatly. She waved a hand at the stage.
“Jorie’s a brilliant actress, but she’s troubled.
You need to understand—” Her voice dropped even further.
“Last summer, a few of us went to a workshop in Amsterdam. I saw how Jorie behaved. Like she couldn’t help herself; she had to charm and entice the men around her.
She was good at it, too. Until she had…an episode.
She was out late partying. If Eden had been with us, this might not have happened; Eden keeps Jorie in check.
But she wasn’t, and Jorie ended up in the emergency room with alcohol poisoning.
Said the whole night was fuzzy, that she’d slept with at least one man, maybe two, strangers from a bar…
She couldn’t remember. I had to get her Plan B from the pharmacy, hold her hand, the whole bit. ”
My mind reeled. The stage blurred.
“That must have been scary for her.”
How many nights had Jordana had like that? It sounded like she was trying to blot herself out.
“It should be scary for you,” Rachel retorted. “You need the truth, Gavin. I’m trying to scare you off.”
Far from it. Hearing this story only made me feel more protective of Jordana.
“Was she okay?” My voice was low, choked.
“As okay as she could be.” Rachel rapped the lip of the stage, a look of understanding breaking over her face. “You want to save her. That’s it, isn’t it? I know you. And if your savior complex has a massive hard-on for this girl right now—”
“Don’t.” I held up my hand. “Don’t speak about her that way. Or me.”
Rachel sighed, dropping into a front-row seat. “You barely know her.”
I sat beside her, trying to get her to look at me. “That story is Jordana’s to tell, not yours. She didn’t agree to have it shared. It’s personal.”
Rachel closed her eyes. “She's my student. That is personal.”
“She's an adult.” I stared at Rachel until she opened her eyes. “Adults make choices. Adults make mistakes. Are we above that?”
Rachel’s cheeks turned bright red. “What are you saying? Don’t drag my past into this.”
“What's past is prologue.”
Heaving a sigh, she stood and gave the stage a decisive pat. “Just stay away from Jorie Green. Okay? Do not sleep with her, do not save her, and don’t, under any circumstances, take pictures of her. Get settled in Hawthorne, finish the show, and date women your own age.”
I glared at her, too annoyed to answer.