Chapter 13
13
Can we get some wind on the lovers before my Botox wears off? Please and thank you!
Laurel Chevalier has more than likely never turned down a cigarette. You can tell from the almost painful authenticity in her vocal fry. It’s not an affect, she earned that singed larynx. This is also evident in the faint odor of tobacco that announces her presence in any room. Vices aside, I’ve been counting my lucky stars since Lydia told me we’d finally booked her for a shoot after years of failed attempts at doing so. Not only is she a legendary videographer who’s held her own as a woman artist in a male-dominated industry, but she’s directed some of the most iconic music videos of the past three decades.
Laurel’s just requested wind, if not for practical reasons, then at least for artistic ones. With only a shiny metal pole between Miles and me, I’m trying not to squirm under the intensity of his unbroken gaze. We’re on the first scene of the video shoot and so far, it’s been a whole lot of “hurry up and wait” while Laurel’s director of photography sets up the shot. Along with about a dozen extras and a handful of dancers, Miles and I are on a soundstage crammed into a replica of the 4 train. Within seconds, that implausible gust of wind kicks on in the interior compartment, and a shiver runs up my spine.
“You cold?” Miles asks as his eyes skate over the goose bumps that are now peppering the exposed skin of my shoulders and arms. Because of Laurel’s tight schedule, a video that was supposed to be taking place on a hot summer day in New York City had to be scheduled way out of season. It’s February in Midtown Manhattan, and I’m wearing a ribbed tank top and cutoff jean shorts. We may be on a heated soundstage, but it’s still frigid.
“Always,” I say, swallowing hard. I haven’t been nervous for a video shoot since my first one more than eight years ago. But the stakes have never seemed so high. I also haven’t truly had to act out a part like I’ll be expected to do today. Usually, I just have to nail the choreography while striking the right balance between confident and sexy, all while lip-synching to vocals I laid down in the studio. But today I have to convince people I’m in love. Something I probably should have perfected over the past few years.
“You mind?” Miles asks, before placing his hands like brackets on either side of my arms. He’s left about a two-inch gap so that we aren’t quite touching yet. But it feels like we are. Heat radiates from his palms, warming my skin from a distance. I nod yes without thinking much of what granting my permission means. And then his hands are on me, and a full-body shudder rolls from my feet up to the top of my head. I fight the urge to let my eyes flutter closed. But then I give in.
“Speed!” the DP calls out to indicate that the cameras are now rolling.
We aren’t recording sound, so Laurel calls out, “Action!” next.
“Roll music!” the sound operator shouts, and any chance I had to savor the moment melts away.
Like I’ve been snapped out of a trance, my eyes shoot open. Miles’s touch quickly drops away, and all that gooey warmth goes with it. We practically snap apart to take our places on opposite sides of the train, while the seductive drumbeat and percussive guitar intro to “No Ordinary Love” fill the space around us. The camera slowly tracks toward us from the back of the train, making its way past the extras and dancers, which gives us a few seconds to get on our marks. On my way, I rehearse Laurel’s notes in my mind.
We’re filming the scene in one long take, so once I reach my mark with my back to the train door, just like we’d rehearsed, I begin by checking my phone and swiping open a text message from my imaginary ex-boyfriend. I pinch my brow and release my neck so that my head thuds on the grimy window behind me. We’re rigged up on a fake track so the train rumbles and shakes as if we were coursing speedily through the tunnel. Humidifiers pump moisture into the air, so despite the aesthetic wind, it starts to feel muggy and damp—like a true New York summer underground.
I haven’t looked over at Miles yet, though I know he’s standing directly across from me. And tension coils in my stomach because I know—per Laurel’s notes—that after I toss my phone in my bag, massage my temples, and groan, when I look up, I’ll lock eyes with a tall, handsome stranger. And from that moment on, our imaginary love story will take flight.
First, you’ll just look at each other until I give my signal. Then, like magnets, you’ll both step forward to the center of the train, with only the balancing pole between you. At this point, I just want you to talk to each other. Chitchat. Make each other smile and laugh. It doesn’t matter what you talk about really, because the conversation I want to capture is the one that happens every time your eyes meet.
I glance up, and sure enough, Miles is there with his eyes boring into me. A small half smirk on his face takes me by surprise, and a nervous burst of laughter floats out of me. Can it be possible I’ve been out of the game so long that I don’t even know how to pretend to flirt with a man I’m insanely attracted to? I immediately kick myself for already breaking character, then remember Laurel’s number one rule for this first long take— No cuts! No matter what, we keep rolling. With my head back in the game, I focus in on his face. In response to my awkward laugh, Miles’s smirk has stretched into a wide smile. And something like a hunger pang has settled low in my belly.
His gaze falls to my tote bag, and something serious briefly clouds his features, like perhaps he’s wondering what on the phone could have upset me just now. I make a mental note to compliment him on his acting chops later on during our break.
I allow my eyes to free-fall and run the length of him, drinking him in. At the same time, I am keenly aware of the multiple cameras strategically positioned to capture our every move. I find their presence comforting—like a safety net. As long as the cameras are rolling, I know I have the creative freedom to let go and enjoy the intensity of this attraction, to give in to this magnetic pull. Because after all, it’s just for show.
Okay, everybody, take forty-five!
Laurel releases us for our first break of the day, and Rodney scurries over to me with my trusty fluffy robe—the one I always make sure to carry with me for long days on drafty sets. After helping me bundle up, he brandishes my cozy Ugg boots, assisting me as I slip them on. It occurs to me in this moment, as it does at odd times throughout any given day, just how much of a lucky fool I am despite all the mess I’ve recently found myself in.
Without thinking, I reach out and pull my oldest friend into a tight hug.
“Don’t wrinkle me, bitch! You know I hate creases,” he demands, returning the tight squeeze. “What’s this for anyway?”
“I couldn’t do any of it without you. You know that, right?” I tell him, because I’m certain I don’t say it enough.
“Trust, my love. I am well aware,” he replies, with a gentle pat on my cheek. “Besides, I get paid for this.”
I roll my eyes lightheartedly and stalk off to survey the cornucopia of meal options and snacks at the crafty tables. After a meticulous perusal, I opt for a bag of Doritos, a massive chocolate chip cookie, a turkey pesto wrap, and my favorite fizzy beverage. On most days I keep a pretty bland diet. When life and schedules are chaotic and you’re never quite sure which city or time zone you’ll be in, having consistent meals at the ready that are satisfying and healthy is clutch. But the craft service tables are my favorite location on a set—all my favorite creature comforts gathered in one place.
With the rest of the crew dispersed, I am left to my own devices—my version of heaven. I’m humming, swaying my hips from side to side, imagining locking myself back in my trailer and scarfing down my spoils, then stealing at least fifteen minutes to recharge with a catnap.
“Foraging for a long winter?”
That deep, gravelly voice makes me jump, gracelessly tossing all my goodies into the air. Each one hits the floor with a prominent thud. Then the top to my can of soda water pops open, releasing a steady stream of liquid directly at Miles.
I hold back a shriek as he crouches down to pick up the mess.
“I’m so sorry!” I shout. “You’re soaked.” I begin frantically searching for a towel to dry him off.
“It’s fine,” he replies, standing up to go toss the now-warped items into a large trash bin. “I should know better than to creep up on a lioness while she’s grazing,” he jokes, peeling his damp shirt from his chest and stomach.
Briefly distracted by the visual, I clear my throat. “You really should,” I reply. Then, eager to help the situation, I grab a handful of napkins, and without thinking I start pressing them into his damp shirt—against his very firm and well-formed torso. Suddenly, I fear I’ve made a grave mistake. I retreat as if I’ve been burned, thrusting the napkins at him so he can finish the job. He chuckles.
“So, you just happened to have the free time to come out to New York right before baseball season to be in a random pop star’s music video?” I ask cheekily, both desperate for a change of subject and genuinely interested in his response.
After dabbing himself off, he makes a wad of the napkins and tosses them into the waste bin with perfect aim, making me wonder if basketball is in his repertoire as well.
“Would you believe me if I said I’ve got n-nothing going on till we ship out to Camelback in a few weeks?” he asks, and a glimmer in his eye makes me blush.
“First, I’d have to know what on earth that means,” I reply out of honest confusion.
“You’re funny,” he says, smiling but not laughing. As with all of our interactions to date, I notice him notice my every move, like tucking a lock of hair behind my ear, or tightening the belt on my robe—like he’s studying me for a portrait. It’s unnerving and electrifying all at once.
I scrunch my nose before taking a swig from a fresh can of blackberry-flavored sparkling water.
His breath hitches, like he’s remembered I’m still waiting for an explanation. “Camelback Ranch is where the team holds spring training. It’s basically the start of our season,” he says plainly, before answering what I’m really asking him. “So, we have this kinda fun, kinda weird night at the Grammys. Next thing I know, my agent’s calling me with this random request to be in your music video. He sets up a meeting. I go. You insult me. I consider pulling out. Then you show up to the stadium and—” He pauses, a slow smile curving his lips. “Let’s just say, you surprised me. So, I thought…maybe this could be fun?”
“Huh.” I realize too late that I’ve been mindlessly worrying the tab on the can of my drink back and forth between my thumb and forefinger when it suddenly snaps off. Quickly, I pop it in my pocket. “Is that so?”
“I wouldn’t lie about it. I’ve got nothin’ to hide from you,” he says. “Also…y-you’re not a random pop star.”
And because I don’t quite know what to say to that, I settle for saying nothing at all.
Then we’re silent for a few beats and a layer of awkwardness falls over the exchange. Miles breaks the ice, though, with a safe change of subject.
“So, what are your plans for when this never-ending shoot eventually does end?” he asks.
I’m not foolish enough to think the question is anything more than small talk. Needlessly tousling my hair I say, “Ohhh…I’ll probably hole up in my hotel with way too much takeout and watch You’ve Got Mail . It’s my evergreen comfort watch.”
“Huh. Never seen that one,” he says, with his chin slightly lifted as he eyes me through the bottom of his lashes. “I’ll have to check it out sometime.”
“I expect a thorough review.”
He laughs. “You got it, Coach.”