Chapter 14
14
Streams of dancing dust and sunlight paint golden strokes over an otherwise stark and unmoving space. For this day of make-believe, the tall and handsome stranger who charmed me on the train has now whisked me off to the Met, where he’s been given strict instructions to up his woo game.
Long curving tracks have been laid on the marble floor so the cameras can seamlessly follow me and Miles as we explore the light-filled entry court to the Met’s American Wing. The grand space is temporarily roped off for the shoot, and this time around, there are no dancers or extras—just us and the statues. Right about now I feel like one of them—cold and hard and disconnected from all the hustle and bustle around me.
Crew members mill about, fast at work with their respective tasks. Rodney and Sheryl are huddled together over in a corner on a bench engaged in deep conversation. Jamie’s dabbing a beauty blender on Miles’s forehead, her jaw practically unhinged with laughter at something he’s just said. For the past ten minutes or so, Laurel’s been meticulously eyeing the shot list with her AD, Sam. But now she’s walking my way, determination furrowing her brow and tightening the few lines left to frame her mouth. I have the sudden urge to evaporate into thin air just to avoid whatever vibe modification she’s about to attempt on me.
Laurel approaches, arms lifted as if she’s coming in for an embrace. But when she arrives, instead, she clasps my hands in her cool, smooth palms—a gesture probably meant to disarm or comfort me but that does the exact opposite.
“How are you feeling today? You feel good?” Her words stretch unnaturally soft and sweet, like she’s cooing at a troubled toddler.
Clearing my throat I say, “Great! I feel fantastic!” trying to muster the emotions with the words. At her disbelieving stare, I deflate. “Why do you ask? You’re getting what you need from me, right?”
Waving her hands, she makes an exaggerated show of shaking her head. “Oh no! You’re perfect! Not a hair out of place!” She pats me on the head as if to emphasize her point.
Laurel then extends a hand to tuck a long curl behind my ear, and when she leans in farther, her voice drops low. “Listen. Some of your takes are coming off a bit—” She pauses, teetering her head back and forth, really grasping for the words. “Well, let’s just call it frigid . And maybe a little scared too. It’s almost like you’re afraid to touch the man.”
Laurel releases a pent-up breath and her shoulders relax, like she’s been holding that in all day. Then she just looks at me square in the eye—as if she’s actually asked me a question and wants her answer.
At a loss, I simply utter a muffled, shameful “Oh-kaaay.” My face flames, and for probably the fifth time today, I contemplate another disappearing act.
“Look, I get it,” she continues, having apparently laid all pretenses aside. “I know things are probably a mess up here.” She points to my head, then to my chest. “And in here. But today, let’s not be people. Let’s just be artists. Let’s just…push all that stuff out there . You know?” She motions to the windows with both arms gesticulating widely. “And come on, Ella, look at that man. I mean for real…Look at him!” With a bold forefinger she points over at Miles, a movement that naturally, and unfortunately, commands his attention. I fight back the urge to drop my face into the palm of my hand—but heaven forbid I ruin Jamie’s immaculate beat.
“What can we do for you?” Laurel asks, interrupting my inward spiral. “There’s a mental block in there somewhere. So tell me. How do we get you over that hump?”
I open my mouth to assure her that there will be no need for extra measures. Her notes are taken and I can, and will, do better. But she cuts me off. “I know!” she practically shouts. “I think I’ve got just the thing.”
Laurel’s grand plan is to let Miles and me play DJ, give us our choice of mood music to play for the next scene with my selection coming up first. Since we’re shooting B-roll and there will be no choreography or lip-synching involved, all we’re really using sound for is to set a vibe. So in the spirit of the remake, I’ve asked for “The Sweetest Taboo,” one of my all-time favorites.
Back on in five, four, three, two…
Speed!
Roll music!
Action!
When the song starts, the sound of rain followed by syncopated drums fills the space around us, bouncing off all the marble, bronze, and brass surfaces. And just when Sade begins to wonder what will happen if she tells her lover how she really feels, Miles surprises me by first brushing his fingers against mine and then interlocking them all together.
Laurel’s choice word reverberates in my mind… frigid . But with his hand in mine, that intimate, overwhelming touch gives me more than chills. It makes me quake on a cellular level, converts the rigid, sure parts of me to raw energy. I haven’t been afraid to touch him, so much as I’ve been practically burning to do it. But that alone is terrifying.
Seconds pass with us simply standing there holding hands before Miles leans down so that he’s mere centimeters from my ear. “I know we’re probably supposed to walk around and look at all this art, but I really want to dance with you.”
I glance up at his smiling eyes, and without questioning it, I nod yes . Swallowing hard, I face him just as his free hand briefly brushes past my hip bone to find its place at the small of my back. The heat from that compound touch sends my senses into overdrive. Anyone feeling the crush of sensations coursing through me right now might think I’ve never danced at all. Of course I have, just never with Miles Westbrook.
Thank God for muscle memory.
I place my left hand at his nape, where the smoothest swath of warm skin meets the crisp fade of his hair—a delicious contrast, like water approaching a shore. Miles raises our clasped hands to his mouth and brushes my knuckles across his lips. I have to actively remind myself that we’re pretending—merely putting on a show.
“I take it you’ve been here before?” I ask, figuring a little small talk will ground me in the reality of what we’re doing—making a video.
“Oh yeah,” he says. Then a small laugh spreads into a beaming smile that takes over his whole face. “My grandparents…they retired here together. After school most days, I was either out on the diamond or here, bothering them on the late afternoon shifts.”
“So, that ‘museum’ you said your grandfather worked at…was the Met?” I ask, unable to mask my surprise.
“Mm-hmm,” he confirms, before taking me for a spin and then pulling me back into him. “My abuela spent thirty-five years as a seamstress at the Costume Institute. And my grandfather, the one with the voice”—Miles tilts his head to meet my eyes—“he eventually worked his way up to head of security here.”
“Let me guess,” I say. “Your favorite part was helping him patrol the hallways?”
“Nah,” he says with a chuckle, and we’re pressed so close I can feel it rumble through his chest. “I actually was blown away by all the garments and textiles my grandmother got to work with. Some of that stuff was like…centuries old. I mean…don’t get me wrong, running around with Pop was fun as hell.” He pauses. “I miss them both.”
“I’m sorry they’re gone,” I say. But it feels like a woefully inadequate response for such a massive loss.
“Don’t be,” Miles replies. “I’ve committed so much of them to memory.” He pauses for a moment. “It’s like they’re with me everywhere I go.”
I let his words sink deep, roll them over in my mind. The overwhelming urge to rest my head on his chest so I can feel if his heart is beating as hard and fast as mine hits me like a train. But the song changes and with it, so does the mood. Because if I’m not mistaken by the opening chords, Miles has picked for his choice “All the Things (Your Man Won’t Do)” by Joe.
I stop moving and look him squarely in the eye.
“You did not,” I say in utter disbelief at his very on-the-nose song selection. A song in which a man vows to do “all the things” his conquest’s boyfriend has neglected to do, both in and out of a bedroom. It’s the quintessential throwback to that soulful late-nineties and early 2000s R&B, when crooning and wooing was the name of the game— baby-making music as Sheryl likes to call it.
Miles simply shrugs with a wicked sparkle in his eye. “Laurel told me to up my game.” He swipes his thumb across his chin beneath a boyish grin. “And I like a challenge.”
“Miles,” I deadpan, stifling the urge to step back and place my hands on my hips. But with the cameras still rolling, all I can do is laugh. I peek over at Laurel, who is beaming from ear to ear and giving us two thumbs up. You’re doing great , she mouths.
Miles beckons for me to come back to him so we can finish our dance. One part embarrassed and all parts turned on, I go willingly. “Not gonna lie, this kind of feels like ninth-grade homecoming when you finally score a dance with your crush and the whole time you’re fighting a massive erection,” he murmurs in my ear.
At this I can’t help but burst out in laughter as I pull away.
“It’s a joke! It’s a joke, I swear,” he assures me. He playfully draws me back into him, and I am like putty in his hands. But instead of dancing face-to-face, he spins me so my back is to his chest. Miles wraps his arms around my waist and clasps our hands together over my stomach. And then, we just sway. We’re directly in front of the golden statue of Diana, the archer. She balances gracefully on one foot with her bow and arrow raised, eyes on her target.
“She reminds me of you,” he says. “Strong. Purposeful.”
Gently, we step out of the embrace to stand side by side. With our shoulders pressed together, we both look up in wonder at the iconic bronze statue. “Why are you so kind to me?” I ask. “Why say all these nice things when we hardly know each other?”
“I’m not tryna tell you nice things, Ella. I’m just telling you the truth.”
This time, it’s my hand that reaches for his.
Miles Westbrook is not just eye candy, he is a whole problem. An emotional wrecking ball with the potential to make me crumble to pieces in the palm of his hand, to be exact. If I’m not careful, I’ll be doodling our initials in my gratitude journal and searching Google images for him in my off time. Can’t have that. Thankfully, we’re on the last leg of what has felt like a marathon, and I’ll be out of the woods and back to regular beat-my-ex-in-court programming soon.
We press on at a breakneck pace. Across various locations and expensive soundstages, Miles and I have braved the pseudo-sweltering summer heat of the pseudo-subway, wandered hand in hand through the American Wing of the Met, fed each other pastries in a plush red booth at the Russian Tea Room, and even shared a paddleboat in Central Park—the green screen version, that is.
Now, it’s well past ten p.m. and we’ve finally made it to the last shots on the list—a soundstage made to resemble a rainy rooftop on the Lower East Side.
“I’m just saying, you might need to own this dress when it’s all over with,” Rodney whispers conspiratorially while stripping off my fluffy robe and, along with it, the warmth it provides. “Don’t worry, I’ll just tell the rep at Cult Gaia it fell off the truck,” he whispers, winking with practically his entire face. Then he darts off to join Sheryl and Jamie at the edge of the roof, where they’ll watch and no doubt reserve all their well-meaning but shady observations for later.
Laurel was right about me. I’ve been an anxious ball of frigid nerves all day. But this final scene is the one I’ve feared most. And even though Miles got me to loosen up a little with our dance among the statues, I haven’t been able to get my mind off the thought of kissing him. Will we? Won’t we? Can we even? Would the world explode?
All our scenes leading up to this point have felt akin to playing with fire or dancing at the edge of a waterfall. Every heated glance, the brush of our hands, even the gentle press of our bodies as we moved so effortlessly to lyrics that confessed things we’d never dare say out loud. Because if between takes, we did say those things—if I told the truth, that it’s never felt like this before , it would mean admitting that for me, today wasn’t just a day of playing pretend after all. Today was a wake-up call.
“Do we have them kiss?” I hear Laurel ask Lydia in what I’m sure she mistook for a discreet volume.
Both of them eye me from about ten feet away, then turn back to each other before Lydia whispers, “What would Majors think?”
Turns out, reading lips is a secret talent of mine.
Before I can think better of it I find myself shouting, “Majors isn’t here!”
Miles’s eyes go wide with surprise and a little spark of mischief—kind of like he’s both in awe and scared of me right now. He steps closer, leans in then just slightly, and with a low rumble, says, “Careful. This zero-fucks attitude looks good on you.”
Speed!
Cue rain!
Roll music!
Action!
Hand in hand we burst through the fire escape door, onto the roof and into the pouring rain. We laugh and spin, basking in the water until, as we’ve been directed, Miles backs me up against a brick wall, where things are supposed to really heat up. By now we’re both totally soaked. Unlike real rain, which gradually dampens your clothes, fake raindrops are three times the size and land with a heavy thud, seeping through your layers fast. That maroon dress that already hugged each one of my curves is glued to me now. And not for the first time today, I’m grateful to be on a heated soundstage.
A violent shudder runs through me and, perhaps emboldened by the rain or this wild thundering in my chest from the kick drum that has become my heartbeats, I clutch at Miles’s shirt and tilt my face up to his. In turn his hands gently cradle the back of my head and his eyes bore into mine, questioning, almost pleading for an invitation to venture further.
“Yes,” I say, nodding with a smile. “Yes.” I repeat the word. The second time as more of an affirmation to myself that I really want this.
The next moment becomes a starburst of connection, and suddenly, nothing else exists beyond the slide of our lips, and hands, and the breath that passes between our open mouths.
Cameras be damned.
Miles Westbrook is kissing me and I’m responding in kind. Half in shock, half ecstatic from the feeling of falling without care or thought of a safety net. For the first time in a long time, I’m not worried about the script or the blocking. I am strictly feeling.
Speaking of, Miles has just lightly sucked on my bottom lip, and I think I just moaned. I don’t know because my song is playing at full blast. I can hardly hear anything but my own voice and the music, or see anything but the man who’s pressed against me, whose body is holding me up against this wall, moving with intention against mine. Whose hands have molded against my curves and left fire in their tracks.
If she’s not careful, a girl could get irrevocably lost in this.
“And cut!” Laurel shouts. “That’s a wrap on Ella and Miles!”
Then, just as fast as we started, we stop. The rain suddenly abates.
The crew applauds. Miles gently extricates himself from my grasp, and without his weight against me, I lose my balance. He steps forward to catch me, and our eyes meet only for a moment before his dart away.