Chapter 19 – Willa #2
“Those flowers match your shirt almost perfectly,” he says, looking over at me an hour later as we walk out into the parking lot with our haul: what I have to think is a literal ton of paver stones and a big bag of setting sand, four different hydrangea bushes, two roses, and a flat of cone flowers in various colors.
I’m going to research more flowers that would do well in this area before we have to make another trip here, but this should keep me busy for a while.
Today I’m in one of the two colorful sports tank tops that I bought, this one a pretty, vibrant pink. When I look down, I realize he’s right: the coneflowers I’ve picked out are almost the same color, nearly blending into my top.
“You’re right,” I say with a laugh. He continues to navigate the heavy cart with minimal effort, eyes taking me in as he does.
“You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in anything colorful outside of events and tour.”
An unexpected thrill runs through me at the idea of him noticing things about me, the thought of him taking note of what I wear and when.
Quickly, as I’ve taught myself to do with Leo, I tamp it down and look at it from a logical standpoint: he’s my publicist. He’s probably seen, inspected, and approved more photos of me than anyone else.
He’s seen every tabloid photo, perfectly curated by Jackie with my cool-girl outfits, complimentary neutrals, and cool colors.
Of course, he would notice if I started wearing brighter colors outside of that normal brand.
“My streetwear is curated to be trendy. Neutrals and whites and blacks are trendy and the most flattering, so it’s what I wear.”
“Where’d you get that one?” I hope that the blush burning on my cheeks can be explained away by the summer heat emanating off the blacktop.
“I bought a few things a few weeks ago myself, trying to reflect the album vibes so I could get inspired.” I lick my lips, trying not to overthink and overspeak instead.
“Jackie would very much not approve, but no one is hounding me here, so I figured…” Nerves rush through me as I try to interpret his words, to see if he means that he prefers the other aesthetic, or if he’s just taking note of things and making small talk.
He doesn’t speak when my words fade out, just reaches into his pocket for the keys to his car, clicking the locks and popping the trunk.
Then, he starts moving things in quickly and efficiently.
But when he reaches for the flowers I’m still awkwardly holding, he holds my eyes.
“It looks good on you. Color. You look nice, Willa.” Then, completely unaware of how my pulse is pounding, he starts loading up the car before handing me the keys and telling me to start it and get the AC going.
And when I go home and place a new clothing order filled with pinks, purples, and blues, I tell myself it’s just because I want more color in my life.
Definitely not because Leo Sinclaire said they looked nice on me.
On Friday, Leo is watering a patch of grass seed he laid down with a hose, and I walk towards him with my watering can. He mentioned eventually adding an automatic watering system, but for now, I don’t mind watering the plants I added to his landscaping.
“Need some?” he asks, tipping his chin towards the bucket in my hands, and I nod.
Today, he’s in a light blue tee that, once again, hugs every single inch and a pair of dark gray loose shorts.
His sneakers are stained green from mowing the lawn, and there’s a dark blue Atlas Oaks hat shielding his eyes from the beating sun.
He hands me the hose, and I drop the end into the bucket, waiting for it to fill.
“How’s that going?” I ask, tipping my chin to the patch of hay lying over the grass he put down. He reaches up, takes off his hat, and pushes his hair back once more before setting it on his head.
“We’ll see in a few weeks, I guess. I should have put it down a lot earlier, but it wasn’t my priority.
Hoping that if I keep it watered, the seeds will sprout and I’ll be in business.
” I nod as if I know exactly what he’s talking about, but I’m far too distracted by the way he’s lifting the bottom hem of his shirt up to his face to wipe off the sweat.
I catch the bottom of his toned stomach, the light dusting of hair that leads down below his waist.
A laugh breaks me out of my daze, and my eyes shoot up to his face, entertained and pleased.
“You good?”
“Huh?”
“You were staring,” he says, that grin widening.
“No, I wasn’t,” I lie, rolling my eyes and looking back down to the half-full watering can. My god, could it go any slower? I desperately need to get out of here.
“You absolutely were.”
I look back up at him.
“If I was, which I absolutely was not, but if I was, it was because you were flashing the whole world.”
“Flashing the world?” he asks with a laugh, and I can’t help but smile. Leo laughing feels sacred, rare, and something I strive to hear more often.
“I think you were just stunned by my killer abs.”
Without even really thinking, I bend, putting my finger over the opening of the hose, then lift it in Leo’s direction, spraying him with it. I divert the hose’s direction back to the watering can, the long stream loudly filling the watering can as he stands there with a shocked look on his face.
His T-shirt turns a darker color where the water hits him, and I can’t help but watch it spread and cling to him as he stares at me, his mouth open.
“What the hell?” he asks, a smile on his face.
“My bad,” I say with absolutely no apology in the words, something that is made even clearer when I hit him with the water again. He looks down at the shirt, now drenched, and back at me.
“You brat,” he says.
I aim it at him again, and while he once more gets wet, he also takes a step towards me. My eyes widen, and I take a step back, but not quick enough as he reaches forward and takes the hose from my hands. Then he directs it towards me, spraying me with the cold water.
“Oh my god!” I shriek, because it’s colder than I expected.
“My bad,” he says mockingly, then directs at me again.
I let out a loud laugh, then start to move, turning away from him and trying to escape the stream.
He chases me, spraying me as I yell and laugh, getting soaked as I go.
The hose is long, and I run in circles, but never fully out of reach, enjoying this game.
“I give up!” I shout, throwing one hand up after a minute, my hand going to my aching side, a stitch from running and laughing stabbing my side.
When I look up at him, he has a similar entertained look, and I realize either I got him a bit more wet than I thought, or his wild spraying of me got him just as wet as it got me.
Either way, despite the stitch in my side and the cold water making my clothes stick to my skin, this is the most fun I’ve had in…a long time.
With a sigh, I move to the ground, stretching out to wait for the stitch to resolve itself as I lie in the warm grass.
Pulling my sunglasses that somehow stayed on my face off, I use the one, somehow dry corner of my shorts to dry them off, slip them on, and let out a deep sigh as the sun’s rays warm me through.
After a moment, a shadow crosses, and water drips onto me.
I look up at a smiling Leo, his soaked hair dripping down on me.
“Stop it! I said I give in!” I say with a giggle, shielding my face.
“You started it,” he says, but lies down beside me. I turn my head to him.
“Sorry, it just always looked so fun in the movies.”
“Dousing me in water?”
I laugh, but shake my head.
“No, although I’m seeing the benefits.” I look him over in a way that makes a blush burn on his cheeks. Just like his laughs, Leo getting shy or embarrassed is happening more and more often, and I’m realizing it’s fun. Flirting is fun.
I can see why people do it so much.
I never thought I liked flirting. It always felt unnatural, scripted, and awkward, but I’m realizing it was. The only time I’ve flirted in recent memory was for a fake relationship, for the cameras.
But flirting with Leo feels…natural.
“No, I meant a water fight.” His brow furrows as he takes me in, clearly confused. “Like, hoses and water guns and water balloons. It always looks so fun.”
“You’ve never done that?”
“Not a lot of time for water balloon fights and water guns when you’re a child star.
Plus, scraped knees make more work for the makeup crew, so it was mostly activities that were gentle or helped me improve in some way.
” I stare at the sky, fluffy white clouds floating overhead, and smile.
“That’s why I got into playing guitar. That’s a safe activity. ”
“Wow, Willa, I’m sorry, I didn’t—” he starts, and an all-too-familiar embarrassment swirls in my stomach. I shake my head, then turn to face him once more. I see it there, that pity that I didn’t have what he deems to be normalcy, a normal, healthy childhood.
I do what I always do: fake it.
“I’m not. It was a sacrifice I made that gave me all of this,” I say.
I’ve seen that look before. A pitying look, and I don’t deserve it, I don’t deserve people’s pity, their empathy.
That’s for people who have had hard lives and rough times, not for pop princesses who were always handed everything.
Well, mostly everything.
“You can’t have it all in life. I chose my career, and I’m okay with that.
I had some of the most amazing experiences, and I’ve never had to face any true hardships.
What do I have to complain about?” He stares at me, assessing, trying to read past my shield, but I keep my smile on my lips, making sure it’s part friendly, part sweet, all airy and carefree before I turn back to the sky.
“Willa—”
“What do you see?” I ask, gently, desperate to change the topic.
“What?”
“What do you see? In the clouds?”
He’s silent, and when I turn to him, he’s not looking at the clouds at all, but at me, confused. “People do that, right? Look at the clouds and find shapes?” An embarrassed blush burns over my cheeks now. “Or is that just a movie thing, too?”
“No, no, it is.” From the sound of his voice, I know he’s looking at me, but I refuse to turn my head and return the gaze, to see if he still has that pity on his face, if he’s still trying to read and understand me.
After a long, near-painful moment, he speaks again. “A cat,” he says. “Right there.” His hand comes into my line of sight, pointing at the clouds to one that has two peaks, and I grin.
“I see it,” I agree. “There’s a dolphin jumping out of a hamburger,” I say, pointing elsewhere. A loud laugh leaves his lips, filling the sky, and it settles that icky feeling in my chest.
“You’re a nut,” he murmurs.
“You like it,” I say without thinking.
“Yeah. I do,” he says, low, but I don’t look at him.
I don’t know what I’ll see, and the fear that whatever I’m picturing in my mind won’t be the reality is far too terrifying. Because I’m picturing something sweet and impossible, and for once, I want to let myself live in that fairy tale.
So, instead, we lie like that for a long time, pointing out shapes occasionally, and it’s the most at peace I’ve been in years, if I’m being honest.
And despite every ounce of logic screaming to keep that hopeless romantic locked where I’ve kept her for eight years, she smiles.