Chapter 5
The Seven-Eleven Sunglasses
Andrew
My fingers pick at the cuff of my shirt, the soft fabric worn smooth from years of anxious twisting. I sit ramrod straight in the uncomfortable folding chair, eyes darting across the bustling studio lot, searching for a familiar silhouette that refuses to appear.
The seeds of doubt, planted hours ago, are beginning to sprout thorny vines around my heart.
Have I completely misinterpreted his gesture?
That thumbs-up last night—maybe it was for someone behind me, some crew member I hadn't noticed.
Maybe I imagined the whole thing, built it up into something significant in my head while Vince had already forgotten our conversation.
My hands return to my sleeves, tugging, pulling, seeking some small comfort in the repetitive motion.
Five more minutes. That's all I'll give him before slinking away, defeated.
Fidgeting. Old habit resurfacing with a vengeance.
I try to go easy on myself, remembering the words of my therapist back in Fairbanks. I remember how fear can only be overcome by walking straight through it, feeling every nerve-ending scream in protest. All this nervous energy has to go somewhere, right?
My hands flatten atop each other on the table, but they won't stay still.
What is wrong with them? Why can't I get them to behave?
Why have my hands always been such traitors, broadcasting my anxiety to anyone who cares to look?
I cross my legs, resting my hands on my knee, and take a slow, steadying breath.
Within seconds, my leg begins its familiar restless bounce.
I give up, a sigh escaping my lips. Vince was right about that, at least. A book would keep my hands busy, my mind occupied.
Anything to stop this constant, betraying motion.
The past week has been a fog, my thoughts circling Vince like vultures. It's not charming; it's distracting, a constant hum in the background of my life. My mind drifts to him while waiting for my coffee to brew, at red lights, during yoga poses that are supposed to clear my head.
The thoughts are a jumbled mess, some repeating on a loop, others appearing out of nowhere.
What would his lips feel like against mine?
What kind of car does he drive? Coffee or tea?
Does he cook? Weekends with his daughters—what are those like?
Will he ever tell me more about his marriage?
Has he ever been with a man? And what does he look like without that perfectly tailored shirt?
Last night, I asked myself the question that's been gnawing at me: what do I actually want from Vince?
There are those looks he gives me, the ones that make my stomach flip, the ones I definitely want to explore. But beyond the raw attraction, I want to know him. The real him. I promised myself I'd push aside the inappropriate thoughts, focus on building something solid. Like I did with Gary.
Gary and I had exchanged numbers after the last taping.
We'd been texting last night, mostly about my questionable dating app choices. With his help, I matched with someone who seemed promising. Gary had burst into my life uninvited, declared us friends, and then refused to leave, an immovable force. Exactly what I needed.
I drown in my own thoughts, the minutes stretching like taffy, when Vince emerges through the café's haze.
His presence cuts through my anxiety like a lighthouse beam.
"Sorry I'm late," Vince sighs, running a hand through his hair as he stops in front of me. The gesture sends strands tumbling across his forehead, a brief disarray in his otherwise polished appearance.
A small smile tugs at my mouth despite the nerves. "Wow, you can apologize?"
I hope he catches the joke, sees the teasing glint in my eyes.
Vince's mouth curves into a faint smile as he sits down across the small, round table.
His gaze doesn't meet mine right away; he seems distracted, his mind still processing whatever conversation he'd just stepped away from.
A furrow forms between his brows, smoothing out only as he settles into the chair.
He looks tired.
I wonder how many of his lunch breaks aren't actually breaks at all, filled instead with crew discussions or quick errands before being pulled back on set. I've never seen him take a real break, now that I think about it.
Running his fingers through his hair again, he takes off his black designer sunglasses and places them on the table with a soft click.
Self-consciousness washes over me.
I grab my cheap blue sunglasses, the ones I'd impulsively bought at a 7-Eleven during my drive to Los Angeles. I slide them under my thigh, crossing my legs.
Why was this guy having lunch with me again?
"Of course I can apologize. I'm not an asshole," Vince says, as if continuing a thought from earlier. He smirks as he crosses his legs and picks up the menu. "Didn't we talk about this already?"
I laugh softly, watching his every move—the way his fingers trace the edge of the menu, how his eyes scan the options with an intensity that seems unnecessary for a simple lunch. Whatever conversation he'd left behind, I'm just happy to have him here now.
He seems more relaxed, likely because he's finally away from the chaos of the set. Whether his calm is due to me or just the lack of demands on his time, I decide to take full credit for it anyway.
"To be honest, Vince, I'm getting mixed signals from you," I say, smiling as I glance between him and my menu.
For the first time since he arrived, he looks at me directly. His expression isn't amused; it's unreadable. Our eye contact lasts just a moment too long, setting off butterflies in my stomach and an embarrassing panic.
Am I staring too much? Did I creep him out? What did I just say?
My throat works, swallowing nothing as I stare down at the laminated menu, the words blurring into indecipherable shapes. I need something to say, anything to fill the gaping silence, but my mind remains stubbornly blank.
"So, Andy." Vince's voice cuts through my thoughts. "Since you've called me an asshole multiple times in our short time together, why'd you ask your asshole coworker to have lunch with you today?"
His tone dances on the edge of teasing, but his expression remains carefully neutral. He picks up his sunglasses, the black lenses catching the light as he twirls them with practiced ease, his gaze never leaving mine.
My heart hammers against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat that echoes in my ears.
"I asked you to lunch because I'm new in town.
I haven't been able to make any real connections.
I mean, aside from Gary." My voice comes out softer than I intended.
"I don't think you're an asshole, Vince.
" I worry my lower lip between my teeth before letting a smile surface.
"I asked you to lunch because I want to get to know you. I like you."
A grin spreads across Vince's face, wide and genuine, the kind that actually reaches his eyes, crinkling the corners. The tension in my shoulders dissolves, leaving behind a strange, sweet relief.
"I like you too, Andy," he says without hesitation.
My chest feels lighter, but my heart races faster.
"I like how honest you are," he continues, his voice warm. "I don't meet a lot of people who say what they actually think. Especially in this industry, you know? You're transparent. Different."
Transparent and different. If only he knew the thoughts I'm hiding.
I smile, setting my menu down on the table. "I like how you speak your mind too. But maybe you could work on your delivery. It's a little—"
"Direct?"
His smug expression makes me laugh. "Yeah, just a bit. I mean, the fist to your face in one of the screen tests didn't clue you in?"
We both laugh. When I look up, his eyes are still on mine, the moment lingering just a little too long. Flustered, my fingers find the paper napkin next to me, twisting it into a tight spiral. He has no idea what his attention does to me.
"How long have you been out here?" Vince asks, breaking the tension.
"Three months," I reply.
"Three months?" Vince leans forward, disbelief lighting up his face.
I laugh, the sound softer than I intend. "Yeah. It's not as bad as I expected, though. I get up, run, go to work, and a few times a week I do weights. Yoga classes fit in somewhere. Then I read, cook dinner, and crash. Rinse and repeat. Same things, different place."
He smirks, the corner of his mouth lifting in that infuriatingly attractive way. "Sounds riveting."
"It's better than Alaska, at least. The sun here is beautiful. When I first got here, I spent a whole week doing nothing but falling asleep on the beach. That's where I got this tan you made fun of the other day."
Vince laughs, leaning back.
"I haven't been back to the beach since we started filming, but honestly, I'm glad I took that week to just exist. The weather here is amazing. I can't get enough of it."
Once I get over the initial flutter of nerves, Vince is easy to talk to. He lets silence linger after my sentences, not rushing to fill the space. He isn't waiting for his turn to speak; he's actually listening.
I was never much of a talker, but around him, I can't seem to shut up.
He notices when my mind drifts, when my eyes unfocus for just a second. "That's not a bad routine, Andy, but it sounds really lonely."
He keeps calling me Andy. I realize he's stopped apologizing for it.
That's that, I suppose.
"Well, I'm dating too," I add, the words tasting like a confession in the charged air between us. "That makes my evenings a little different these days."
Vince's smile is faint, barely there, but it shifts something in his focus as his attention drifts back to the menu. I want his eyes on mine again, crave that intensity that makes my pulse quicken.
"So, are you seeing anyone right now?" he asks, his voice casual but his eyes still scanning the menu.