4. SEVEN YEARS AGO
FOUR
SEVEN YEARS AGO
LATE SUMMER, BEFORE SENIOR YEAR
PAIGE
The familiar sound of Janis Joplin singing, “Come on,” filtered through my bedroom walls and my mouth pinched at the corner as I slid my feet into my slippers.
Guess Gram is up.
I pushed through my door and continued down the hall, passing the olive-green walls covered with pictures of Gram and my grandpa in all the places they had traveled.
Sea caves in Iceland, a cabin in the Smoky Mountains.
And then there were pictures of my parents on their adventures. One that unfortunately took them from me when I was only three years old in the way of a tragic boat accident.
But then there was Gram.
Her singing was only getting louder, along with the music, just as I hit the extra creaky stair at the foot of the steps and made my way into the kitchen.
Thick waves of long, dove-gray hair were swaying as Gram stood by the coffee pot, wearing her signature, oversized beige cardigan and some pajama pants that had YOLO all over them. She was loving fucking life— and I breathed a small laugh.
It caught her attention, and she spun around. “Hey, Paigey May. Want some coffee?”
I smiled, nodding through a yawn, as I slid into a chair at the small round table.
“What mug ya want?” she asked over her shoulder, going to the shelf with our favorite collection. It was a ritual Gram had instilled in me. Choosing your mug sets your tone for the day.
I pointed to the copper-colored bell mug, and Gram’s denim blue eyes narrowed back at me. “You always pick the one that takes the whole damn pot to fill.”
I snorted a laugh. It was true. It was a big-ass mug, but I shook my head, yawning again as I said, “Just fill it up halfway. Linc’s coming by in a bit. We’re shooting today.”
“Ooo!” she all but barked and my shoulders jumped. “My sweet Lincleton.” Her face shifted to that of a nosy dog smelling its favorite treat. “I’ve said it once, I’ll say it again, you really oughta’ let that boy touch a tit. At least one of ’em.”
“Gram!” I scoffed, my face scrunching. “Jesus, I—” I shook my head and stared back at her.
What was one to say when one’s grandmother dropped a tit bomb pre-coffee?
She shrugged and then slid the mug toward me, her eyes widening with faux-innocence before she turned back to the fridge and pulled out the milk.
I leaned back, watching her pretend to mind her own business but secretly analyzing —wondering.
Darlene Hansen —Gram— claimed to be a “ highly intuitive person. ” But really, she was just fucking nosy.
“ Tomato, tomato, ” she’d say. But she’d say the word the exact same way, twice, infuriating me.
“So, is that why you’re not over at Queenie’s this morning? Got a hot date—” A sharp inhale inflated my chest as my eyebrows lifted, giving her a leveling expression.
Mind your business, woman.
“Right. Shooting.” She put too much emphasis on the shoo part of the word, before giving me a half-hearted finger gun.
My blank stare was enough for her to pull her lips into her mouth—either that or she intuited that this was not something I was willing to talk about.
The tension stacking in my neck halted as she went back to humming along with the music, preparing her coffee.
Why was I so sensitive to this shit lately? It’s not like people hadn’t speculated about Linc and me for years.
Shaking my head, I reassured myself, it was just a hormone hiccup.
I had known Linc since we were six, and we’d managed to bob and weave around our respective puberty bullshit thus far. Though, the year my tits came in was a tough one for him—so maybe it was just my turn.
I was just . . . highly aware of my best friend’s seemingly overnight and very real transition into manhood.
A jaw line that had squared up a bit. Noticed that at a very inopportune time last spring during a voice recital. And since he was filming it, there’s undeniable evidence that I kept looking over at him.
Ugh. My brain wanted to pop —so embarrassing.
But then, a few days ago when we were shooting in the woods—I kept getting distracted any time Linc’s newly cut biceps would bulge, the muscles bunching any time he moved a piece of equipment.
I gawked like the creepy dude in a fucking car wash scene.
A small noise from the back of my throat rumbled as Gram said, “Ooo, you feelin’ okay? Your cheeks are red . . .”
My eyes pulled up, squinting over the brim of my mug. She knew I felt fine.
Just a hormone hiccup, I reminded myself again.
Gram turned down the music, then slid into the chair across from me. “So, the shoot today—is this the movie where you’re playing some kind of woodland nymph?”
I stared back at her, blinking.
But it did nothing to help my confusion.
What the hell is she talking about?
She must have noticed because eventually she took a sip of her coffee and shrugged. “I don’t know. You came home in a see-through white dress with dirt all over you last week.”
I snort through my nose, shaking my head. “Oh my God. First of all, I was wearing a bodysuit underneath, and two, no. I’m not playing a slutty fairy,” I laughed again and after it passed, I told her, “I’m playing the moon.”
“Right, right,” she says. “But you are not a moon.”
“Are you calling me a slutty fairy?” I shot back, giggling.
Gram joined, and once our laughter settled, I sighed. “No, it’s for that film festival in San Diego in a few months—the one Mr. Harris got Linc into? Some hoity-toity, rich-as-fuck organization is giving the winner money to fund their next film project. It’d be a big deal, so . . . we’re trying to get it all shot as quickly as possible. Linc thinks he’ll need a lot of time to edit, but Mr. Harris said he’d help him.”
Gram nodded, murmuring, “Talented boy,” then smiled. “And he already has his muse.”
Before I had time to shoot her another glare, the back door in the mudroom off the kitchen opened, and a familiar voice called out, “Morning!”
Linc walked through the archway at the same time I heard the pitter-patter of quick little steps behind him.
“Paigey!” All fifty-three pounds of Maisie Morrow came barreling into me just as I quickly put my mug on the table to return the hug.
“Hey, babe,” I clasped my hand on the back of her head and hugged her a bit tighter. She was so damn cute, a mini-Christine with almond-colored eyes and a dainty little nose—whereas Linc’s hazel eyes and almost-black hair were features from their dad.
I knew the resemblance bothered him, but . . . I liked his face.
“Paigey, guess what?” Maisie’s light brown pig-tail braids bounced up as her big brown eyes lit with excitement—but I got distracted by the slow, stealthy movement beside me as Linc slyly tried to hand Gram a bag of . . . peanut butter cups?!
“Duuude,” I whined at Linc, a partial-scold, then looked at Gram. “I’m pretty sure those aren’t on the approved food list from Dr. Weiner.”
Gram snorted a laugh. “I mean, if he wanted me to take him seriously, he probably should have changed his name.”
I rolled my eyes. It was pronounced “wine-er” but . . . Gram will be Gram.
I stared at my best friend’s earthy eyes while they filled with bullshit innocence. “You are a traitorous . . . snack smuggler,” I said, unevenly.
It’s early. I’m tired. The comebacks will improve as the day goes on.
Linc’s lips pulled further as he held up his other hand, revealing an iced coffee, and extended it toward me. “For you, Lady Pip.”
My mouth tilted. Good move. A peace treaty immediately following a breach of snackery.
Gram’s cholesterol and blood pressure had been all over the place at her last check-up—the doctor was throwing out some scary words.
It was as surprising as it was terrifying. Because while Gram had a sweet tooth and a very deep love of California weed, she kept herself in good shape. Honestly, the woman barely ever sat still.
Sitting on my throne of hypocrisy, I was contemplating double-fisting my coffee. Is this really a wise decision?
Probably not. Linc’s presence alone had already kickstarted my heart. My eyes were currently surfing the delicious waves of his mussed hair. The thick, dark strands were styled in an effortless way, but looked . . . freshly tugged.
The feeling swan dove into the deepest part of my stomach, and I shifted in my seat. Fucking annoying.
I rolled my eyes, willing myself to get a grip, and accepted his peace offering. I finally said, “Are you still going to call me Pip when we’re Gram’s age?”
Short for pipsqueak— which he’d started calling me after his first major growth spurt in sixth grade—the one that put —and kept— him in the lead by a landslide at just over six-feet-tall.
All that extra height went straight to his stupid head. Stupid hair.
“Till the end,” he said, with a grin that made the gold flecks in his eyes flicker, just as I took a sip of the coffee he brought me.
I smiled through my pursed lips over the straw. He must have felt bad if he was quoting the forever forgotten but always remembered friendship oath. The one I wrote and notarized when we were ten. My notary seal was a very official lemon scratch-n-sniff sticker.
I didn’t notice I was still staring at him until I felt Maisie tapping the tops of my thighs, her cheeks puffed.
I laughed. “I’m so sorry. Thank you for being so patient. What’s up?”
“Ifinallywatched Buffy!” she yelled, all in one breath, and Gram laughed, popping one of her candies in her mouth.
I lifted my hand for a high five. “Oh, hell yeah! How many episodes did you watch?”
She tapped my hand, saying, “Just the first one,” then finally made her way over to Gram, who pulled her up on her lap, and situated her braids behind her shoulders. “Brother’s worried I’ll get scared,” Maisie mumbled pointedly at Linc.
I lifted my eyes to her brother, giving him a face. And he knew what it meant. We had watched way scarier shit than Buffy when we were her age. I gave him the silent message.
You disappoint me, Lincoln.
His eyes squinted back at me, and I swear to God, I think he subliminally told me, “Don’t call me Lincoln.”
We both laughed, whether it was from our silent conversation or not—sometimes it just happened. We’d known each other so long that sometimes it felt like our internal thoughts crossed paths.
“We should really get going. It’s gonna get hot come noon, and we’ve gotta shoot tonight too,” Linc said, then tilted his chin toward Maisie. “And I’ve gotta drop the bread loaf off.”
“Liiinc! Stop calling me that!” Maisie whined, pouting, but Gram swayed her knees, tickling Maisie’s sides, and it was quickly forgotten.
Poor Maisie. Also subjected to a Linc nickname, only hers was worse. But also sweet. He referred to her as bread loaf sometimes because when he found out he was getting a little sister, he practiced “holding a baby” with a bread loaf.
Yeah, damn. That was fucking cute.
The memory pushed me to stand quickly. Too quickly, and I stubbed my toe on the leg of the table. “Fuck!” I yelped, pulling my foot up instinctively before my eyes caught Maisie’s. “Sorry, Mase.”
She shrugged. “It’s okay. Brother says it too.”
My eyebrows scrunched before I swept an accusatory glance over to mister brother boy.
Is that so?
Linc looked genuinely confused. “I do not,” he said—with only a fraction of the confidence of someone telling the truth—before he added, “When do you hear me say that?”
Maisie shrugged again. “That time you watched wrestling in your room.”
My eyebrow cocked, and my eyes caught his, which were widening by the second as a quietly mortified glint appeared. I sucked my lips into my mouth to suffocate a laugh.
LINC
“Wrestling?!” Paige laughed. No, she cackled from the passenger’s seat as soon as Maisie got out of the car.
“Hey,” I chuckled, awkwardly, keeping my voice as even as possible. “It happened one fucking time, and now I use headphones.”
Luckily, Darlene and Maisie were none the wiser, but of course, Paige caught what Maisie had accidentally heard from my room a few nights ago. And while I knew there was a possibility the bread loaf would bring it up at some point, I was just grateful I was able to hide any silent hints I may have given Paige that I “wrestled” myself to the thought of her.
I shifted my weight and pulled out my pack of cigarettes, grabbing one between my teeth as I opened the window.
My eyes floated over to my pretty best friend, watching her light, honey-colored hair blow in the wind as she begrudgingly rolled down her window. My eyes moved back to the road, but from the side of my eye, I could see delicate, sunkissed arms crossing over each other with an exaggerated huff.
I sighed, lighting the cigarette. “Wolverine smokes, ya know,” I reminded her.
She glared at me with a side eye as the corner of her mouth lifted. “Yeah, but Hugh Jackman doesn’t. The image is hot, but the habit? Woof.”
Goddammit, this girl was impossible. She was being extra bratty this morning, and fuck me if it didn’t have something stirring deep in my stomach.
But of course, like a fucking pussy, I didn’t say anything.
I didn’t act on it.
I did nothing.
It wasn’t the time anyway. We had a lot of shit to get done, and school was starting next week.
The sudden clearing of her throat commanded my attention, and my mouth pinched at the corner.
“What scenes are today?” she asked.
I flicked some ash out the window. “Today should be easy. It’s just the swimming sequence. Tonight will be the challenge.”
The sound of her laugh danced with the wind whipping from our open windows. “Worse than being dragged through the woods and covered in mud for four hours?”
My lips pulled back to the corner. She really was a trooper for that. And she’d never let me forget it either.
I shrugged. “Tonight’s the hill scene.”
I could see her nod in my peripherals. “What’s so hard about that one?”
My mouth flattened, and I took a drag on my cigarette to stall. There wasn’t a non-weird way to tell her that I wasn’t exactly looking forward to watching her make out with Ellis for however long it took me to get the shot tonight.
Not that I was worried about something sparking between the two of them or anything. This fun little garden of jealousy was unfortunately something I’d been dealing with since our freshman year, when Paige got her first part in a musical with a love interest.
Since then, I’d seen her in a handful of stage romances. And I’d wanted to kill every single one of her costars except Ellis. The two of them played lovers in last spring’s black box show, and I think I was just so goddamn impressed that I couldn’t focus on anything else.
Their friendship gave them this incredible, natural chemistry. And for as good as they were on stage, the camera ate them up.
Clearing my throat, I finally said, “Just really want to get the new moon in the shot naturally. Mr. Harris let me borrow a monitor so I can do some playbacks while we’re there, but I won’t know for sure if it worked until after I upload and mess with it a bit.”
She nodded as I pulled into the small lot—a little patch of gravel. I saw Ellis’s Jeep already parked, while the little hobbit-hole mouth to the trail to get to the cove was through a small clearing of trees just a couple feet off the lot.
It was kind of sad, actually. It was a cool little spot, but it was surprisingly dead during the day. There was usually a scattering of various trash around the area from some party the night before. Paige brought some bags just in case we had to clean up a bit.
Ellis got out of his car, his smile wide—looking every bit the part of Hollywood golden boy. Shirtless, tan, sandy blond hair. I huffed a chuckle. Asshole.
Paige whistled. “Damn, Batman. Someone’s been hitting the gym.”
So had I, but whatever.
He started toward my car, and my jaw tightened as I moved to my trunk, grabbing the camera bag and monitor.
“Me and this guy have been doing two-a-days for the last month,” he said, and as I closed the trunk I saw the mischievous glint in his green eyes, sparkling in the damn sun as he looked at Paige. “Don’t act like you haven’t noticed Linc’s man arms.”
When my eyes fall to her, I’m prepared for one response, but I choke on my breath. Because . . .
I fucking saw that.
A beautiful rosy tint to Paige’s cheeks. It was there, and then it was gone—the sight’s only proof was the heatwave hitting my groin, and I almost coughed from the impact—like the wind had been knocked out of my lungs and into my dick.
It wasn’t new for Ellis to make some sort of off-handed comment about me and Paige—it was however the first time I saw her do anything but roll her eyes or laugh it off.
So . . . what the fuck?
“Speaking of which,” Ellis interrupted my spiral as he grabbed the monitor bag off the ground. “Let’s get a move on with the shoot, otherwise we won’t have time to get our second workout in before tonight’s torture.”
Paige scoffed. “Um, kissing me under the moon is torture? The fuck? Did both of you forget about dragging me through the woods for hours? I feel like no one cares enough about this.”
“Okay. Now you’re milking it,” I told her. Then, unable to help myself—I tapped her nose with my index finger before hiking the camera bag over my shoulder.
Her nose did a cute little twitch before her mouth gaped. “A boop on the nose is not hazard pay!” she cursed at me through a laugh while I passed by her, heading toward the tree clearing.
Over my shoulder, I reminded her, “I’m not paying you at all, Pip.” Then glanced back, adding a smirk that would surely add fuel to the fire of this feisty, bashful, little-monster-mood she was in—a creature I was completely obsessed with.
My smile pulled further. It didn’t matter that she was behind me, I could feel her eyes firing into my back like little ice blasters.
Freeze gun eyes.
It felt good on a hot day.
She growled, and I stifled the laugh. I wondered if she could hear me egging her on, even in my head. Sometimes I was certain we could read each other’s minds.
Suddenly, 105 pounds of pouty Pip stomped past me and I chuckled.
Yeah. Our brains were just . . . synced. Entwined.
Her cute bubble butt tucked back and forth with each of her steps as she practically stomped ahead, and my own gait slowed.
“What’s her problem?” Ellis muttered, catching up to me.
I watched her carry on through the hobbit-hole opening and shrugged, mumbling, “I don’t know.”
But I fucking loved it.