29. Graham
GRAHAM
NOW
Warm, flickering light mimics a campfire, softening the grains in the log cabin’s siding. A harsh shadow cuts across two figures at an angle and evokes a sense of secrecy, intrigue. I lean closer to the screen and steeple my fingers under my chin.
“Last summer…” Sarabeth drifts forward, her green eyes bright and full of longing as they emerge from the shadows. “You asked if we could ever be more than friends.”
“And you didn’t answer.” The tremor in Anya’s voice lands perfectly, and she swallows. The firelight dances on her ebony twists when she gently shakes her head. “I’m glad you didn’t, because I’d rather have you as a friend than nothing.”
Sarabeth’s gaze falls to Anya’s mouth before she whispers, “What if I want to be more than friends?”
Camera A pans while camera B zooms. Their lips meet.
The connection is so stiff they might as well be giving each other a fist bump.
I drag a hand across my mouth. Capturing one innocent peck should be easy, but this is our seventh take.
And it’s the last scene of the day, which means we risk running over schedule.
“Cut!” Kristen shouts.
I rip off my headset and spring from my chair. “Sarabeth. Anya. With me.”
They sulk in silence as we head to the far corner of the soundstage. Once there, I pace back and forth with my hands on my hips, carving a short path in the concrete. It’s my job to broach intimate topics without making my actors uncomfortable, but some days the job is hard.
“You two have had great chemistry since the auditions, but it’s missing this week. What happened?” I ask.
Anya’s gaze cuts to the side, landing on Harmon, who’s standing at the craft services table. The gangly young man guzzles a bottle of water, oblivious to being a third party to whatever’s happening here. Meanwhile, Sarabeth glares at Anya, eyes narrowed and accusing.
I tip my head back and pray to the ceiling. Please don’t let there be a love triangle on my movie set. “Okay. Without going into detail about anything involving your personal lives, what’s the problem?”
“You advised us not to date our co-stars,” Sarabeth grits out.
“It wasn’t a date.” Anya flicks her hair over her shoulder. From her exasperated tone, they’ve had this conversation several times, but she fills me in. “We all planned to see a local band on Saturday. Everyone bailed, except me and Harmon.”
My eyes ping between them, searching for clues because clearly I’m missing something. “So, not a date?”
“Ew! God, no!” she cries.
Sarabeth adjusts her blonde ponytail. “You didn’t seem grossed out by him in the picture you posted.”
“The place was packed!” Anya exclaims.
While they argue, I glance over my shoulder, seeking help, but there’s none to be found. Kristen’s busy getting the crew back to starting positions, and the crew members are pointedly ignoring the drama unfolding in the corner as they pretend their equipment needs closer inspection.
I catch Maisy’s eye. She’s also sitting near the craft services table, munching on a bag of pretzels.
When she notices my long-distance plea, she slowly shakes her head, but I wave her over anyway.
Her chest heaves with a deep sigh, and she slides down from her tall chair before marching in our direction.
Each stomp of her boots gets louder as she approaches, and the younger women fall silent.
“What?” Maisy asks.
I gesture between the actors. “These two are having a difference of opinion, and it’s affecting production.”
Sarabeth scoffs, but Maisy cuts off any further retort. “Conflict resolution is not in my job description.” When my bottom lip juts out, she rolls her eyes and turns toward the actors. “Spill.”
They talk over each other in a flurry of rapid words and hand gestures. I try to follow along, but their vocabulary comes from a different dictionary and generation than mine.
Once the rant ends, Maisy curls a finger at me, and I bend down so she can speak in my ear. “Harmon’s a nonfactor. The girls are crushing on each other, but neither will admit it.”
“Yeah, I worked that part out for myself. What should we do?”
“How the fuck should I know? I’m a stylist, not a couples therapist.” Maisy spins on her rubber heel and walks away.
“Kristen!” Mid-turn, I jerk back. My efficient AD is right in my face. “Can you take them to your trailer and sort this out, please?”
“Take another five!” she yells to the crew, then extends a hand. “Ladies, lead the way.”
They storm off with their arms crossed defiantly over their chests while Kristen mutters, “Kids and cats,” under her breath. My phone vibrates in my pocket, and when I pull it out, the sight of a message from Miguel improves my crappy day.
My Darling
Meet me at this address on Saturday. 6 a.m.
MY DARLING SHARED A LOCATION
Me
Is this a prank?
My Darling
Don’t tease me about this, or I’ll change my mind.
Me
I’ll be there. Can’t wait.
Any doubts I had about resolving a love triangle in five minutes are demolished twenty minutes later when the chemistry between my two actors has been fully restored.
After a successful peck on the lips, we wrap for the day, but the next part of my workday is only getting started with another round of dailies to review.
It’ll be hard to stay focused, knowing what Miguel has in store for us this weekend. After what happened in San Antonio, canceling my trip to California and lying low would be the smart move. However, my lovesick brain runs the show, and it wholeheartedly disagrees.
Saturday, February 18th
Two vehicles are parked in the lot, but neither belongs to Miguel.
Grabbing my light backpack from the passenger seat, I shove sunglasses on my face and make my way to the trailhead, where I spot him.
He’s adorable in green cargo pants and a brown sweater, attempting to blend in with the environment.
A pack half his size threatens to tip him over while he tightens the laces on his boots.
My sneakers crunch on dirt and gravel, catching his attention as I approach. “Are those the hiking boots I bought you?” I ask.
“Don’t laugh. I know they look ridiculous on me. I wore them around my apartment yesterday to break them in.” He turns his ankles from side to side, showing off the footwear.
“They look great on you. And that’s a nice pack. Do you have a tent in there?”
“No, only the essentials. Water, MREs, toilet paper, a first aid kit, extra socks, a rain poncho—”
“Miguel.” My interruption earns me a severe glare. “The trail is a two-and-a-half-mile loop. You’ll be miserable hauling that much gear around. Where’s your car?”
“I parked it at the observatory and ordered a ride. Thought we’d end there, and I’ll drive you back to your car afterward.”
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. He prides himself on efficiency and organization, yet he’s made a simple plan overly complicated.
“So, we’re doing a one-mile hike. You’ll barely break a sweat, and you won’t need all this.”
Stepping around him, I push up the sleeves of my T-shirt and slide the heavy pack off his shoulders.
He stays behind while I haul his gear to the SUV I borrowed from Marcus.
After I snuck out of Texas on Tatum’s private jet last night, he picked me up at the airport and helped me strategize to stay off the paparazzi’s radar this weekend.
People are more interested in Tatum’s whereabouts than mine, but I’d like to avoid drawing more unwanted attention to myself.
As I dig through Miguel’s pack, I set aside the actual essentials, like the small first aid kit, and transfer them to my backpack. Once I return to him, I hand over his water bottle.
“This is all you need to carry. I’ll handle the rest.” In a flash of motion, he snatches the sunglasses of my face. I rear back. “What are you doing?”
“Taking baby steps,” he says, hooking the glasses on my shirt collar. “Your hat stays on.”
I check the parking lot for new arrivals. There are none. “We don’t care if anyone recognizes me?”
“Of course we do. I’ll be annoyed if someone asks for your autograph during my maiden voyage. But as far as we’re concerned”—he gestures between us—“don’t grab my ass or anything. Control yourself.”
“No promises,” I say with a wink.
He lets out a haughty huff and moves toward the trail.
The cargo pants hug his ass nicely, and I’m equally turned on and impressed by his dedication to this adventure.
He went out of his way to buy pants he’ll wear once and burn before allowing them to take up space in his closet, all for my benefit.
I fall into stride with him. “Are you sure being out here is a good idea? I’m kind of a hot commodity this week.”
“Everyone thinks you’re in Texas. We’ll be fine.”
With a skip in my step, I slide my thumbs beneath the straps of the backpack. “I’ve always wanted you to hike with me.”
“It may be a one-time thing, but you’ll get to check off one of your outdoor fantasies.”
I smile. “Careful, darling. I haven’t told you everything about my fantasies.”
The dimple pops in his right cheek as he stalks ahead, focusing on the ground while I admire the trees and the birdsong.
As the rising sun peeks through the branches, I tip my face toward its warmth.
Miguel moves faster than I’d normally hike, but I’ll take a brisk walk over a slow stroll any day, as long as he’s at my side.
Neither of us says much, which isn’t surprising. Our shared appreciation of quiet moments helped us grow together and learn to love deeper throughout our relationship. Many meaningful words can be heard when no one speaks.
Less than a half mile into our hike, he veers to the side of the trail and slumps against a tree, whining. “The baby steps hurt. These boots are killing my feet.”
“Sit and let me have a look.”
He slides down the tree, landing on his butt, knees bent and eyes closed. I drop my pack on the ground and crouch in front of him to unlace his boots. As I gently remove the left one, he hisses.