Chapter XV
XV
When Reid opens the door, he takes me in the same as I do him, openly, hungrily.
The sleeves of his shirt are rolled up, revealing the softened leather of his watch around his wrist, and I think back to the first time I saw him, the assumptions I made as I misinterpreted his cheap suit and scratched timepiece.
How young I was. How much more I know now, and how confused I still am.
Reid inclines his head. “Come in.” When he notices me glancing around the room behind him, he adds, “Gracie’s staying a few doors down.”
I follow him in. We both know what’s happening here, and with the liberation of pretense, I feel myself grow deliciously lightheaded, like I’ve just drunk a column of champagne.
Behind me, I hear the snick of the door shutting.
The room is all elegant creams and grays, ensconced in warm light.
There’s a small sitting area in the far corner, two plush-looking armchairs facing a low, round marble table with a single pristine pink rose in a crystal vase in the center.
I settle into one of the chairs, consciously avoiding the gravitational pull of the bed in the middle of the room.
“Can I get you a drink? All I have to offer is whatever’s in the minibar. Or room service, if you want,” Reid says, crossing the room.
“Whatever’s in there is good. Now that I’ve gotten myself here, I don’t want interruptions.”
Reid laughs—a low, knowing sound. He crouches down to open the minibar, and I home in on the way he rests his wrist on his folded leg, the flex of his thighs beneath the fabric of his pants. Every inch of my skin has been charged since last night, my nerve endings buzzing like live wires.
He turns to look at me over his shoulder. “Lili?” He catches me staring. I see the glint of it in his eyes.
I must have missed the part where he asked me what I wanted. “Is there whiskey?”
“Neat?”
I nod.
Handing me a highball glass, he sits in the chair across from me and cradles his drink in the palm of his hand. Then he just . . . considers me. When I take a sip, I feel the burn of the whiskey in my chest, the burn of his eyes tracing down my neck.
“You chose a nice place to stay,” I say. I can’t bring myself to articulate anything of substance. I can’t verbalize anything I’m thinking without opening the floodgates.
He clears his throat, rousing himself. I am so aware of his awareness of me. I am expansive with possibility. I wonder if this is what performers feel the moment they step onto the stage, as if every single molecule in the room is reorienting around them.
“It’s a little much.” He smiles and shrugs. “But the Upper East Side still feels like the quintessential New York dream to me, and I wanted to show Gracie that.” His voice has gone soft. “And also—where I lived when I lived here. A bit of a nostalgia play, I guess.”
“Is your uncle still on Eighty-Eighth?”
“He died in 2017. Cat sold the apartment. But I still associate this neighborhood with him. It’s . . . gentlemanly. Dignified.”
“I’m sorry, Reid.”
He takes a sip of his drink. “He was closing in on ninety and passed peacefully in his sleep. It’s sad, but not tragic. Cat’s words, not mine. But, you know. I am someone who knows the difference.”
I hum in agreement. I shift in my chair and slip off my shoes, folding my legs underneath me. I see Reid tracking the movement with his eyes.
“How’s your mom?” I ask.
“Living her best life in Santa Monica. She’s spending most of her time painting and taking long walks on the beach.”
“Sounds like she’s ‘romanticizing her life,’” I say.
He laughs. “Main character energy, for sure.”
He watches me take another drink, and every cell in my body is screaming for him to keep looking at me like he is, to touch me with his strong, sure hands, but continuing to avoid the little tiff we had last night feels like a lie, and that’s not the precedent I want to set. Not with Reid.
“So,” I say. “What I said before you left—”
Reid holds a palm up. “Lili, it’s fine. We don’t need to get into it again.”
I eye him sharply, curious about this reaction. Why is he deflecting? It’s been the other way around—him pushing me to be honest and me ducking around it.
“I think we do,” I say, and it comes out more easily than I expect.
“I need you to know that I was reflecting on my own insecurities. I know that I’m hung up on my behavior in my marriage—I honestly can’t believe how well you probably grasp that already—and I see the mistakes I’m making in co-parenting.
But I’m also punishing myself, and last night, I was punishing you.
There’s just a lot I want to do better.” I move forward in my seat, urging Reid to meet my gaze.
Reid sits back in his chair, breaking our eye contact.
My heart hits my throat, and the words rush out. “You’re just . . . you’re the best person, Reid.”
He raises an eyebrow. “You might be a little deluded about me, but I’m flattered.”
“I’m not deluded,” I say, laughing. “I am entirely objective.”
“Objective.” He takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry I unloaded my whole sob story on you yesterday.
I think I do a pretty good job of keeping myself on lock, but sometimes the past .
. .” He gives me a smirk, and I feel a breath of relief.
“There’s something about seeing you that cracked something open, I guess. ”
My phone dings, and I curse under my breath. “I’m sorry.” I reach down to fumble inside my bag for it. “Let me just see if this is Emme.”
I find a text from Hayes. Hearing that Resonance is considering someone else for the project. Petra Collins type, but somehow even younger. Thoughts?
I shake my head, slot my phone back in my bag, and take a long sip of my drink. Over the twelve years I’ve been working with Hayes, I’ve learned his moves: He’s going to find every excuse to be in my ear and try to force my hand.
“All good?” Reid asks.
I nod. “Not Emme. She’s probably deep in a smug, satisfied sleep. It was my agent.”
Reid cocks his head.
“There’s a potential job that came out of left field. I’m not sure if I can take it.”
When Reid dips his chin, silently prodding for more information, I give him my take: the unexpected opportunity of it, the countless complications, and the fact that they’ll move on and never give me a second thought if I say no.
“It sounds incredible, Lil,” Reid says.
“It sounds terrifying,” I counter. “It feels so big. I don’t know if I have room for this kind of thing in my life. I can’t just disappear for three months and leave Emme to her own devices.”
“You can’t, or you won’t?”
“I don’t think there’s a difference. Not at this stage.”
“You know there’s a difference.” He leans toward me, and I catch a whiff of the whiskey, the scent of his skin—musky and clean, mixed with something that’s distinctly him.
He swirls the liquor in his glass. “When I wrote Mask of Sin, I holed myself up in my friend’s guesthouse in Ojai for six weeks over the summer.
Gracie was nine. She stayed with Cat, and they’d come visit on weekends.
She still maintains that that was the best summer of her life, which honestly hurts my feelings, but damn if it didn’t prove to both of us that it’s possible to be a good parent and also an artist.”
I love the way his eyes light up, the same way they did years ago when he got animated about David Lynch or whether The Godfather was overrated. It’s only when he shifts his weight in his seat that I see a question in his smile and realize I’ve been silently staring at him for a little too long.
“I like seeing you this way,” I explain. “Talking about what you love. I’m a little jealous, actually. I want to feel that kind of drive again.”
“You can. But you might—you might have to start taking some risks. I know you’ve made plenty of great art since having Emme. But I also get a sense that she might be your excuse to stick with what’s comfortable.”
“Did you feel that way? Before you wrote Mask of Sin?”
“I did, to be honest. I was getting to a point where I was just coasting, taking on projects I didn’t believe in.
Keeping my eyes on my bank account. I was providing security for Gracie, but I hated what I was ultimately modeling for her—what it looked like to give up on what you love.
” He sighs. “Honestly, the entire process of writing that screenplay was pretty painful. I hated it, at the time. I was totally alone, writing without a partner like I had for previous projects, worrying about my kid. And the potential for failure. And the distinct possibility that I was suffering from delusions of grandeur. But I would still take all that existential angst over the pain of not doing it. Not trying.”
“You stopped making excuses,” I say.
“I did.”
“And that’s how you won a fucking Oscar.”
Reid drops his head and laughs. “That, and the three hundred other people who made that movie come to life.” His eyes soften as they search mine.
“You know, I remember the way you were when you were with your camera. It’s like you became more of yourself.
More confident and self-assured. More graceful, if that’s even possible. ”
“Clearly you’re not remembering the time I face-planted outside St. Dymphna’s in my platform Mary Janes.”
“Oh, I remember that. I also remember that you got up and immediately took a photo of your skinned knees. Hottest thing I’d ever seen.”