Chapter 6 Lana #2
“It’s a thing.” He checked his “mirrors” and set off upward.
“Women get it more than men, but my hair was longer back then. Plus, I was ruining the vibe for the people who’d paid for bucket-list quality time with the Mona Lisa.
The staff offered me a private tour after hours, but I wanted to be in among it, lost in a crowd, lost in art. Invisible. Stupid, right?”
“Not at all. That’s one of my favorite things to do in the world. I loathe being the center of attention.”
“Me too.”
“Huh?”
“Sure, it’s an occupational hazard, but I have this fantasy of walking down the street and no one recognizing me. No double takes, no calling ahead, no security vetting.”
“Your fantasy? That’s never happened to you?”
“One of my earliest memories is of being in a clothing store with my mom, and every single person was looking at us. Faces, everywhere. It was years before I realized that didn’t happen to other people. I was so confused when Mom told me not to stare. Watch out for that tree root, it’s loose.”
The climbing was becoming automatic, a natural rhythm of lead and follow, though she didn’t dare look down. Much more pleasant to look up at him, his muscles and sinews shifting, to listen to his voice rather than her thoughts. She was scaling a gully, yet she hadn’t felt this calm in weeks.
“Is that why no one’s allowed to look at you on set?”
“During filming? Depends on what’s happening in the scene, whether the other actors are supposed to be noticing me or not.”
“I mean, all the time. On camera, off camera. The cardinal rule: No one looks at Griffin Hart.”
He halted, bracing against a granite alcove. “Are you trolling me?”
“No? I assumed it was your rule.”
“Nope. Wow. That explains why no one meets my eye. I was getting a complex. Who told you of this ‘rule’?”
“Several people. One said an extra got fired for looking at you.”
“The things people say! The things people believe. Did you believe it?”
“Well, yes, but…”
“But…?”
How did she phrase this diplomatically? Some of the other big-name actors were friendly with the extras, but not Griffin.
He didn’t acknowledge they existed, in the way you didn’t acknowledge paint existed.
“You do … keep to yourself. I thought I would be shown the door when I tried to ask you about the photo. And there’s the twenty-foot rule, and the Mr. Hart rule. ”
As she caught up to him, he moved off again.
The angle of the incline was easing as they reached the sandstone layers.
“Okay, yes, I do like to keep to myself so I can stay focused—but the extra who was walked off the set? She’s a stalker who’s convinced she’s my mother.
She’s harmless enough—I think—but she’s not permitted to come within twenty feet of me, legally, so I’m guessing that’s what you mean by the ‘twenty feet rule’?
Security looked after her until her son could pick her up. ”
“Oh.”
“I have forty-seven active stalkers. As in, the ones my security detail keeps a file on. My manager has a filing cabinet of restraining orders, but even so, one or two usually hang around outside my street or follow my car. But what’s the ‘Mr. Hart rule?’”
“Isn’t that what you insist on being called?”
“No! I thought it was some in-joke I wasn’t getting—apparently there are memes about me.” He shook his head. “Mr. Hart. It always makes me think my dad is standing right behind me. Another thing you should know about me, Lana? My life is batshit crazy.”
It seemed a warning, but she wasn’t sure of the context. “I’m still stuck on the fact you’ve never been into a library.”
“I’ve seen loads of movies with library scenes. So many great librarian characters. Matilda. Ghostbusters. Aaand, you’re giving me the polite smile of someone who has no idea what I’m talking about but doesn’t want to say.”
“That transparent?”
“You are very transparent. But I like that about you.”
As she scrabbed over a bulge in the rock, she tried not to linger over that sentence.
I like that about you. “I do know Matilda, assuming you mean the Roald Dahl. But I’m hopeless with pop culture references and I get sick of saying, ‘Sorry, what are you talking about?’ It’s not like I’m stuck in the Gilded Age, or I’m a literary snob.
I was obsessed with Harry Potter and The Hunger Games and Twilight growing up, like everyone else. Just the books, though.”
As Griffin helped her onto a ledge, she found herself nose to navel with his abs. He supported her elbow as she stood. “You shouldn’t feel the need to pretend you know what people are talking about. I freely admit I know nothing about libraries.”
“What about your school library?”
“I didn’t do school. I was tutored on set, wherever my parents were filming. And then I started to get roles when I was still a kid, so…”
“Lucky you.” Lana used to beg her parents to homeschool her. Even her mom thought that was taking the alternative lifestyle too far: You could use the practice at being around other people.
“You didn’t watch movies as a kid?” he said. “WALL-E? Up?”
She took a breath. The air smelled of rock, earth and his scent—something woody with a touch of citrus.
She thought of the assistant handing him body spray.
The Lana who’d intently watched that display would be dumbfounded at what current Lana was doing.
“Maybe at school, for English?” How much did she want to share? “I had a sheltered upbringing.”
He crossed his arms, the biceps bulging in a way that contouring couldn’t take the credit for. “You’re doing that thing again.”
“What thing?”
“You might be lying by omission, but you’re still lying. You have a tell—several, actually.”
“What? What tell?”
“What are you hiding?”
“Nothing worth sharing. Griffin, I get that you’re worried I’m a stalker, and I don’t mean to sound defensive, but—”
“You’re totally right.” He held up his palms. “It’s none of my business.
It’s just, I guess… No, I’m not even sure why I’m asking.
It’s just that you…” His face blanked. She could see the moment of retreat.
How did he do that? How could she learn to do that?
“Your honor, I retract the question. Of course you have a right to privacy. I of all people should respect that.”
Okay, now she felt bad. She looked along the gully. They were almost at the bridge, and the last of the sunlight was burning the top of the sandstone orange. “It’s not a big secret. It’s just that…”
“That?”
“People tend to judge.”
“Oh indeed, they do. Try me? If you want.”
Her tongue toyed with her teeth. All week she’d heard nothing about Griffin Hart except that he was an asshole.
This guy seemed like his non-evil twin. “I grew up in an off-grid unplugged community. We didn’t have TV or internet.
No electronic media at all. Didn’t go to movies.
” He tipped his head, his mouth falling open.
Always best to jump in during the moment of shock to ward off questions.
“No, it wasn’t a cult. No, we weren’t conspiracy theorists or preppers or doomsdayers.
No, we weren’t hippies—well, maybe a little, but not to extremes.
Yes, I went to regular school, and yes, we shopped at the grocery store—for the things we didn’t grow ourselves.
Yes, we read newspapers and magazines—but only the ‘serious’ ones.
The Atlantic, The Economist. Yes, we had electricity and running water.
Yes, I had a laptop. It just wasn’t connected to the internet, except at school.
No, we didn’t have phones—landline or cell.
Just a bunch of people who prefer to switch off the world, and think that children shouldn’t be plugged in all day.
” His dropped jaw still hadn’t retracted, so she continued.
“My parents are artists. They say being off-grid helps them live creatively. ‘Either you’re a creator in this life, or a consumer.’ That’s my mom.
” Lana paused for a breath. “We should get to the top—the sun’s going down. ”
He looked around as if surprised to find himself in a gully in the middle of nowhere with a librarian. “Sure. You wanna go first over this bit? I’ll boost you up.”
Boosting her involved his face getting awkwardly near her butt, but she managed to scramble up ten feet.
“Where was this utopia?” he said, following. “Is?”
“Neither utopia nor dystopia. North of Spokane in Washington state. And yes, it’s still there, as are my parents.”
“Why did you leave—and for L.A., which is like the opposite of an unplugged lifestyle?”
“FOMO.”
He laughed.
“Mostly the usual reasons you leave a small town. I went to college in Seattle, and then did my master’s degree at UCLA, and I found out I liked it here. Plus, Vivi was in L.A. by then, and she required a little … oversight.”
“You wanted to be a part of things?”
“No! The opposite. I like the anonymity. Where better to go unnoticed than in one of the most crowded cities in America? I love being lost in the hustle and bustle, as long as I don’t have to do any hustling.
There’s not an in-crowd and an out-crowd, not in the circles I run in—there’s just a crowd, everywhere.
And as long as you don’t do anything weird, no one notices you.
The chaos of the city—it’s like an invisibility cloak.
I can ride the Metro and read my book and totally fade away.
I love that.” She winced. “Sorry, but I do.”
“Don’t be sorry. So, you’re out there in the middle of things, but not part of things?”
“I’ve never felt like part of the world. I’m an infiltrator. An alien here to observe humans and report back.”
Griffin caught up to her on one of the awkwardly small ledges, leaving them huddled beside a tree that was stretching sideways as if it had ambitions of crossing the divide. Her back was flush against the sun-warmed sandstone.
“I’m not actually an alien,” she said.
He frowned down at her, suddenly fiercely serious.
Her forehead prickled. “Griffin? What is it?”
“No, I’m just…” He glanced down as if to collect his thoughts, then slowly his gaze rose again. The amber sunlight illuminated his eyes to a hypnotic pale green. “You’re fascinating.”
“I’m a freak.” She said it more defensively than she’d intended.
Heat crept up her chest. Any second it would reach her face.
Wait, was that her tell—blushing? Not exactly Advanced Psychology.
“I mean, I’m quite capable of interacting with people—though they usually think I’m weird and awkward—but if it comes to a choice between interacting and not interacting, I’ll choose not.
I don’t have a ton of friends. I live in my little studio and I go to work, and I come home and read books.
I do go to trivia night with my colleagues, and sometimes the theater, but I’m not otherwise what you might call an active participant in the world. But I’m happy … enough.”
He raised his eyebrows at the enough. “If you’re a freak, then I’m even more of a freak.”
“You, a freak? Ha! Aren’t you like the epicenter of the most in in-crowd in the world?”
“I live in a pool house on my parents’ property, when I’m not in hotel rooms. I work fourteen-, fifteen-hour days, and then I come home and learn my lines for the next day.
I work through the summers and never take vacations, and on weekends I watch films—and read books—mostly alone. And that’s me.”
“And go to glitzy award ceremonies and premieres and galas,” she said. Griffin’s mouth quirked. “The cop showed me some photos—just to prove to me who you were.”
“Very occasionally I go out. And don’t get me wrong—I love my job. I wouldn’t put in these hours if I didn’t. I’m the kid who never had to stop playing pretend. But when I’m not on set, I mostly sit at home and look out over the world and wonder what it’s like to visit a library.”
Now it was her turn to be dumbstruck. His guard was way down, and she could see the vulnerability he showed on screen. Maybe even loneliness. “So, when you said you don’t get out much…?”
“I really don’t. Plenty of actors have no problem with going out and having fans approach them. Not me. Even with the nice ones—and they’re mostly nice—I find it awkward. People think they know me. I’ve never figured out how to respond to that.”
“You’re not at all who I thought you’d be.”
“Neither are you.”
His gaze tracked across her face, and he raised a hand to her hair, gently freeing some strands that had caught in the tree.
His brow creased, and he leaned in. She swallowed, her throat dry.
His warm breath coasted along her cheekbone.
She raised her chin, closing her eyes as he shifted ever closer.
But no kiss came. She opened her eyes, and he lurched past her, shoving his hand into a fissure under a branch. He pulled out something pink and rectangular.
Vivien’s phone.