Marissa
The doorbell rings as soon as I step out of the shower. Wrapping a towel around my waist, I pad into the bedroom and see that the sound of it has roused Jesse.
He props himself up on his elbows and blinks his eyes open with a groggy smile. “Who’s here?” His voice comes out hoarse and scruffy and completely irresistible.
No one should be this sexy first thing in the morning.
“Bagel delivery,” I say. “I haven’t experienced this much cardio activity in months, and I needed sustenance.”
His crooked grin stretches. “How’d you swing that? The nearest bagel place is like thirty minutes away.”
“Let’s just say the tip exceeded the cost of the food. Desperate times and all that.”
I approach the bedside, and Jesse wraps an arm around my waist, dragging my body on top of his. He weaves his fingers through my hair and presses a kiss to the top of my head.
“You took a shower without me?”
“I didn’t get very clean last night. Wet, yes. But clean? Definitely not.”
“And yet I didn’t hear any complaints.”
The doorbell rings again.
I start to wiggle out from beneath Jesse’s arm, and he tightens his grip.
“Stay with me. They’ll leave the bagels on the porch.”
“And risk the bears after your valiant warning?” I plant a quick kiss on his lips. “I’ll be back in two seconds, and we can have breakfast in bed.”
Extracting myself, I grab the nearest article of clothing from the floor, which is Jesse’s T-shirt. The paint has hardened across the front but at least it isn’t wet.
I descend the stairs two at a time and swing open the front door. The bagels still smell fresh, but instead of a delivery driver clutching the bag, it’s Pooja. My eyes drop to the rolling suitcase and my stomach flip-flops.
Shit. I had completely forgotten she was coming in for the weekend.
She lowers her sunglasses and grins at me. “You didn’t tell me this neighborhood is called the Hideaway. Bit on the nose, don’t you think?”
My lips part, but before I can say anything, she presses on.
“Anyway, I picked up your delivery order at the gate. What’s with the bagels? Are we all eating gluten again?”
Footsteps approach and then I feel the weight of a warm body pressing against my back. Pooja’s eyes glance over my shoulder and her mouth falls open.
“Pooja, it’s not what it looks like.” Her eyes shift from the tall figure behind me to my paint-splattered T-shirt, and then up to my face.
“It looks like you’re banging your painter.”
I press my lips together. Okay, so it’s exactly what it looks like.
I shift my body to make room for Jesse in the doorway.
“Uh, Jesse, this is my best friend, Pooja. And Pooja, this is Jesse, my … carpenter.”
Pooja’s eyes go wide with delight. Her gaze roves over Jesse again, tracing down to the rocky terrain of his bare chest.
“Damn, those abs aren’t even painted on. Do you have representation?”
Jesse’s face flushes. “No, ma’am. Like she said, I’m just a carpenter.”
Pooja snorts. “So were a lot of guys before their first Calvin Klein campaign.”
I clear my throat and step to the side, gesturing for Pooja to come in.
“Pooja, come on in. Jesse, didn’t you say you had to be on another site this afternoon?”
I turn to Jesse and notice that his face has gone hard, unreadable. A moment later, the look passes, and he offers me a closed-off smile.
“Yep. I’d better head out. See you later, Marissa.”
“Well, you seem to have adjusted to Pennsylvania since we last spoke.” Pooja takes a long sip of coffee, eyes dancing playfully over the top of her mug. “Guess you just needed to find your perfect … fit.”
“Pooja.”
“What? I bet he has just the right tools for the job. A screwdriver to loosen you up.”
“Nope.”
“A hammer for a good pounding.”
“Stop it.”
“A truly impressive set of chisels. Endless depths to be plumbed.”
I swat my arm at her, sending the porch swing we’re perched side by side on careening.
“Hey now, don’t assault me just because you like a guy.”
“I don’t like him,” I protest. “Honestly, it’s just sex.”
“Just incredible sex, based on the way you’re still all flushed.”
I can’t help but grin in concession. “Just … amazing sex. I think maybe this is just what I needed. A fun, no-strings-attached summer fling. Something to get my mind off all the drama back home for the next six weeks, before it’s back to the real world.”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“What is mmm-hmm?”
“Mmm-hmm is the sound I make when I’m calling you out on your bullshit.”
I scoff. “What bullshit?”
“Allow me to enumerate.” She ticks off on her fingers. “First of all, you’re still wearing his shirt.”
“I … I had company. I wasn’t about to just disappear on you for a wardrobe change.”
“Marissa, I’ve known you since you were twelve and stuffing tissues in your bras. I am not company.”
I flush at the memory of one particularly awkward day on set, when the corner of one such tissue escaped the top of my shirt and Jonathan Tyler Green asked if I had a cold.
“Two,” she continues, “you don’t have fun, no-strings-attached summer flings.”
My mouth falls open.
“Of course I do!” I protest after a beat.
“No, you don’t.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Yeah? Name one guy you slept with after fewer than three dates.”
I flush under her pointed gaze. God, the audacity of best friends, knowing you better than anyone else.
She’s right, though: I never would have slept with Jesse if I hadn’t caught feelings for him.
But it’s not like anything is going to come of it.
Our paths might have temporarily intersected, but long term, we’re on completely different tracks.
Summer will come to an end. And when it does, I’ll get back to my real life, and he’ll get back to his. That’s all there is to it.
If only the thought didn’t make my stomach turn over.
Eager to avoid her scrutinous gaze, I twist away from her, fixing my attention on the lake.
“Well, things have changed this summer. I’ve changed. I’m turning over a new leaf. A new, casual-sex leaf.”
She snorts out a laugh, clearly unconvinced.
“Whatever you say, Captain Monogamy.”
Pooja shades her eyebrows as she peers out into the horizon. “It sure is beautiful here,” she says, mercifully pivoting to a different topic. “So peaceful.”
“It is.” I follow her gaze to study the landscape stretched before us. Wispy white clouds clot the cerulean sky. Sunlight filters through the branches, glittering across the lake and dabbling spots of warmth across the grass. Tree-lined mountaintops stretch as far as the eye can see.
“Are you sure you don’t see yourself living here long term?”
I balk at her. “Live here? In Pennsylvania?”
“Why are you saying it like that? It’s not like you’d be the first celebrity to move to the sticks. Superman lives out here. And it’s good enough for M. Night Shyamalan and his creepy imagination.” She tilts her head to study me. “Besides, you seem happy here.”
I lean back against the swing’s rattan headrest. “Listen, of course I prefer this to Los Angeles. The people are genuinely nice. There aren’t any assholes driving around in pretentious cars or gossipy women fighting for appointments with the best plastic surgeon.
There’s less traffic and pollution, and there are actual seasons. Who wouldn’t be happy here?”
Pooja nods. “I bet these mountaintops are stunning when it snows. I wouldn’t mind lighting that fireplace and curling up with a blanket and a cheesy Hallmark movie.”
I frown. “I’ve never spent a winter here. But I always wanted to.”
“What’s stopping you?”
“The kids, what else? They need stability. I can’t keep uprooting them from their lives.”
Pooja places her hand on mine. “And what about your life? When was the last time you did something for you?”
I open my mouth, but no words come out. The truth is, I’ve prioritized motherhood for so long that I can’t conjure a recent memory of putting myself first.
Well, until Jesse. Being with him makes me feel like a woman, not just a mother, for the first time in ages. It’s intoxicating.
Pooja gives me a knowing smile but keeps any further comments to herself. Instead, she reaches into her tote bag and extracts a bound manuscript.
“Listen, I know you haven’t wanted to read scripts in ages, but I have a new project that might interest you.”
She hands me the book, and I read the title on the front. The Felix Files.
“What’s this?” I ask, turning it over.
“A young adult novel written by a debut author on the spectrum. It’s about an eleven-year-old autistic boy who discovers an alternate dimension beneath his middle school.
It’s a magical realism mystery. Like if Murakami wrote The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time.
I’m planning to make an offer for the rights. ”
I raise my eyebrows. That does sound intriguing. And right up my alley. I’ve always loved a good mystery.
“Maybe you could read it and tell me if you think I should go for it. In the meantime, I’d love a quick nap. I’m wiped from travel, especially the drive to your house. The Uber driver talked to me the entire way. Is everyone in Pennsylvania this friendly?”
I laugh and shoo her away, and she heads upstairs. When she reemerges two hours later, I’m halfway through the manuscript and so enraptured that I don’t hear her until she’s standing right in front of me.
“Caught up in a good book?”
She plops down on the sofa, and I lay my head down in her lap.
“Seriously, Pooja, this is incredible. I haven’t been able to put it down. I can’t even fathom how great an adaptation would be.”
“Right? Seeing the underground world on the big screen will be so cool.”
I glance up at her. “Will be? Wait … have you already put in an offer?”
She grins. “I did, and it was accepted. We own the rights. I’ve already hired a screenwriter, who is putting the finishing touches on a script as we speak. And when you sign on to play Felix’s mother, the package will be snapped up by a major studio in no time.”