Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
Danny
? Explore a science museum
I haven’t been here since I was a child. In fact, Christina and I are surrounded by children—because the science museum in the heart of downtown Chattanooga is expressly for children.
But Christina’s enthusiasm outstrips all of theirs.
She’s in a classic khaki trench coat and green rubber boots to match the rainy day outside of the huge glass windows of the museum.
And she’s positively buzzing with excitement as she surveys the range of colorful exhibits around us, all manner of science-y contraptions, play areas, electronic zones, and experimentation tables.
She turns a bright face to me and squeezes my bicep. “Where do we start?”
My camera doesn’t feel like enough to capture the expansiveness of her.
Although technically, it’s supposed to be capturing both of us. Because I’m not just the documentarian anymore.
Charlie laughed for a full minute when I told him about the Jezebel List and the fact that I would be an equal part of the documentary. But when I begrudgingly showed him some of the footage from our Exit 11 voyage that I’ve already cut and labeled for easy editing later, he sobered up real quick.
“Holy shit,” he murmured after watching a few minutes of Christina flitting around the liquor store, the very embodiment of confidence and loveliness, unashamedly asking me sweet and funny questions that I tried not to answer.
“She’s undeniable, isn’t she?” he asked.
Undeniable. I’m not sure there was ever a better word to describe her.
When I don’t answer her, Christina glances to the lightweight, front-facing camera on a selfie stick that I’ve been experimenting with all week.
Thankfully, it already feels like second nature to check its parameters and toggle it in my harness as I go about my business.
“Are you anxious about being on camera today?” she asks softly.
“No,” I respond, and that’s the truth. The choice to move in front of the camera with her seemed like no choice at all.
All I know is that the thought of anyone wanting her to perform, making her feel isolated, urging her to be anything other than her witty, sincere self—including me—flares hot anger through my chest suddenly and violently.
It’s completely different for me to be in front of the camera, and god knows this project won’t have an objective documentarian teasing out the story.
But did it ever? From the moment I first saw Christina at that pagan festival, I was part of her story.
I want to be part of her story. “I’m happy to be with you. ”
She squeezes my bicep a little tighter, her smile the loveliest of things. I think this is how she communicates—through touch. It’s only a problem because I like it more than feels appropriate.
“No performing?” she asks, the epitome of hope.
A smile pops out of me, even in all my intensity. “No performing.”
“The mics!” she suddenly yelps.
“Shit, yes, the mics.”
We’ve been emailing all week to work out logistics and aesthetics, and I’ve also already secured permissions with most places we’ll be visiting.
She provided incredibly perceptive notes and questions on all the paperwork and plans.
It even crossed my mind to ask if she would be willing to give feedback on some of my other ongoing projects.
One logistic for us is that the mini boom mics will only work when I’m able to set up tripods in relatively controlled sound environments. Otherwise, especially when I’m using the selfie stick, we need to use lav mics.
“So you need to tape this.” I pull a tiny wireless microphone and body tape out of the camera bag hooked into my usual harness.
“Tape it where?”
“Um …” I try not to stare at the rounded neckline of the shirt under her open trench coat. It scoops low enough to reveal a smattering of the lightest freckles across her chest and collarbone. “It needs to be taped to your chest, not too close to your face, and hidden in your shirt.”
She follows my gaze by looking down at herself. Then she looks at the little mic in my outstretched hand.
“Can you do it?” she asks.
“Can I do what?”
“Tape it. Where it’s supposed to go.”
My mind blanks.
“It makes me really anxious to handle what looks like an expensive piece of equipment,” she explains, “and I’m not sure I would get it right.”
Okay, this is happening. I lock the selfie stick into my harness, and—oh good, my hands are trembling. I crack my neck to recenter.
“I’ll have to pull your shirt down a bit,” I say, voice on its way to hoarse. I clear my throat. “Is that okay?”
She nods, face open and trusting, before her lips curve with the slightest trace of mischief. “Have your way with me, Maestro.”
Her words hit me somewhere below my navel, causing my gut to tighten.
I’m suddenly thinking about her lips curving around that cigar.
Again. When Charlie saw that particular footage of us on the curb, he stared a hole through the side of my head where I wouldn’t meet his gaze, but he had the good grace not to say anything.
Because the look on my face in that footage was unmistakable.
Hunger.
I can only pray I’m tamping that look down now as I lift still slightly trembling hands to the top of her shirt.
I carefully finger the edge of her neckline and urge it down slowly.
Even barely grazing her soft skin, I can feel her heart pounding in her chest. I only register that I’m biting into my bottom lip when I experience a sharp tang of pain.
When my fingertips hit the edge of her bra cup, she sucks in air through her teeth. Something in me tries to follow that air.
I drag my eyes up to hers. “Still okay?”
She nods, no mischief this time. Just wide eyes on me.
I arrange the mic right above the cup’s edge, catching a flash of the blue material that will forever from this moment be my favorite color, and carefully apply the body tape.
I can feel her gaze still on my face, but I can’t look anywhere other than at my fingers on her pale skin, which is pinkening up with every passing second.
The mic is set and on, but like a man possessed, I sweep my thumb across the top of her bra cup—the textured lace of it an enticing contrast to the soft swell of skin beneath—and a little sound escapes her, something like a whimper.
Oh fuck. The mic captured that sound. I could listen to it again. Over and over.
A child’s sudden wailing jars me from my trance. I drop my hand and avert my eyes, hoping my face isn’t as red as it feels, and I sense in my periphery that she’s arranging her shirt back into place over the mic. And likewise averting her eyes.
I busy myself with setting up my own lav mic in an attempt to clear my head. Fat chance, with that blue lace burned into my retinas. I wonder what other little sounds I could coax out of her if she gave me further permission. If she let me take my time …
“Can we do the Dino Zone first?” She’s looking up at me eagerly. And letting me off the hook.
Dropping my silly Charlie impression with her is one thing.
Even moving in front of the camera with her is understandable.
Both were in service of this documentary project.
But starting a physical or romantic entanglement with Christina would be something else entirely.
It would change the narrative. It would complicate our relationship.
What if it jeopardizes the project? What if it jeopardizes the list itself?
My only priority is Christina completing this list with joy.
I can’t be distracting her or wanting something more from her.
We need to be on the same page here, and I’m fucking it up. I need to lock this attraction down.
I jerk my head toward the Dino Zone in a lead the way gesture.
The enormous area is filled with life-size dinosaur models that tower over us, glass cases of bones and fossils, and a huge sand pit for play excavation.
As we move further into the exhibit, Christina cranes her neck to look up at an enormous bone model.
“This was my favorite dinosaur as a kid,” I say.
Her eyes are sparkling when she looks over at me. “You just offered up information about yourself. Like a real documentary subject!”
I roll my eyes. “Well, if I’m going to be in front of the camera …”
Truthfully, I’m not sure the camera has anything to do with it. I find myself wanting to share pieces of myself with Christina. Wanting her to know me. Maybe she’ll even let me know her in turn.
She grins. “Why was the”—she peers at the plaque in front of the model to get the name—“apatosaurus your favorite?”
I consider. “They’re so large—the long necks and tails, the bulky bodies. But they’re vegetarians. I guess I just loved the gentle giant vibe.”
“How very humanitarian of you.”
I bite down on my grin. “What was your favorite?”
She gasps. “Maestro! Dinosaurs imply the world is millions of years old instead of only six thousand!” She gestures toward the fossils in a glass case. “Don’t you know that scientists planted these fossils for their own evil agendas?”
I crack a smile. “Scientists en masse are famously devil- worshiping masterminds.”
She throws the back of her fingers onto her smiling mouth. The unfiltered gesture is a reward every time.
“There’s nothing for it but to laugh,” she sighs. “The alternative is shriveling up with embarrassment that I could ever believe such objectively untrue nonsense. But when you’re told this shit from the time you can walk …”
I elbow her lightly. “Hey, even I learned most of what I know about dinosaurs from children’s picture books.”
She tosses me a grateful smile. “Listen, when your science education is as scant as ours was in the Bible Belt’s public school system, you take your education where you can get it.”
Ours. She knows I had poor science education too, because of my first documentary.
“I keep forgetting that you know me,” I mutter. “That you’ve watched all my work.”