Forgiven

by Karen Kingsbury

  They went crazy, snapping a continuous stream of pictures.

  “Hey, Dayne, how are things with Kelly?” one of them cried out. Normally the photographers said nothing. But in a setting like this, Dayne was trapped. He had to feign kindness toward them; otherwise the fans would think he had a bad attitude.

  “Kelly?” He made the okay sign and gave a subtle raise of his eyebrows. Two of the photographers had been on hand the night last summer when she tried to kill herself. “Things are perfect.” He waved at them, the smile never leaving his face. “Thanks for asking.”

  The gossip rags hated it when things were perfect. They hated it when Dayne smiled at them, which was one reason he intended to do it all day long. They wanted an off moment—a chance instant when he might sneeze or snarl or spill his Coke—anything that would make for interesting copy.

  He kept smiling, making his way down the line. A little girl held out an autograph book and a Sharpie. He took them and patted her on the head. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

  A few feet away, a woman screamed, “Oh, my goodness! He called my niece a sweetheart!” Another scream. “I’m gonna die! I can’t believe it.”

  The little girl looked embarrassed by her aunt. She gave Dayne a toothy smile. “My name’s Rachel.”

  “Okay, Rachel.” He moved the pen quickly across the page, the way he’d done thousands of times before. Then he handed the book and pen back to her. “Be a good girl, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  The girl’s aunt was jumping, her chest flopping around. “Dayne . . . sign my shirt! Come on, Dayne, over here!”

  He pretended not to see her. A few more feet down and the teenage girls wiggled their way to the front of the tape. “Dayne! We need a kiss!” All five girls wore low-cut tank tops and tight jean shorts. The temperature wasn’t quite sixty degrees, so they had to be freezing. Still, they waved their poster at him, more hysterical the closer he came.

  “A kiss, please, Dayne!” The tallest of the group grabbed his arm. “Come on, we drove four hours!”

  Was that all it took? If someone drove four hours then he owed them a kiss? Why would they want a kiss from him anyway? They didn’t know him and would never see him again. Besides, not one of them looked a day over eighteen. In the corner of his eye he saw the paparazzi still shooting, their cameras following him everywhere he went.

  He waved at the girls and smiled. “I came two thousand miles!”

  They screamed and hopped around, as if maybe that was the most brilliant thing they’d ever heard. “Please, Dayne, take a picture with us!”

  A picture he could do. He took three cameras from the girls and handed them to one of the gofers walking around inside the cordoned area. He positioned himself with his back against the tape, so the girls could form a group around him. Every one of them was trembling, squealing as the man tried to figure out the first camera.

  Two of the girls had their arms around Dayne’s neck, and one leaned in close to his ear. “Wanna have a little fun later tonight? We’re staying just down the street.”

  Dayne kept smiling. “Okay, everyone look at the camera.”

  The gofer held it up and looked at the group. “One . . . two . . . three.”

  While the gofer was getting the next camera ready, the girl on the other side of Dayne slid her fingers partway down the back of his jeans. He jerked a few inches forward, and the girl giggled. “Sorry.” She kissed him on the cheek. “I can’t control myself.”

  He pretended to help the gofer get the next camera ready, but really he needed an excuse to keep his distance. When it came time for the picture, he kept himself just out of reach.

  “We love you, Dayne!” the group chimed.

  “The best fans are right here!” he shouted. The whole time he kept smiling, as if he was having the time of his life, hanging out with Midwestern teenagers, trying not to be molested by them. Where did the lines blur, anyway? His director wanted him to be friendly with the fans, but teenage girls sticking their hands down his pants? Grabbing him and kissing him? What if they were underage? What would the tabs say about that? When the last picture was snapped, he put four feet between him and the girls and waved at them.

  By the time he arrived at the food table, he wasn’t hungry.

  “Dayne!” the screams came from all around him. The housewives waved at him, leaning over the tape and reaching for him. “Come on, Dayne. We’re desperate!”

  He walked up to them, his arms open wide, and gave all four a group hug. His ears rang by the time he pulled away. He grabbed a few grapes from the table and returned to Mitch. “There. You happy?”

  Mitch didn’t look up. “Very. The tabs got every minute. Dayne Matthews—America’s heartthrob.” He wrote something on his notepad. “You played the part perfectly.”

  “That’s why they call me an actor.”

  “Exactly.” Mitch looked at his watch. He picked up his bullhorn and aimed it at the people across the street. “Okay, attention. We’re picking up with scene eleven, like we discussed. Everyone not in the scene get back to the staging area. If you’re in it, take your places. I want to roll in two minutes.”

  His announcement started a shuffling of activity, though no one looked to be in a hurry. Dayne stared at the cast and crew, heading in different directions, chatting and laughing, surrounded by an air of privilege and confidence. The crowd outside the yellow police tape was still growing: more cameras, more waving, more screaming fans, more chaos. Wasn’t it like this for every film, every time they shot on location outside Southern California?

  So much money and time and energy . . . for what? For a two-hour film no one would remember in a year? His eyes glazed over, and he remembered the Saturday morning rehearsal with the CKT kids, the way Katy had circled her students around her, comforting them and teaching them at the same time. Katy Hart’s work with the kids—now that was important. Something everyone involved would remember.

  “Dayne?” One of the gofers nudged him. “Mitch called for you.” He pointed across the street. “We’re shooting scene eleven.”

  “Right.” Dayne tried to smile, but the corners of his mouth wouldn’t go up any higher. The smile from earlier was still in place. He nodded at the guy. “Thanks.”

  Across the staging area, Mitch gave him a friendly wave, but his eyes told another story. The director was furious with him. Because of the paparazzi, none of them could show their real feelings, and that was something else that bugged him.

  Dayne slipped a few of the grapes into his mouth and sauntered across the street to the area where the scene would be shot. Any other line of work allowed people to get upset. At a marketing meeting or in the midst of an advertising campaign, people could have concerns or doubts or harsh words, and it would all be in the line of work. In the movie industry, even what went on behind closed doors eventually wound up in the rags. On a day like this, the first day of shooting for Dayne Matthews’ next big film, every wary eye would be looking for a problem. That way they could gleefully tell the public that there was “trouble on the set” or “differing opinions between the director and the stars.”

  Kelly was waiting for him, watching him as he stepped onto the sidewalk. Her smile came easily. “You look distracted.”

  “Nope.” He could feel the cameras trained on them. His arm came around her waist, and he pulled her close for a kiss. He could be honest later. She stayed in his embrace for a few seconds, their faces inches apart. “Everything’s great.”

  “Ready for action?” She pulled him close again, her eyes flirting hard.

  The bullhorn squawked into action. “Okay, you two—” the voice was Mitch Henry’s—“save it for the film.”

  Dayne gave her one more practiced kiss, waved at his director, and straightened. Even this part felt scripted, and he could only guess how happy Mitch must’ve been making the announcement. It gave everyone in attendance—paparazzi included—a reason to think that Dream On was just a fictitious ext
ension of the real-life love story playing out between Dayne and Kelly.

  The whole thing was a joke. A sarcastic laugh simmered in Dayne’s gut. The cameras might not be rolling, but the acting had started long ago. Not that it was Kelly’s fault. She meant well, and for a time, he’d enjoyed her company. Or maybe he’d only felt sorry for her. Either way, she didn’t deserve to be in a relationship with a guy whose attitude was so lousy.

  It was one more thing they’d have to work out later.

  People were taking their places. The scene would have Kelly and Dayne walking down the street, talking. Kelly’s character was confident and friendly, greeting people she knew, familiar with the layout of the street. Dayne’s character would lag a little behind her, baffled at how different this town was from the landscape of Manhattan. Halfway down the block, Dayne was supposed to get sick of her ignoring his questions. In a teasing manner, he was then supposed to grab her by the shoulder, pull her into an alleyway, and kiss her.

  “Remember what I told you,” Mitch barked through the bullhorn. “This one might be outdoors, but it’s one of the steamiest scenes in the movie. Let’s get it right.”

  A round of hoots and applause went up around the perimeter of the tape. Dayne grinned at Kelly, and based on her reaction, his expression must’ve convinced her that everything was okay. She gave his hand a quick squeeze and took her place. They’d run through the lines a dozen times already, so there was a chance they’d get the take clean the first time. That was Dayne’s goal.

  A makeup artist ran in and powdered his forehead and his nose, while a stylist patted his hair with a sheen they used for outdoor shots. All of it had already been done, but touch-ups were a constant part of the work. Beside him, Kelly got the same treatment.

  Around the set a hush fell over the crowd.

  “Okay, everyone.” Mitch sounded exuberant. “Quiet on the set.”

  Dayne took his position. He could feel Kelly at his side, and he wondered how much of his director’s upbeat tone was wishful thinking and how much was his attempt at convincing everyone that the film was going to be a huge hit. He took a quick breath. Okay, Matthews, he told himself, make it count. He closed his eyes and imagined that he was a New York businessman accustomed to getting his own way. Only now the girl he loved had run out on him, and he’d come to her small hometown to find her, to talk some sense into her because, of course, things would work between them.

  Yeah, he could be the part. No problem.

  He opened his eyes, and there—standing across the street near a tree outside the cordoned-off area—was Katy Hart. Next to her stood Jenny Flanigan and the choreographer, Rhonda. All three of them had Starbucks drinks in their hands, and they looked content to stay in the background. Jenny and Rhonda were talking, but Katy was quiet.

  She had her eyes trained straight on him.

  Even from fifty yards away, he could feel her in his arms, hear her voice the way she sounded a few days ago. He wanted to call for a break and run to her, but it was impossible. If he looked at her another second longer, Kelly would catch on and spot her too. Then even drawing on the best of their talent they wouldn’t be able to pull off the scene.

  Dayne swallowed hard and looked away. He leaned close to Kelly. “Ready?”

  “Ready.” She smiled at him. “Remember, let me take the lead.”

  He nodded, but all he could think about was Katy. She had to know he couldn’t talk to her, yet she’d come. Did it mean she wasn’t willing to give up? Or had the others merely brought her along because they were curious?

  The sun was hitting them from the east, and Mitch had moved closer, his director’s chair positioned in the middle of the street a few yards away. Still, he used the bullhorn. “All right, let’s slate it.”

  One of the assistants held a black chalkboard in front of the camera and said, “Scene eleven, take one.”

  Kelly set out at a relaxed pace. A few extras strolled by from the other direction, and Kelly waved at them. “Mr. Grover, Mrs. Grover.”

  Dayne twisted his face in disbelief, looking over his shoulder as the couple passed and taking awkward steps to keep up with her. “What is this place?” He held his hands out at his sides. “You know everyone, or what?”

  She spun around, her expression pleasant but determined. “That’s the idea.” She flipped her hair over her shoulder and kept walking. “Not that you New Yorkers would know anything about that.”

  “Hey . . .” He took a few quick steps and reached for her hand.

  When she turned around, her eyes were impatient, perfectly so. “I’m here because I want to be here. Can you understand that?”

  “Yes, but . . .” He had a line, and he searched his brain trying to find it. “Yes, but you . . .”

  “Cut!” Mitch flew off his chair and stormed the remaining distance toward him. Not far off, the paparazzi fought for position, snapping pictures all the while. The director kept walking until he was two inches from Dayne’s face. “You don’t know the lines?”

  He glanced for a second to where Katy was standing. She had her back turned, and he figured she must’ve known. How could he concentrate with her watching him? This had rarely happened to him in all his days of acting. He could be dating one girl and playing the boyfriend role for another. He could even do a bedroom scene with an actress while a girlfriend watched.

  But none of them had become part of him the way Katy had, the way she always would be.

  “Matthews!” Mitch was seething now. “Get focused!”

  A fine layer of his spit hit Dayne on the cheek. He wiped it off, but he didn’t dare smile. “Sorry. I know the lines.”

  “You better.” The director spun around and returned to his chair.

  Kelly shot him a weak smile. “Distracted by my beauty, huh?” she whispered.

  “Yeah.” He made a face. “What can I say?”

  The scene was slated again, and this time they got all the way to the part where Dayne was supposed to take hold of Kelly’s shoulder and pull her into an alleyway. He did just that, careful to keep his expressions in line with his dialogue. But as he pressed her against the brick wall and moved in to give her the kiss that was supposed to take her breath away—the one that should take away the breath of every female who would watch the movie—he tripped over his lines again.

  This time he walked away and tossed his hands. Before Mitch could yell at him, he grinned at the director. “She’s making me nervous,” he shouted loud enough for everyone around the perimeter to hear. “I think I have a crush on her.”

  Dayne’s pronouncement was enough to send a ripple of giggles along the rows of fans. Even the paparazzi smiled as they snapped his picture and noted for the record that the on-screen chemistry between Dayne and Kelly was so strong it was messing with Dayne’s ability to remember his lines.

  Except that was a lie, of course. Dayne knew it and Mitch knew it, and at that point, Kelly had to know it too. Dayne crossed the street, and as he did, he looked off to the side at Katy. She was watching him again, and her eyes held an apology. He gave her the slightest shake of his head and hoped she would understand. No, he couldn’t talk; no, he didn’t want her there watching him; and no, this wasn’t what he wanted.

  But he had no choice.

  She seemed to understand, because from the corner of his eye he saw her say something to Jenny and Rhonda. After a minute the three of them turned and left. By then he was midway through a brief conversation with Mitch and Kelly.

  “Whatever’s going on in your head, Dayne, get it out.” Mitch was beyond angry. For the first time he looked worried. “This kissing scene has to be one of those they talk about in chat rooms across the country.” He took hold of Dayne’s arm. “You know that kind of kiss, Matthews?”

  Katy’s face came to mind. Dayne blinked and nodded. “Yeah, Mitch. I know it.”

  “You should.” Kelly was still smiling, trying to keep the moment light. After all, everyone around them thought he was simp
ly too smitten with Kelly to keep up the pretense of the scene. She tapped her finger on his chest. “That’s how you used to kiss me.”

  Mitch waved his hands. “None of this used-to stuff.” He pointed at the alleyway across the street. “Go kiss the girl, Matthews.”

  He put his arm around Kelly as they walked back to their spots. “Sorry. It’s just taking me longer to get into character.”

  “How about if I don’t look too deeply into that one, okay?” She leaned up and kissed his cheek. “Let’s get it right.”

  “We will. I promise.”

  Dayne kept his word this time. With Katy gone, he could focus all his anger and longing, all his frustrations on the scene. The kiss came out fantastic, filled with the kind of passion and rage and impossibility that marked the best on-screen moments.

  When they were finished, Mitch stood up and clapped. “Perfect, people! That’s what I’m talking about!” He directed the bullhorn toward the fans. “How about that? What do you think?”

  The people cheered and screamed their approval. Some of the women called out Dayne’s name. “Kiss me like that, Dayne!”

  “We love you, Dayne!”

  “We’re still desperate, Dayne!”

  Kelly had her admirers too. A group of guys playing football in the park had come over and found a spot along the tape. They hooted at her and tried to get her attention. “You need a real man, Kelly Parker. Take one of us!”

  Dayne didn’t care about any of it. The only thing that mattered was he’d found a way to pull off the scene. Not because of his acting skill or because he’d been able to get into character. Not because of Mitch Henry’s harping, either. But because he’d forced himself to look at his leading lady and see the face and eyes of someone else altogether.

  A young drama instructor who had just walked away one more time without looking back.

  Katy drove home from rehearsal still mad at herself for going to the location shoot two days ago. She had known from the beginning that it was a bad idea, but Rhonda wouldn’t give up.