Skyler: I have to go. Send me a picture of you, too, okay?
“That’s adorable, Grey,” says Emilio, who’s reading over my shoulder. He snatches the phone out of my hand. “Hey, guys! Skyler wants a picture of our young Grey here.”
“Dude, give me th—” Someone grabs me around the shoulders from behind and suddenly I can’t see.
“Pull his shirt off!” Shane yells.
They try, but I stop them. We come to a standstill with my t-shirt halfway off, over my head, and me trapping the arm of whoever has me in an arm lock. I’m swearing and laughing as I struggle, my rolling chair pushing around as I blindly fight four guys. We sort of settle down, and I hear Beth say, “Smile, you guys! Everyone say, ‘Hi, Skyler!’ ”
They take the group shot then back away quickly, releasing me, because they all know I’m not above delivering instant payback.
Beth hands me my phone with a fake-mean look. “Don’t ever take pictures of me without my consent again, Blackwood,” she jokes.
“Noted.” I leave the control room so I can do some damage control in private. I head outside and hop in my truck, which is my ride again now. No more Mercedes. It’s weird that my truck reminds me of Skyler now. It still smells like her. Or maybe I just remember her smell when I’m in it.
I pull up the photo and laugh. My band is piled around me, making faces and obscene gestures. Titus is out of the frame except for his white-blond starter dreadlocks. I’m right in the center. A triangular, red t-shirt shape. I’m basically just a torso. A struggling torso.
Awesome. This is what she’s going to see, halfway around the world. I type a quick message.
Grey: Pretty great, right? They really captured my best side.
Skyler: Love it.
A pause, then:
Skyler: I want to be there.
I push the Call button without giving it a thought. It rings once, and she answers.
“Sky, I know you need to go—”
“It’s okay. I have a second.” She does? I hear people in the background calling her name. Then it gets quiet, like she’s shut a door. “Hi.” I can tell she’s smiling.
“Hey.”
We sit on the phone for a few seconds saying nothing. Still, it feels different than the texting we’ve been doing. More revealing. Like we just took our clothes off or something. Finally, I make myself say what I called to say. “You doing all right?”
“Um . . . yeah. I’m just tired. But it looks like you guys are having a blast.”
“We are. We’re working hard. But it’s been fun.”
“I think I’m just working hard.”
Her voice breaks a little. I knew it. Something isn’t right. I want to teleport to the Virgin Islands. “You’re almost done, Sky.”
“I know.” Someone else is in the background, talking to her. I recognize the voice. Brooks. “I should go,” she says.
“Okay. See you, Sky.”
“I wish.”
“Me too,” I say, but she’s already gone.
I think about our conversation for the rest of the day. I’m still thinking about it when I get back to the apartment at ten, drop onto the couch, and kick my designer grunge boots off. We spent fourteen hours in the studio today. Insane. I loved every second.
Usually, Skyler and I text at night, but I guess not today. Maybe I scared her off with the phone call? Shit. I don’t know. What am I even doing? She could be with Brooks right now. I thought being away was going to help me stop thinking about her, but only a few days in and it’s gone the other way.
It occurs to me that I have a roundabout way of checking up on Skyler. I send Adam a quick message, asking him how the production is going. If anything major is going on, he’ll tell me. Then I drop my head back and close my eyes. Beth is with Titus again and the apartment is quiet. I smile, remembering earlier when I caught them stepping out of the studio bathroom together. Things seem to be going well for them.
I’m tired, but I’m restless. Nowhere close to being ready to sleep yet. Adam’s response comes through. The production is going well. They’re hustling, because there are some hurricanes developing that might affect the tail end of the shoot, but everything is fine. Garrett’s right next to him, he says, and sends his love.
I read his message a few times. It just feels so good to be reconciled with him. Then it hits me, and I know what I have to do. Why I feel restless. I’m not done mending bridges yet.
I send my mom a text.
Grey: Can I take you to lunch tomorrow? I have a lot to say.
She replies instantly. Like she’s been sitting by her phone, staring at it.
Mom: Yes. I’m free all day.
I tell her I’ll meet her at Geoffrey’s in Malibu at noon. Five minutes don’t go by that I get two more texts, one on top of the other.
Adam: Good job, little bro.
Dad: Shit, son! Took you long enough! See you soon, rock star.
I laugh, a little choked up. I guess good news travels fast.
Still not tired, I get up and grab my guitar. I’m still learning. I’m nowhere near where Titus or Sky is on the strings, but I can do all the major chords, some of the minor ones. My fingers are getting faster, surer. My favorite thing is finger picking. I like the classic vibe. For the past few nights I’ve been messing around trying to figure out one of Skyler’s original songs, on the cello. Today at the studio I got Titus and Beth to help me nail down the rest. I butcher it, compared to the way she does it, but I like playing the song she wrote. And that’s what I do until sleep finally seems possible.
Chapter 36
Skyler
I’m in paradise with my feet burrowed into the warmest, softest sand I’ve ever felt, looking out at an ocean so clear I can see schools of fish darting everywhere, and I’m currently having my thighs oiled by two women I barely know.
Bernadette and Kaitlin have each taken a leg. While in the process of basting me like a turkey, they discuss my body with a weird dispassion. I feel detached, like my head’s a balloon, barely tethered to the rest of me, just hovering there, watching the lacy white surf curl against the sand, while they tune me up, or polish me, or do whatever it is they’re doing with the rest of me.
“Okay, she’s a little smudgy over here,” Kaitlin says. She’s crouched in the sand behind me, and I feel her tap a spot just above the back of my knee. “But they did a pretty good job with the tanner.”
“Yeah, not bad,” Bernadette says. “Feet are a little darker than the rest, but no one will see that.” She moves around in front of me. “Do me a favor, and bend forward.”
I’m already eighty percent out of this bikini top, but I bend so Bernadette can make some adjustments. I straighten and look down at myself. Make that ninety percent. I’d estimate that about one millimeter of hot pink Spandex is keeping my nipple from public display.
Crew walks by, dragging equipment and then brooming over the tracks they’ve made in the sand. Brooks stands with Mia, who looks over to give me a sympathetic smile every now and then. Her wild curly hair blows everywhere in the breeze stirring off the ocean, and in her white flowing sundress, she looks like a tiny goddess, risen from the sea to capture men’s souls with the lens of her camera. I, on the other hand, feel like a hot, sticky blob.
“Okay,” says Kaitlin, tugging down the bottom of my bikini just a bit and then adjusting the strings at my hips. “Just stay exactly like that. Don’t move.”
I stand there, feet apart, feeling a little bit unsteady. Probably, I should have had more than a piece of toast and half a grapefruit this morning. Plus, two cups of black coffee that I’m beginning to regret.
The two women step back and consider me.
“It’s good,” says Bernadette, but something in her expression says the opposite. I try to stand up straighter, suck in a little.
“No, no, honey, you’re fine,” says Kaitlin. “Just be normal. You look great.”
I wish I could see for myself. But the
n maybe not.
Not for the first time, I wish Grey had come after all. To joke me out of my insecurity, to look at me with that hungry expression that tells me that he, at least, likes what he sees. I smile, remembering our conversation about my diet. “You’re gorgeous,” he’d said, and with him, it feels true.
Mostly, I’ve felt that way about myself my whole life. Maybe not that I’m gorgeous. But that I’m pretty. That I look fine. That, more importantly, my body did the things I wanted it to do—work out, run around, haul my cello. I felt good, and I don’t feel good now, but I know I’ll get used to this. It’s all an adjustment. And I tell myself that a temporary bout of insecurity’s a small price to pay to support my family. Support myself. Make everyone happy.
Speaking of which, I ask Bernadette and Kaitlin if I can get my phone, but they both tell me not to move.
“I’ll get it for you,” Bernadette tells me. “Just stay put another few minutes. You’re doing great.”
She gets my phone for me, and I punch in my mom’s number, watching the crew set up light panels and boom mics with long escalating necks. Garrett sits under a huge white awning with some of the other actors, chatting up one of the local crew, and sipping cucumber water with a straw. The crew guy leans in and whispers something. Garrett laughs and slaps the guy’s arm, keeping it there long enough to send sex vibes sparking in every direction.
Ladies and gentlemen: my leading man.
The call connects.
“I hear you spoke to your father.”
“Why hello, Mother. How are you?”
“Skyler.”
“Mom.”
“I’m fine.” Her sigh sounds like static in my ear. “Are you doing okay?”
“Yes,” I say, though I don’t know if I’m telling the truth. Mostly, I’m okay. This place is gorgeous. Everyone’s nice. I just don’t feel exactly . . . right.
“So, I heard you talked to your father,” she says again.
“Yeah. He was playing in LA. Did you know that?”
“I don’t follow his schedule anymore. What’s the point? Anyway, he called me with his head on fire. Thinks I sicced you on him.”
“Well, you didn’t sic me on him.”
“I know, but—”
“And anyway, what difference does it make? He needs to send you money.”
“It’s okay. With what you’ve sent, I’m doing all right.”
I turn my attention out to the water, looking to be soothed. But watching the waves spill onto the sand gives me a weird tilting feeling, so I look away again, back at Brooks, who’s watching me through the camera. I wonder what he sees. What he thinks of what he sees.
He straightens and gives me a little smile, but it’s distant, distracted. I don’t know if he’s just busy—a definite possibility—or bummed that I sent him back to his room last night with just a quick kiss. I’m just so tired, and the days are so long.
“. . . coming out there,” I hear my mom say and realize I’ve tuned out of the conversation for God knows how long.
“I’m sorry, Mom, what did you say?”
Another sigh, more static.
“I said I’m thinking about giving your brother the farm and coming out there to live. What do you think?”
“What do you mean, give Scotty the farm? How can you do that?”
“I just mean to run. We’ve been talking about it a lot lately. They’re not giving him promotions at work. With the kids, he can’t shine like all the other guys there. He’s late. He has to leave when they’re sick. You know how it is.”
“I know it’s tough for him. I just don’t get how giving him the farm to run is going to solve the problem. Why can’t he just find someone to watch the girls? Why can’t you watch the girls?” I ask for the hundredth time.
“Honey, I just don’t have the energy. They’re so high-spirited.”
“They’re just normal kids.”
“Anyway, I thought he could give it a go on the farm. And I could come out there.”
So, does that mean helping to support the farm in Kentucky and my mom here in LA? My mind does furious calculations, and I wish I could sit the hell down already. Aren’t they supposed to cater to the leading lady? How come Garrett gets a tent and cucumber water and a cute crew guy to flirt with, and I get this?
Kaitlin trudges back across the sand toward me, a spray bottle in one hand and a long swatch of fabric in the other. “It’s go time,” she whispers.
“Mom, I have to go. I’ll talk to you later.” I can’t think about this now. I wish I hadn’t called her.
“Honey, just tell me what you think of the idea.”
“I don’t know yet. Let’s talk more about it when I’m back in LA.”
“Okay, but Scotty’s lease is up this month, so—”
“Sorry, Mom, really. I have to go. Love you.”
I press End and see I have a text message from Grey, but Kaitlin takes my phone and hands it off to someone before I can read it. “We’re going to roll in just a few. You’re doing great.”
“I’m just standing here.”
“Well, you’re awesome at standing.”
“Can I get some water?”
“Yes, sorry, of course!” She calls for some water, and then says, “We’re going with a sarong.”
“A sarong?”
“Yeah, we think it’ll look a little sexier. More dramatic when you come out of the surf. I think Emma would wear a sarong, don’t you?”
I really don’t know. All I can think is that they’re trying to cover me up. That I haven’t lost enough weight yet to look the way they want me to look on camera.
On the plus side, I won’t have to worry about thigh jiggle at a billion pixels per square inch. “I think a sarong’s an awesome idea.”
She gets busy tying it around my hips, tugging it lower, than raising it up a bit. Knotting and re-knotting it. Smoothing and then re-smoothing. Then she uses the water bottle to spritz my entire body, wet my hair, and slick it back from my face.
“Very pretty,” she says, and gives my chin a little squeeze. “The camera’s going to love you.”
“Good for the camera,” I mutter. And I think about how that’s not me. I’ve always been pretty sunny, light. But I feel weighed down now, heavier with each pound I lose. I lick my chapped lips, which I know will necessitate another five minutes of makeup touch-up, but I don’t care. The sound of the surf pounds in my ear. It’s so beautiful here. The clouds are wisps in a startling blue sky. The palm trees stir, and two white-sailed catamarans crisscross out near the horizon. I try to breathe and enjoy it, to remind myself how lucky I am. To remind myself that we’ll be wrapped soon, and then I’m going to eat a cheeseburger the size of my face.
“Okay, clear the set,” Mia calls, and everyone hustles.
Finally. I close my eyes to let it all go, to pull Emma back into me. To be the sweet hopeful girl who’s come here to make amends with a man she now thinks loves someone else.
Garrett lounges in the cabana where I’ll join him. I just have to walk a few feet across the sand. Just have to walk, in my sarong, looking luscious for the camera. That’s my job. Just to walk.
Brooks yells “Action.” I put a smile on my face, the smile meant for Garrett’s character. My Mr. Knightley.
And I walk.
Chapter 37
Grey
I arrive at Geoffrey’s half an hour early, which gives me time to request a table with a better view of the Pacific, order wine for my mom, cancel the wine, then reorder it, second-guess the bouquet of peonies I brought, all as I’m grinding my teeth down to the bone.
Meeting her in a public place was a bad idea, but it seemed important that I make a bold gesture. That’s how I went off the tracks nine months ago, when I stormed out of the house, then mired the Cobra in the ocean, so that’s how I should get us back on track. I adjust the collar of my button-down and check my phone to see if Skyler sent a message. She knows I’m having lunch
with Mom. No message, but I know she has a jam-packed shoot schedule today. I read through some of our old conversations. She hasn’t mentioned Brooks. Not once. Not that she would mention him to me, but I am starting to wonder what’s going on—or not going on between them.
I glance up and see Mom walking into the restaurant. She tends to draw the eye normally but today, wearing a yellow dress that’s as bright as an egg yolk, smiling as she searches for me, it’s like the sun just walked in. She reaches our table, and then we’re hugging, tight and for a long time. I try to relax. I try to ride out the waves of emotion that rock through me.
Just like surfing. Don’t fight it. Go with it. Lean into it. Feel it.
I know this is what I needed after so much time apart. Just to feel that she’s real, and wants to be close to me.
When we sit down, we’re both smiling twitchy smiles. She lifts the bouquet of peonies. “My favorite,” she says. “Thank you.”
“Is it weird I got them for you? Like date-y?”
“No. It’s great-y.”
I laugh, because I didn’t expect that. And she laughs, because I don’t know why.
And there’s too much going on in her eyes right now, so I mumble something about the wine and focus on repeating the Pinot Grigio’s merits as given to me by our server. Crisp, zingy, with some delightful persimmon undertones and a wonderful, steely finish.
Mom laughs. “Really? All that?” She knows I couldn’t care less about wine. She takes a sip, agrees with all the merits of the Pinot Grigio, and there’s nothing else to do or say. We grow quiet; the restaurant becomes noisier, dishes clanging, people laughing, corks popping. It’s not awkward between us. It’s something tougher. It’s painful. I’ve done this. I mean, she was a party in it. But it’s, like, ninety percent on me. It’s my move.
I pick a starting point—the night I left home—and start talking. My nervousness drops away almost immediately, and it’s all flow now. Like singing, I’m just hooked into the way I feel, and the words come. They come pouring out.
I tell her how I always felt like I was letting her down because I wasn’t racing off to college, like Adam. Because I was tougher on her than he was, rougher in general, directionless when it came to school, when it came to most everything. I tell her how I felt like she expected me to be something I could never be, a perfect kid with college plans and post-graduate plans. Taking a track that was measurable in semesters and degrees and startup companies, and how it felt like that was the only way I could make her happy. How I never felt like I was what she wanted—and that’s when she interrupts me.
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