Rugged

by Lila Monroe

  “Where are we?” I ask, puzzled but intrigued.

  We get out, and Flint grabs his toolbox out of the truck flatbed.

  “Habitat for Humanity,” he says, as we walk toward the building. One of the working guys sees Flint and waves. “I volunteer. It’s a good group of people.” He shrugs.

  “This is incredible,” I say. Already, my mind is abuzz with possibilities. We can get interviews with the people they’re helping, the poorer the better. There must be someone with almost no teeth, or really weathered skin, you know: something picturesque. American squalor, and Flint McKay’s the man to combat it. We can call the crew right now. Jerri wouldn’t mind shooting an extra day for this. In a flash, I’m dialing on my cell. “Hold on, let me sound the alarm—hey!” I say, shocked when Flint grabs my phone, shaking his head. He looks deadly serious, his warm brown eyes smoldering.

  “This isn’t for the cameras,” he says. Before I can say anything else, he holds up a hand. “No, Laurel.” He can tell what I’m about to say before I even start. “This is a deal breaker for me. See these people?” he says, gesturing at the woman with her kids. “They don’t have much. They can’t afford to buy a real home. They don’t deserve to have cameras in their face. You get it?” He looks at me, wary but hopeful.

  I look over at the woman and her two adorable children. One of them grins, revealing a missing front tooth. There she is: the dentistry challenged little girl I wanted to shove on camera in front of the whole country. What’s wrong with me? I didn’t see her as an excited kid; I saw her as a ratings spike. I never considered that these people were, well, people. I can’t believe I’ve let Hollywood turn me so…Hollywood.

  “No cameras. It’s like this never happened,” I say instantly, pocketing my phone. Flint grins. “Got an extra hard hat?” I ask, pointing at the yellow one in his hand.

  “You want to help?” He sounds surprised, but pleased. I snatch the helmet from him and put it on my head. It droops in my face, but I can adjust the chinstrap. I think.

  “Let’s…nail things!” I say. Enthusiasm for the win.

  Actually, watching Flint record his show has taught me a few nifty tricks. He has to go help out on the second floor with a few other guys, leaving me to fend for myself. They’ve put me to work fortifying something at the corner of the house. At first I thought it’d be a nightmare, but I’m surprising myself. I’ve got a nail at a correct angle and am confidently knocking it in without Flint even having to tell me what to do. As I work, I hear him come back down the stairs. He looks amazed as he crouches beside me.

  “How’d you get to be so good at this?” he says, admiring my handiwork.

  “Natural talent.” I flutter my eyelashes. “That, and a good teacher.”

  “Well, you’ve made me a proud one,” he laughs, touching my shoulder. “I’m impressed.”

  Flint works alongside me, guiding me on how far to space the nails apart, how to really brace the wood so that it doesn’t jiggle or go off center. He takes my hands in his larger, callused ones, shows me how to position them for certain tasks. We lean so close together at one point that our heads bump. We both laugh it off, but I flush to have my face so close to his. I repeat my cool-down mantra. Baseball, snow, Mr. Beauchamp.

  By the end of the day, I’m sore and tired, but I feel damn good. Pilates may work your core muscles, but it doesn’t give you that all over glow. Or the feeling of being a better person, for that matter. Flint and I sit on a makeshift picnic blanket with some of the other Habitaters, drinking cider and laughing.

  “When did you start doing this?” I ask him. Flint shakes his head, glossy hair falling into his face.

  “Soon after my uncle died. We used to do so much work together, you know? It was a way to feel like I was still close to him, I guess.” The warmth in his smile, the honesty in his face, it melts me.

  “We don’t deserve you,” I say. I don’t even mean it to come out, and flush. “Seriously. We Hollywood buzzards are not good enough to be working with you.”

  “You’re not a buzzard,” Flint says, clinking his bottle with mine. “I think you’re more like a bright, golden hawk. Beautiful and deadly.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment,” I laugh.

  One of the kids, the girl with the gap-toothed smile, comes rushing over and smiles shyly at us all, then hugs Flint. He pats the little girl’s head, looking pleased.

  As the sun goes down and the air chills, we bundle up and head back to the truck.

  “You did well today, Young,” he says, handing me a blanket from the back. I am a little cold, and snuggle under it appreciatively. “I like people who roll up their sleeves and pitch in.” I enjoy watching the last light of the day shining against his profile, the hard, square jaw in particular. But most of all, I like seeing him smile, hearing him laugh.

  “I like you too,” I say, grinning.

  I don’t even bother trying to take my words back, or twist them into something stiff and professional, and Flint doesn’t get awkward about it either. Instead we just smile and look out the window at the Berkshires spread out before us, the sunset blazing across the sky. I could get used to this.

  18

  “Turn around, I can’t hear you with the wind!” Jerri yells, waving the camera guy forward. Flint turns, shielding his eyes from the sun.

  “It’s just the frame of the house. We’ve been over this before,” he calls back. I trudge behind Jerri, ready to step in to stop a fight from brewing. It wouldn’t be a bad fight, though. It never is these days. Another week has come and gone, and we’re full speed ahead on construction. I can now see the skeleton of the house perfectly. It’s a naked little skeleton, probably wants something to cover its bony little butt, but it’s going to be cute when it’s finished. No. Screw cute. Majestic.

  My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I have to turn away from the others and take the call. My stomach drops as I see the familiarly loathsome name.

  “Kinley. What’s up?” I say, wincing as Tyler Kinley’s self-satisfied drawl invades my ear. His voice is so oily I feel like I’ll need to wipe the phone down after this.

  “Young Laurel. Been thinking about you all alone out there, the backwoods, no civilization for miles. No proper place to take a shit.” Tyler Kinley is proof that the universe doesn’t let you off scot free. After I landed the pitch, he somehow found a way to weasel himself aboard my show as an executive producer, claiming his experience was something that I’d need to help me along. Like a rodent of some kind, or a, well, weasel.

  “It’s the Berkshires. They serve almond milk in the local café; it’s fully up to date and sophisticated. So what do you want, Kinley?” I hear an irritated grunt on the other end. Ever since my promotion to full on producer, I’ve started calling him by his last name. He hates it. Which is tasty. “Other than to remind me what I’m not missing?”

  “So hostile. You don’t have to get bitchy, Young,” he says. Of course, when I sass him it’s bitchy. When he sasses me, it’s sexy. The modern Bluetooth-wearing caveman’s logic. “Anyway, I’m calling because Davis has been reviewing the footage.” He sounds a little pained. “He likes it.”

  “Of course he does. It’s actual good work. I know that’s a foreign concept for you, Kinley. If you feel a tingling sensation in your abdomen, don’t be alarmed—you may just be growing a soul.”

  “Listen, the point is you can’t screw this up,” Tyler snaps. “It needs to be surefire, Young. Both our asses are on the line here.” There he is, the spiteful, bratty bully he always was on the inside.

  “Our asses? You flatter yourself. You’re hanging onto an executive producer credit by your badly manicured nails. Don’t worry; I’ll give you a gentle shove as soon as I’m back in LA. Then you can go ruin some other shiny new project.” Before he can whine some stupid threat, I hang up. Score one for the little guy. Or gal. The short gal.

  I turn and smile as another Los Angeles native comes up the hill, this one much more likable
than Tyler.

  “You know how hard it is to get espresso around here?” Suze calls, holding up two venti cups. “I think I sold my soul to some sweet little old lady for these lattes.” She bounces up the last slope, her short bob of hair whipping around crazily in the wind.

  “She’ll put it on her mantel and polish it for the holidays,” I say, giving her a hug. “I’m glad you could get away.”

  Suze shrugs. “Love Lorne is on hiatus until next season, so I’ve got a little vacation time. Besides, I heard how gorgeous the leaves are when they change.” She sips her latte and eyes Flint as he signals for his crew to follow him. “Man. I was afraid he’d be camera pretty, you know? Superman on screen, Clark Kent in real life? Fortunately, he’s gorgeous in every medium.” She waggles her eyebrows at me.

  I clear my throat. Since getting to know Flint a little better, I’ve felt weird about gossiping about his hotness. And it’s not that Suze’s attention makes me jealous, per se.

  “Whoa, what is Superman doing now?” Suze says, mouth dropping open. I turn to find Flint climbing up part of the structure, then pulling himself up onto the roof. He seems to be fixing something, but I can’t tell what it is. We half-race up the hill, and I wince. Please Flint, don’t fall off and break one of your perfect arms. Or your perfectly shaped, sometimes rock hard head.

  Flint walks along a beam, hands out for balance, and gestures for someone to pass him a hammer and nail. While he works, we stop and look up at him.

  “I didn’t know he was an acrobat,” Suze whispers.

  “Neither did I.” I sigh in relief as Flint finally swings down, landing perfectly on his feet. A couple of the construction guys clap, grinning. They’re proud of Flint. Jerri, of course, has caught the whole thing on camera.

  “So he’s tall, gorgeous, helps homeless kids, and risks life and limb building dream houses. What about this man is not perfect?” Suze whispers, cheering Flint with her latte.

  Nothing. He’s completely perfect. That’s the problem.

  Flint sees us and ambles over, accepting congratulatory shoulder punches from the guys. “Hey. You must be Laurel’s friend.” Flint holds out his hand to Suze. She practically flutters as she gives it.

  “Susan Williams. Nice to meet you.” She turns to me, so Flint can’t see her expression, and mouths ‘wow.’

  “Laurel’s told me so much about you.” Flint grins at me. “She’s been so excited about you coming out. And we do like to keep her happy around here.”

  “I’ll bet.” Suze flashes me a knowing half smile. Damn.

  “Enjoy your visit,” Flint says. He heads back to the cameras.

  “So how’s all that been working out for you?” Suze asks, still smirking.

  “We should get started on this picnic,” I say, deftly avoiding the question. Deft is my middle name.

  We head down the hill and pick up the basket she’s got in her car. As we walk away from the site, I notice that Suze is watching me intently. I am not that interesting.

  “What are you looking at? Are my pants on backwards?” I ask, quickly checking myself out. Not like I’ve ever done that before. Once. When I was very tired.

  “It’s nothing,” Suze drawls. That means ‘something’ in Suze-ese.

  We tromp through the trees to reach the picnic place, an unexpected patch of bright grass about a mile from the shooting site. I’m carrying the basket, which is so heavy I’m starting to sink under the weight of it. When we spread out the blanket, I’m ready to eat. Suze brought us a selection of hard salami and fresh prosciutto, crusty French bread, cheese, dried apricots, apples. My stomach rumbles in appreciation.

  “So,” she says, daintily spreading some kind of savory jam on a baguette, “tell me all about Flint McKay.” She takes a bite, giving me the ‘and don’t you dare lie’ look.

  “He’s great,” I say, keeping it oh so casual as I miss my mouth trying to take a bite of sandwich. That’s okay, I wanted to get some salami in my eye. “Just so nice and…great.”

  “And hot. And clearly into you.” Suze says that last sentence in a singsong type of way.

  “No he’s not. Really. That’s all behind us now.” This is sounding like middle school. He likes yoooou. No he does nooooot. Who’s your celebrity soul mate?

  “Right.” Suze rolls her eyes. “Why don’t we just skip to the part where you’ve crumbled under my Sherlock Holmes-level detective skills and just tell me the truth? I know something’s up. You’ve been avoiding my questions for weeks.” I hesitate. She sighs, crossing her arms, “Come on. I haven’t gotten an update since the night of the BBB.”

  “The what?”

  “The behind-the-bar-blow job.”

  “Suze!” My cheeks burn, and I glance around to see if anyone’s in earshot, but it looks like we’re alone in this meadow of shame. There’s no getting out of this. “We, er, might’ve hooked up again when Flint was in LA. We were both pretty drunk,” I mutter. Suze doesn’t squeal or clap her hands, which is part of what I love about her. She just nods, setting her apple aside and leaning forward.

  “When you say hook up, you mean…?”

  “Yeah. All the way. I mean, it was just after our big meeting with Davis and I thought the pitch bombed so we went to a bar to commiserate. We were never going to see each other again, so…” I let the implied ellipsis suggest all types of shenanigans.

  “Was he good?” Suze asks.

  “Is incendiary a strong enough word?” I shake my head. “But it’s over now.”

  Suze raises a brow. “There’s still something going on there, Laurel. When you guys were just joking around, I could see his entire face light up. Listen,” Suze says, uncorking a bottle of wine and pouring me a glass. God, how I love her. “You’re not going to be working on this show forever. Maybe, when everything’s shot and over…”

  “We can, what? Live in a romantic bungalow made for two in the boughs of a weeping willow tree? He can ditch his family and his business and trade it all in for the soul-suck that is Los Angeles? Or, no, are you saying I can make it as a producer out here in the Berkshires?” My heart sinks just saying the words out loud. There’s no way this could ever work. “And I don’t want to complicate things on set with a fling. I don’t want to pull a Sanderson.” Suze goes quiet at that. She knows exactly what I’m talking about.

  “I understand,” she says, looking troubled. “Hon, I’m so sorry. That’s rough.”

  I sigh as I watch the wind scatter some leaves over our blanket. “I don’t know what to do. Being around him is so hard. But there’s no way around it.”

  Suze leans back on her elbows and looks up at the sky, a thoughtful expression on her face. “Well. You can always become a nun,” she says.

  “Thanks,” I mutter.

  This is what friends are for. I think.

  After lunch, we walk back to set and I bid Suze a goodbye. She gets in her car and heads off to catch a train for Vermont. Meanwhile, the crew’s just wrapping filming. I walk up to Flint and Jerri as they’re finishing up a conversation, Flint nodding vigorously. He turns as I come over, taking off his hard hat.

  “That was a hell of a day,” he says, wiping his face. “But I think we’re going to start on the roof tomorrow. I walked it again, and I think it’s secure. It’ll make for a scintillating evening of television.”

  “Can your heart stand the shocking conclusion of Flint McKay on top of a one story roof,” I say in my TV announcer voice. It’s a really good voice, too. Flint grins.

  “Well, let’s worry about the terror of all that another day.” He swings into his leather jacket. “What do you say we head to the Firefly? I could use a beer.”

  It’d be great, just me and Flint at the bar, sharing a drink and laughing. We’ve shown that we can handle the platonic hang-out, the friendly handshake goodnight. But the talk I had with Suze during lunch gives me pause. I need to stay on track.

  “Better idea,” I say. “Let’s swing by David and Callie’s for a qu
ick chat. I need to ask about filming a family dinner.” We head down the hill, my stomach sinking with the words. An opportunity to spend one on one time with the man I can’t stop thinking about, and I turn it down. Huzzah. Flint looks a little wary at my Winstonian suggestion.

  “We’re not roping the whole family into some kind of circus, right?”

  “Paranoia, thy name is McKay. Relax. We shoot a dinner, during which you won’t be able to actually eat any food because it’ll ruin your makeup, and it’s a nice five minutes in an episode somewhere, probably mid-season. Besides, consider Callie. Do you really think she’s going to turn down this opportunity?” Callie’s been at the set nearly every day. This show seems like the most exciting thing that’s happened to her since Mercury went out of retrograde. And let this be a sly fuck you to the network. They took shots at Callie’s weight earlier? Guess what, now she’s a featured player. Flint nods.

  “Point taken. Let’s go give her the news of her life.”

  We drive up in Flint’s truck, and just as he turns off the ignition I hear something I never hear from the Winston house: shouting. Flint gets out of the truck, instantly on guard. It’s the brother protective instincts, I guess. Though when the door opens and David comes tearing out of the house, ducking as Callie hurls something at him, I’m more scared for the husband.

  “Sure, go right back to the office. What’d you leave there this time? Your dignity?” Callie shouts, throwing something else. Fortunately for David, they’re just rubber bath toys. There’s a duck and an octopus. Poor little things.

  “Maybe because it’s the only place where I get some damn respect!” David yells back at her. Callie grunts.

  “Only because no one there’s ever seen your closet of memorabilia from The Phantom Menace!” Callie yells. David actually stomps his foot like a child; clearly, this has now gone over the line for him.

  “Those are all first edition. When I make bank and put them toward our retirement, you’ll thank me!” he shouts.

  “No one likes Jar Jar Binks, David! No one but you!” Callie roars. She wheels back around and slams the front door. Then she opens it back up and slams again, for emphasis. I slowly approach David, who looks about as red-faced as you can get without having a stroke.