Chemistry

by Tess Oliver

  A flicker of movement across the way pulled my eyes toward Jameson's trailer. He had apparently gone on a run. He was shirtless. His tanned skin was slick with sweat as he used his shirt to wipe his forehead. His face turned my direction. His green gaze landed right on the window. I stepped back out of view and released the breath I hadn't realized I was holding until it ushered out on a long sigh.

  I shook my hands to get rid of the tingling. I needed to get my mind off of tomorrow's filming. I'd memorized my lines to the point of where they were glued to the inside of my brain. I sat on the couch that smelled as if someone with really strong perfume had lived in the trailer before me. I pushed aside the script, not wanting to see it. The book was underneath it. I picked it up to reread the part that really made me feel connected to Cassie, the entry about her disappointing wedding. I felt the screenwriter had given the scene short shrift making only a mention of it but then I was only one of the characters. What the hell did I know?

  October 26

  Dear diary, I realize I have never addressed an entry formally to you but now I feel it is necessary. After all, I have no other confidant, no other friend to share my feelings with, and those feelings seem to only go one direction now, down to a depth of despair that seems impossible to return from. My wedding day has come and gone. Not the wedding of my girlish fantasies, mind you. No, in those glittering daydreams I was dressed in pearl white flowing organza with tiny silk rose buds hand sewn along yards of a lace train that would cascade down from a sparkly silver tiara. My hands would be full with fragrant white lilies and voluptuous pink roses, and the church pews would be filled with friends and family, smiling as organ music curled around the room, sweeping me down the aisle to my handsome, smartly dressed groom. Yes, that was the wedding day that I'd carried in my head for years. Quite the paradoxical vision as compared to the actual event.

  The actual event was a much more sordid affair. After leaving behind my life, the home my mother raised me in and most of my worldly possessions, the truck chugged and chortled along a mostly deserted highway for three, long hours. The sun had just begun to set in a dreary, gray sky when Tom pulled abruptly off onto a dirt road leading, seemingly, to nowhere. We drove for ten minutes, just like the first leg of the journey, without a word between us. It was unusual for me to hold my tongue or not at least start some sort of polite conversation, but I found I had nothing to say to the man in the driver's seat. And, apparently, he had nothing to say to me. My aversion to the man only grew more intense with each passing roadside motel, service station and remote homestead. My anguish grew with it. My life would now be spent as a mere prop on a theater stage, a wife in a home and setting that were so foreign to me it made me nauseous with homesickness. How I longed for the ruffled, downy solitude of my quiet bedroom.

  After a short ride of being jostled about like a snared fish in a net, we pulled up to what I garnered was a chapel. The steeple, crowned with a splintery cross that had long given up on retaining its white paint, looked as if one strong sneeze might topple it. My groom remained in the same corduroy trousers and patched chambray shirt, ripe with the long day's journey. However, he made one small concession to the specialness of the day by shoving a half limp rose into his coat pocket. I stayed just as I'd entered the truck, with my coat buttoned and my cloche pulled low over my head. The preacher was a man so far past his prime, it seemed his bones were held together merely by the sinewy, wrinkled flesh covering them. He smelled of a pungent mix of tobacco and camphor. His hearing was so bad, we could have been reciting nursery rhymes rather than vows, for all he knew. With each passing moment, each torturous second bringing me closer to my fate, a fate arranged solely by two men and a few bars of gold, I shrank lower and lower into the protection of my coat until half my face was buried well below the plush fur collar. When it came time for the dreaded kiss, I popped my head only an inch higher, like a turtle too frightened to emerge from its shell, and turned my cheek toward his mouth. He was not pleased, but the thought of his mouth against mine was so repulsive, I could not trust myself to keep from collapsing in a dead faint.

  The lovely, long held vision of me walking with my arm wrapped around my husband's muscular arm was completely obliterated when my boorish new husband strode ahead of me out of the chapel and back to the truck. It might have been the shunned kiss. At that point, I couldn't have given a damn. That is where my life is now, a series of grim events so desperate I've resorted to foul language. Frankly, the occasional curse makes me feel a touch better. No wonder the men hung so dearly onto certain phrases.

  Needless to say, dear diary, the wedding night was far from the magnificent, romantic occasion I'd envisioned. Tom and his churlish ways delivered me harshly and unpleasantly into the world of intimacy. Although, I doubted that was the best word to describe the painful rutting (over in seconds, thank goodness) that took place in the creaky bed of the motel we stayed in. Tom had brought me a fresh orange from the market, thinking that would be all I needed to set my mood right. A bucket of strong whiskey might have been closer to the mark. After a drawn out period of undress, including an excruciatingly long removal of stockings, a ploy I used to stave off the impending activity, I stood in the cold room with its tobacco stained walls and sticky rug in just my Milanese silk bloomers and matching bandeau. My husband stared at me like a ravenous bear. Fear and modesty had both been doused by the sheer despair that had consumed me. It left no room for any other emotion.

  I lowered myself onto the bed like a corpse setting herself in her own coffin and waited. Thankfully, Tom doused the kerosene lamp before undressing. The mattress shifted side to side, pushing springs into my back and bottom as he adjusted himself over me. "Lie still and it will hurt less," he'd instructed before catching me off guard with a kiss on the lips. Fortunately, it was brief, and he was quick about all of it. I lay in the dark staring up at the cracked plaster ceiling, playing my part, offering up my body as part of my new wifely duties. This was my new existence were the last words drifting through my head as my new husband tensed up, grunted and completed our wedding night.

  After going through my own wedding nightmare, one where most of my girlish fantasies came to fruition but the groom turned it into the worst day of my life, I could feel the depth of Cassie's despair. It slipped off the page like a slow moving oil slick, ready to cover everything. But I had not been sold off by my father, and I was not dragged from my home and city to a place far away. I could only imagine how she might have felt knowing everything familiar and comforting, everything that she counted on to make her feel like she was home was gone for good.

  Eighteen

  Jameson

  A long run under the brutal desert sun and a cold shower had cleared my head some. Harlow had texted that she'd finally found the 'stupid damn store' and their 'seafood department was a joke'. I replied that I was glad because there was no way she was cooking fish in the tiny trailer, especially when it was too hot outside to open windows. The air conditioning had been cranking all afternoon, occasionally making a sick whale sort of sound, which made me wonder if it would survive much longer.

  Harlow was still an hour away and I was starved. I decided I could sneak off to the chow tent for a light meal and still act hungry for whatever she cooked. Her cooking in the hot, tight kitchen was going to get old soon too. I was counting on her to get tired of trailer park living in a few days. With any luck, she'd be packed up and headed back to L.A. before the first few scenes were finished.

  The set decorator, carpenters and prop crew had worked quickly. In a matter of hours, the Biggs' farmstead squatted out in the dry landscape, looking weathered and shabby as if it had been sitting out there, getting battered by wind, rain and dust for years. Tucker's Saloon, the drinking dive where Cassie first meets Nate Biggs, was just a facade but it looked as if it had been pulled right out of the wild west with a wood plank sidewalk and splintery green overhang. The art crew had painted the letters Tucker's Saloon in old fashioned pr
int. They'd then rubbed off some of the orange paint to make it look as if the lettering had been painted years ago.

  I pulled on a shirt and headed across to the food tent. Sawyer was walking out with a plate of salad and a sourdough roll as I was walking in.

  "Jameson, I haven't seen you yet. How are you doing? Ready to start in the morning? Call time is going to be at eight."

  "I'll be there with bells on," I quipped.

  "Forget the bells, just bring whatever it was you brought to the Kisses set, that Jameson Slate magic."

  "I was nineteen. Magic is different when you're nineteen. But I'll be there with whatever magic I can drum up," I said before he could start in on a pep talk.

  "See that you do." He walked out muttering something about his neck being on the line with this one. I pushed it out of my thoughts.

  A heated chafing dish had a dozen foil wrapped baked potatoes. I plucked one out and dropped it on a plate. Hot steam burned my fingertips as I peeled open the foil.

  "Well, well if it isn't Mr. Jameson Slate," a familiar voice said.

  My face popped up. "Shelby, good to see you." Then, without thinking, I leaned sideways to see past her looking for Kinsey.

  "She's back at the trailer taking a shower," Shelby said.

  "I wasn't looking for her." I plopped a huge mound of butter on the potato.

  "Yes you were." Shelby was smart, loyal and always brutally honest.

  "Yep, yes I was." I nodded without looking up from the potato I was slowly turning into a caloric feat with cheese and bacon bits. I smiled to myself thinking wouldn't it be funny to send a picture of the dressed up potato to Harlow while she was scouring the aisles of some hokey grocery store looking for healthy, organic food.

  Shelby walked over and helped herself to an apple. "Guess you weren't expecting to be here yet, eh?"

  I shook my head as I finished my first bite of baked potato. "Nope. Had to get ready in a hurry, including getting Orbit all packed up and off to my mom's. That dog has more toys than Santa."

  She pressed the back of her hand against her mouth to keep apple bits from spraying with her laugh. She swallowed hard. "How is Orbit? He must be getting up there in doggie years."

  "And people years, unfortunately. I can't imagine my life without him. No way to replace your best friend." Melted cheese dangled from my fork as I plowed a gooey bite into my mouth.

  "Ready for tomorrow, Nate?" she asked. Her bringing up work made the potato go down a little harder, cheese, butter and all. Aside from being brutally honest, Shelby had a knack for reading people. She knew Kinsey like the back of her own hand. We hadn't seen each other in years, but she instantly sensed that the question knocked me off balance.

  "Shit." I shook my head. "Don't know what the hell I got myself into. Sawyer is walking around muttering to himself that he's put his neck on the line with this movie. Guess we all have. But I don't know, Shel. It's been years. Kiki and I went our separate ways, and there's been a whole fucking lot of life between us. I adored Kiki when we were together, but neither of us are the same. I'm not sure we're going to able to pull it off. Frankly, I'm not all that good of an actor."

  "You don't need to be an actor. Just be yourself." She pulled her phone out. "Let me show you something. Maybe it'll give you some confidence."

  I ate a few more bites, even though my appetite had vanished, while she scrolled for something on her phone. I couldn't imagine what she might possibly have to show me that would boost confidence or have anything to do with the movie shoot.

  Audio squeaked out of her phone. I recognized my own voice. It was the day I yanked Drake out of the air, the interview with reporters.

  "I don't need to see that again, Shel. My mom sent it to me a hundred times."

  "Hold it." She held up her finger and then tapped her phone. "Perfect." She walked over to me and held the phone up in front of me. It was paused on my face. I looked sort of stunned, as if someone had just told me I was about to be crowned the King of England. "What do you see?" she asked.

  "Me, looking like a dumbfuck."

  "Nope, that right there is what I call 'the look'."

  "Right, the dumbfuck look."

  She shook her head and continued holding up the phone. "This is your expression after a reporter asked you if you'd heard that Kiki's wedding had been called off. You were being pelted with dozens of questions, cameras were clicking like crazy and everyone wanted a piece of you. But that reporter brings up Kiki's failed wedding and you snapped to attention and boom—" She pointed to the phone. "The look. That's all I'm going to say, and now I'm going to take the remainder of my apple back to the trailer to watch Kiki pace the damn thing like she's an expectant father about to have triplets."

  "Sounds as if she's feeling like me these days," I said to her as she walked out with a backward wave.

  She stopped at the door and spun around.

  "No offense, Shel, but I don't need to see any more of 'the look'."

  "Nope, I was just going to recommend you read the diary entry that goes with Nate and Cassie's first meeting."

  "I've read it. Sheila stuck the corresponding diary entries with each scene." I was no longer in the mood for my greasy potato and dropped it into the trash.

  "No, I mean read it. Really give it a go through. It's a quick, brusque interaction, but there's so much there. You just need to peel back the layers. And while you're at it, peel back some of your own layers too. I'm sure the sexy, heartthrob nineteen-year-old Jameson is still in there somewhere." She winked and spun back around on her heels and left the tent.

  I grabbed a bottle of cold orange juice from an ice chest and headed back across to my trailer. The movie crew had swarmed a hardly ever used RV camp, which had probably seen better days. The asphalt that might once have been a sea of hardened tar was mostly islands of crumbling rocks with the occasional solid patch. Activity and energy were palpable around the trailers and tents, with finishing touches being put on sets and camera angles being tested. Sometimes it seemed as if being behind the camera would be way more fun than in front of it.

  The metal steps clanged as I stomped up them. The trailer felt stuffy with lingering smells from its last few inhabitants and the strong cleaning solution they used to sanitize between guests. I grabbed the script off the couch and headed out to the shade on the back side of the trailer. I found a patch of clean dirt and sat down to reread the diary entry describing Cassie and Nate's first meeting.

  November 1

  I'd discovered if I held my diary on elevated knees and carefully grasped my Shaeffer's fountain pen, a green marble beauty with a smooth ink line and hard point, I could write while the truck was moving. There were far more ink smears and poorly formed letters, but the need for me to spill my feelings and chronicle my journey into the middle of nowhere overrode the two aforementioned obstacles. Much to my relief, Tom had no interest in my scribblings, but he didn't seem to mind me passing the time with pen and journal. I'm not entirely sure about the date because day blends into night just as one landscape blurs into the next on our endless journey. If the world were truly flat, we would surely have fallen off the edge by now. And it would be easy to believe that it is flat considering the lack of diversity in elevation. I'd heard about the long stretch of flat space in the center of our country, the Great Plains, as they were aptly named, but now I have seen it firsthand. And it is, indeed, flat. Land as far as the eye can see with no end in sight, passing only the occasional farmstead or small town or flock of goats and cows.

  We'd traveled for miles, being tossed about by the rough hewn roads, bumped around so roughly at times that my bruises had bruises. Avoiding my seat partner, the annoying, ever present broken spring, had become so impossible, I finally pulled off a shoe and turned it upside down over it to keep it from snagging my dress, or worse, my skin. Tom paid no attention nor gave a care in the world about my comfort, so I'd decided I had to take matters into my own hands. He kept mostly to his own thoughts along
the drive, occasionally mentioning some of the chores I'd be expected to perform once we got home. Home, was a silly, arbitrary word. It meant nothing to me now. I knew one thing clearly, Thomas Biggs' home would never be my home. I was just a prop in a theater play, I reminded myself.

  The long stretches of silence and endless roads where we could drive for hours and not see one living soul allowed me to gather my thoughts. I'd decided that if this was to be my lot in life, I would make the best of it. I'd learn to cook and raise chickens and grow carrots in a kitchen garden. I would keep my mind and body occupied with everyday activity. I was somewhat grateful that Tom had no interest in conversation or social pleasantries. It would be a mostly quiet, thoughtful, solitude filled existence, somewhat like a woman who has entered a convent. I'd learned to tolerate our nightly coupling in bed by simply blocking out all sound, smell and touch. I was a stone pillar and Tom didn't seem to mind. He had only one goal in bed, and he managed to achieve it quickly and easily without any effort or participation on my part.