His hands slide down my body to wrap around my back, and my body melts against him, my leg sliding between his knees, the bulge of his jeans swollen against my hips.
He lowers me to the ground, his tongue working its way into my mouth as his left hand slides beneath my shirt, his fingers burning against my skin and causing me to moan.
He pulls away, his lips curled in a grin. “This is going to be fun.”
I nod and pull him back to kiss him again. I need more fun in my life.
As we continue to kiss, an alarm, thready and thin, blares in my brain, a warning siren screaming that this is a bad idea. But the rush of blood in my ears drowns it out. Then the horrible, wonderful spot two inches below my belly button joins in, fluttering and trilling and spreading outward until every fiber in my body is singing and cheering me on and telling me not to listen to my brain, which has no sense of fun and adventure at all.
“God, you’re sexy,” Chris says, coming up for air.
I pull him back down, and his tongue dives back into my mouth as his hand continues to inch up my ribs, then his fingers touch my bra, and I push him off so abruptly, he falls to the ground.
Crappy, cheap utility bra! Dishwater gray from a zillion washes! The thought blindsides me.
Chris groans and rolls onto his back, clearly in pain. “Shit. Are you trying to kill me?” The source of his agony pulses impressively from his jeans. “First with the horse and now with sexual torment and denial?”
I laugh, lean over, and peck him on the lips. “I think you’ll live.”
His hand wraps around the back of my head, and he pulls me into another long kiss, and when he releases me, he says, “I really do like you.”
“I like you too,” I say, pushing off him and standing. “But I might stop liking you if I have to walk three miles back to the barn. So get up and help me find our horses.”
I hold out my hand to help him up, and he takes it and pulls me back to the ground to kiss me again. He doesn’t take it further than that, but we have a grand time rolling around in the hay.
42
I wake feeling altered and wonder if others will notice. Though Chris and I were entirely alone, and I’m certain no one witnessed our romp in the pasture, I feel naughty and a little guilty as I walk onto the set.
He said he really likes me. And I think I really like him back. This could be the start of something. Could this be the start of something? I think this is the start of something.
Something.
Wow.
After tethering the horses in the barn, we went our separate ways, and since we parted, my insides have been on fire, glowing with an incandescent brightness I’m certain is visible for everyone to see.
* * *
No one seems to notice, including Chris.
We’ve been on the set two hours, and he has yet to even glance my way, and I realize, if Chris Cantor is going to be in my life, I’m going to need to get used to his mercurial moods.
This morning he’s fit to be tied and not flirting with anyone. His body is wound tight like a rattler as he storms around the farm barking orders and snapping the heads off anyone who happens to get in his way.
An accident on the 15 has caused half the cast and crew to be late, and now the shooting schedule is behind, the first scene just getting under way.
Emily and Tom sit beside Molly and me as we watch Chris work out the details with the horse trainer. Emily lost interest in the process after about five minutes and sits reading a book. Tom is fascinated, his eyes taking it all in.
The weather isn’t helping anyone’s mood. It’s only ten in the morning, but already it’s hot as the Sahara and the wind is gusting, creating a steam bath of swirling dust that covers all of us in a sticky film of dirt. Henry and the makeup crew are beside themselves trying to tame the frizz and keep the actors’ faces from melting on screen.
“What you reading?”
I glance sideways to see Caleb squatting beside Emily.
She looks up, and her eyes pulse once when she realizes the superstar teenage heartthrob Caleb Jones is talking to her. Then with incredible cool she says, “Gregor the Overlander. It’s from Suzanne Collins’s first series before she wrote The Hunger Games.”
“I haven’t read that one,” Caleb says, “but I read Gregor and the Code of Claw.”
Pause.
“Oh,” Emily says. “I liked that one.”
Pause.
“You read that one?”
“Yeah, I’ve read them all. This is my second time reading them.”
Pause.
“Oh.”
I nearly giggle. The two are so charmingly awkward.
“Well, maybe I’ll see you tonight at the barbeque,” Caleb says as he stands.
“Yeah, okay. See you.”
When he’s gone, she looks at me in disbelief, and we share a priceless mother-daughter moment.
Emily doesn’t see it because her back is turned, but when Caleb is ten feet away, he glances back, a shy peek over his shoulder, undeniable puppy crush in his eyes.
I wish Chris would look over, give me a glance, a smile, some indication that what happened between us is on his mind at least a little. I realize it was only a kiss, but he said he really likes me. That means something. Doesn’t it?
Do I want it to mean something?
Last night I was giddy with the thought, but now I’m not so sure. Watching him, I try to imagine him in my life, to insert him into a scenario that works. Us living in the burbs, him coming home after a day on the set to me and the kids. A peck on my cheek as I finish making dinner—maybe short ribs and rosemary mashed potatoes. I hand him an expensive glass of wine. He tells me about his day, and I tell him about mine and about the kids.
As much as I try, I can’t see it. Yet I really want him to look my way and give me one of his trademark winks, to let me know he’s considering the possibility as well.
Do I even like this man?
I think I do. Yesterday, when he was charming and sweet and saying all the right things…and doing all the right things…I liked him very much.
I watch as he and the horse trainer discuss the angle of the shot. Something Chris says makes the man furrow his brow and nod, the man’s respect evident, the same respect Chris gets from everyone. He’s Chris Cantor. I can’t really be so arrogant as to think I deserve better.
Smart, funny, successful, wealthy, a good kisser. I’m a thirty-two-year-old college dropout with three kids. Let’s be real here—if Chris Cantor is interested, I’m interested.
Chris walks away from the trainer, and as he heads toward his chair, he barks at one of the extras to change his shirt because it’s smudged with dirt. It’s not the extra’s fault. We’re all smudged with dirt, and a moment before, the guy was asked to carry a bale of hay into the corral.
Next he snaps at Jeremy, who stands beside the chicken coop entertaining Miles by trying to juggle three of the fake eggs. “Stop fucking up my set,” he barks.
“Chill, Chris,” Griff says, striding into the corral. He wears work boots, faded Levi’s, and a Willie Nelson T-shirt, and by the way he walks up to the horse and smooths the mare’s muzzle, I know he rides. “We’ll get it done.”
“About time you got here,” Chris seethes.
“Can’t do anything about traffic.”
Griff is unaffected by Chris’s temper, his voice as calm as if Chris had greeted him with, “Good morning, Griff. Great to see you.”
“You could have gotten here yesterday,” Chris snaps.
“It was my day off. Went fishing. Caught three trout and a bass.”
“You think I give a shit…”
“Chris, simmer down. We’re a couple of hours behind, and we’ve got a week to make it up.”
Chris’s nostrils flare.
Griff claps him on the shoulder. “Relax. We’ve got this.”
With a curt nod, Chris walks back to his perch. “Let’s do this,” he says.
Griff shakes the trainer’s hand then gives a small wave to Jeremy and Miles, and Jeremy resumes juggling his eggs.
When Griff turns to walk back toward the main camera, his gaze levels on me and turns cold, a fierce look that causes me to turn away.
I get it. I was wrong. I owe him an apology. I haven’t exactly had the opportunity. He just got here. What does he want me to do, stand up in front of everyone and announce that I know it was my fault Molly got hurt and that I was an unjustified bitch and that I’m sorry?
He’ll get his damn apology. First opportunity I get, I’ll tell him exactly what he’s waiting to hear, that he was right and I was wrong, that he’s a genius and a hero and that I’m an idiot and a coward.
“Mom.”
“What?” I snap at Molly, who I realize has said my name three times without me answering.
“It’s time.”
“Right, okay.” I return my focus to the moment. “So you know what you’re doing?”
“I walk up to the howrse wlike I want to pet hewr, but the howrse gets scawred and twries to stomp me, but Gwrant saves me.”
Grant is a new character, the eight-year-old wiseass son of the new foreman on the farm.
“Grant is going to knock you to the ground.”
Molly smiles. She and Tom rehearsed the scene half a dozen times last night and had a great time rolling around in the mud. Tom loves rehearsing with Molly. He’s a perfect stand-in for Miles, and last night he did a terrific job pretending to be Grant.
“Then he puwlls me thwrough the fence,” she says.
Molly and I do this with every scene, a back-and-forth dialogue of what is going to happen. It’s not so much a rehearsal as a summary. Sometimes she needs more explanation and sometimes less. Like now, she says, “What do I do when I’m out of the cowrrawl?”
“Grant gets mad and says, ‘Are you stupid? That horse could have killed you.’ And you’re going to be kind of shy because you don’t know Grant.”
Molly’s mouth skews to the side, just like it did the first time we read the script.
“I know,” I say. “It’s kind of silly, but that’s the way the writers wrote it.”
I’ve taken it upon myself to memorize the scenes Molly is in, her lines as well as everyone else’s. It helps me rehearse with her without having to use the script and also allows me to be in the right spot on the set to cue her if she needs it.
“Okey dokey, jokey smokey,” she says.
I brush a curl from her forehead and peck her on the nose. “Break a leg.”
“You bwreak a wleg too,” she says, then skips toward the corral as the kid who plays Grant steps through the fence on the other side.
I’m not crazy about the actor they chose. He has serious attitude and treats his mom like crap. He was cast because he’s a star. Last year he played a scrappy orphan in a postapocalyptic movie that was all the rage. In my opinion, the kid should enjoy his success while it lasts because, though he’s cute now, he’s not going to be cute as a man, and I can’t imagine there will be too many roles for scrawny, obnoxious thirty-year-olds.
“Molly and Grant stand here and here,” Chris says, pointing to two chalk marks on the ground.
I’m not nervous about this scene. The horse is a beautiful, gentle mare who wouldn’t hurt a fly, and her trainer is an old horse whisperer who has complete control. Relative to the car scene, this is a piece of cake.
Chris says, “Camera one, go tight on Molly as a cutaway in case she doesn’t get the emotion and we need to do it in two shots.”
Molly takes her place, but Grant refuses. “That horse just shit,” he says. “I’m not rolling around in horse shit.”
“Baby, they’re cleaning it,” his mom says as he climbs back through the fence.
A crew member shovels the manure into a sack as another rakes the soil.
“The dirt is still contaminated,” the kid says, marching toward the cabins. His mom races after him in a ridiculous pair of heels that sink into the dirt with each step she takes.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Chris screams as he spins in a circle and runs his hand through his hair. “What the fuck?”
“Chris, look,” Griff says, causing everyone to turn their attention back to the corral.
My mouth falls open. Tom, my Tom, has taken Grant’s spot, and Molly has taken her spot. The cast and crew instinctively quiet, Chris steps back, and the crew members who were cleaning the dirt move out of view. Beth raises her hand, and her fingers pop up one by one. “Action.”
Molly takes two steps toward the horse, her hand reaching toward the mare’s muzzle. The trainer blows a piercing whistle, and the horse rears up. Molly freezes, her eyes get large and her mouth opens, then she stumbles back a step. Bam! Tom tackles her to the ground, and the horse’s hooves come down yards from either of them. Tom grabs Molly by the arm and yanks her under the fence.
I hold my breath. Aside from speaking inside our cabin, Tom hasn’t said a word since we arrived on the farm.
“Are you stupid?” he says in a voice that is not his own, the words spitting with an accent remarkably like the kid who just stormed off the set. “That horse could have killed you.”
Tears spring to my eyes, and I bite down on my knuckle to stop from crying. In front of a hundred strangers, my son, who never speaks in front of strangers, just spoke. Emily leaps to her feet beside me and hugs me around my waist, both of us jumping up and down in place.
Molly’s hands go to her hips. “No, I’m not stupid. You’wre stupid.”
Tom’s nose flares, and he shoves Molly, and Molly shoves him back. Tom’s face squints into a scowl, then he whirls and marches off toward the barn.
“Wait,” Molly says, running after Tom. “Wait fowr me.”
Tom keeps right on walking, his fists balled at his sides.
“And cut,” Chris says, marching onto the set. “Can someone please tell me what the hell is going on? Who the hell is that? And who changed the damn script?”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “That’s my son. I’ll keep him out of the way…”
“Does he have an actor’s card?”
“Uh… I…” I’m nearly as speechless as Tom normally is.
Before I formulate a response, Tom and Molly are back, Molly grinning like a baboon, Tom shyly smirking beside her. The cast and crew burst into applause, and Tom’s grin widens to fill his whole face.
“He’s my bwrothewr,” Molly announces proudly.
Tom is at my side now, and I wrap my arm protectively around him and drop a kiss on his head, my emotions stuck in my throat, the tears barely contained—pride, disbelief, relief.
“Fifteen-minute break,” Chris says, causing the cast and crew to scamper off in search of caffeine, nicotine, and shade.
“So, Two-Bits, are you going to introduce me?”
“This is Tom,” Molly says proudly. “And this is my sistewr, Emiwly.”
“Hello, Emily,” Chris says, shaking her hand. “You’re as beautiful as your mom.”
She blushes and so do I.
He turns to Tom. “Well, young man, that was quite a performance. Are you an actor?”
My heart locks up, all of us looking expectantly at Tom to see if he’ll answer.
He nods.
“Well, welcome to the show,” Chris says, then turns back to me. “Beth will work it out with SAG to get him his actor’s card. I assume she should call Monique to deal with the contract?”
He’s all business, and I’m a little stung by the brusqueness.
I nod, and he walks away, then turns back. “And you, Two-Bits, stop changing the script.”
“But I would nevewr wlet someone cawll me stupid, and I’m not shy,” Molly says.
He smirks and shakes his head. “Fine. I’ll talk to the writers, but stop changing the script without talking to me first.”
“Bossy, bossy, Chwrissy Cwrossy.”
A look of pure adoration crosses Chris’s face, then he turns to me and gives
a smile bright as the sun. “Maybe we can all have lunch together?”
My heart warms and chills at the same time, unsure if his renewed attention is because of me or my daughter.
Without waiting for my answer, he gives his signature wink then pivots and walks away.
I kneel down so I’m eye level with Tom. “Buddy, that was awesome.”
He nods, and the crooked smile I love so much fills his face. He’s as amazed as I am, relief flooding from his small body and straight into my heart.
43
Tom and Molly shoot one more scene together, Tom’s voice miraculously continuing to show up as Grant. Like Molly, he’s a natural-born actor, and I’m stunned by how comfortable he is in front of the camera.
Chris is a no-show for lunch, which while a little disappointing is also a relief. I want to revel in Tom’s breakthrough, and I can’t do that with Chris Cantor around.
We eat as a family beneath the shade of an oak tree, and when we finish, Beth tells us that Molly and Tom are done for the day, which is especially good news because Emily and I have some shopping to do. Emily needs a new outfit to wear to the barbeque tonight where she is going to see Caleb, and I need a new bra.
I’ve made a decision. Regardless of whether Chris Cantor is a good idea, having sex with him is a good idea—a very good, very needed idea. I’m thirty-two years old and have not had sex in over eight months. It doesn’t need to be meaningful. I can do meaningless. I can.
I’ve got three kids. Prince Charming is not going to ride in on a white horse or drive up in his black Porsche and whisk me away to his castle in Beverly Hills. Nice as that sounds, that’s probably not in the cards. So unless I’m ready to commit to a life of celibacy, I need to loosen up and have a little fun.
I can do this. I want to do this. I can. I do.
I’m going to do this. Damn it, get over yourself, just do it!
44
The plum lace bra I bought itches and is digging into my flesh. The matching panties are equally uncomfortable. I try to convince myself that they are thrilling reminders of what I have to look forward to, but most of my focus is spent on resisting the urge to rip them off right here at the dinner table.
No Ordinary Life Page 16
