Basically, we were thick as thieves and it really was the best kind of friendship.
But then it all changed. At first it was little things you might not notice unless you were actively looking for them. His hand would rest on the small of my back just a little bit longer than was strictly necessary as he’d guide me through the bar. Or he’d catch my eye across a crowded room and smile at me. I mean really smile, his eyes alight with something … more. Or he’d call me, he’d explain, for no other reason than just to hear my voice.
So like I said, at first I tried to stop myself from feeling that way about him … and then I simply didn’t. I let that blossoming love sweep me away on a tidal wave of longing and unfulfilled desire. And you know what? It wasn’t terrible, though it may sound that way. At least it wasn’t at first. I felt lucky just to have someone as remarkable as Cameron in my life, as my friend.
But I hadn’t quite anticipated how our relationship would eventually play out. Back then I thought for certain it’d be one sided; I’d drool over him from afar while he went about his life none the wiser.
Because, you see, it’s a simple fact that guys like Cameron don’t fall in love with girls like me.
Before you start to worry, let me assure you mine is not a sad tale of woe. The truth is, aside from the fact that I’m what you’d call chubby, I lead a very good life. And while I’ve never had a problem with the way I look, in Hollywood being chubby was a Very Bad Thing. Perceptions are starting to change for the better, but we curvy girls still have a long way to go before we’ll truly be accepted here in La-La Land. While there are handful of models who’ve taken the fashion world by storm, it’s still pretty dire. While I thank the world a thousand times over for the glamorously voluptuous Christina Hendricks, until Jennifer Aniston can eat a couple of burritos and speculation not run rampant that she’s pregnant, we aren’t there yet.
Would things be easier if I were tall and chubby? Hell yeah! I might even try to get in on that plus-size model game myself. But I’m not so I can’t. Instead, I sit back and bemoan the fact that most representations of women like me are limited to the best friend, the funny bridesmaid, or one of the guys. We’re never the leading lady because we’re not viewed as being pretty or desirable enough. As if being pretty and chubby were mutually exclusive. Nope, you can’t be fat and pretty. Admit it, you know exactly what I’m talking about.
It’s okay though. Like I said, I’m happy with who I am. I have long, naturally auburn hair and bright green eyes I get from my dad’s Irish heritage, and not to brag (okay I’m totally bragging), but I have perfect skin that models and actresses pay surgeons and dermatologists thousands of dollars to emulate. Before you hate me too much, I already know I can’t take credit for any of it. It all comes down to the mixture of my parents’ DNA. Aside from my height and abundant curves, I know I hit the genetic jackpot. Sure, I’d love to look better in a bathing suit but what woman doesn’t? I have friends who are a size two who bemoan their cellulite every time bathing suit season approaches. (Moral of the story? Bathing suits are from the devil.) So what if I’m a size 14 and a smidge under five and a half feet tall? The only problem is, I’m just not the type of woman handsome men like Cameron want in their beds.
Normally that wouldn’t be a problem … except I want it so goddamn badly.
So yeah, that lovely, wonderful, easygoing friendship with him? Not so harmless it turns out. It’s hard—I mean really, really hard—being in love with your best friend and unable to do anything about it.
I see I’ve confused you. Let me back up a little bit. My best friend, Cameron? The guy I’m secretly in love with? He’s what you might call famous. So famous, in fact, that his face is on buses in major cities across the globe and if you’ve been to New York City recently, you’ve probably seen a 40-foot-tall poster of him smack dab in the middle of Times Square. He’s that level of famous.
But it wasn’t always that way. You see, when we first met a few years ago he was just another good looking struggling actor who couldn’t seem to land any of the roles he auditioned for. And he’d auditioned for them all.
Oh Christ, there I go doing it again, giving you only part of the story. I should probably tell you who I am.
Hi, I’m Sarah Travers. I’m 33 years old, obviously single, and I’m the personal assistant for a bad ass Hollywood director. I used to work for a production company responsible for some of the worst reality TV shows you could imagine, and my job was to placate their Z-list celebrities. After a particularly disastrous reunion show, I simply couldn’t take it anymore and I left that world behind.
Through a friend of a friend I managed to land a series of odd jobs for some of SoCal’s rich and powerful and based on word-of-mouth about my trustworthiness, I ended up working for Shanna Johnson—wife of director Broderick Johnson—managing her social calendar and basically keeping her life moving. (Confession: I honestly believe all those socialite wives found me “trustworthy” because they didn’t worry about their husbands trying to seduce me. Fortunately, they’d been right, and that had led to me having a reputation as someone who wouldn’t screw them over.) Eventually, Broderick saw how competently I ran his wife’s life and the next thing I knew, he hired me right out from under her elegant nose. Which, come to think of it, wasn’t so trustworthy after all.
So that brings me to today. I’m good at my job, my employer trusts me, and I get paid well doing something I don’t entirely hate. Just don’t ask my mom about it. Good lord. To hear her go on (and on) about it, you’d think I was a stripper or something. In her opinion, me not using my college degree is the worst thing any child ever had the audacity to do. As if I was going to be able to find a job with a B.A. in Art History. Ha! I’m sure there are thousands of available jobs for people who love to paint just waiting to be gobbled up.
But don’t try telling her that. She’d refute every point you made with a story about a friend of a friend’s daughter who knew so-and-so and how she was now working in x, y, or z. It was always the same and it always boiled down to the fact that I was failing her.
And don’t even get me started on how she feels about me being “well past thirty” and single. Once, during a Ladies Who Lunch I’d gone to with her against my better judgment, I mentioned that I didn’t know if I wanted to have kids and my mother literally started crying at the table, telling me in between choking sobs how I was depriving her of life’s greatest joy.
So now we just don’t talk about my personal life anymore. In fact, I’m avoiding talking to her altogether. It’s too damn exhausting having to defend myself or make up stories to placate her neurosis. While I love my mom, sometimes I don’t actually like her very much. I blame my dad for her histrionics since he’s always indulged her.
Anyhow … what was I saying? Oh right, working for Broderick was how I met Cameron.
Like I said before, he’d auditioned countless times for many roles but never seemed to catch a break. It wasn’t like he was dismissed outright, however. That might have made things easier. Instead, he perpetually came in second place, the runner up for the “role of a lifetime.” I knew for a fact Broderick had almost cast him twice in the last three years. And he certainly had the looks for the job. Did I already mention that? No, but obviously you guessed as much. Sadly, he’s so good looking that sometimes his attractiveness is the reason he doesn’t get a part. Ridiculous right? Still, it’s no big secret in our office that a handful of directors have passed on him for a role because they didn’t think him capable of embracing a dirtier, gritty look.
Picture it: six-foot-five and every inch of him honed to physical perfection, not an ounce of fat on his body. He’s all lean muscle, like an Olympic swimmer. His shoulders and washboard abs could make girls swoon. Actually, they have. His body alone should be enough to catapult him ahead of his competition, but that’s not where the gloriousness that is Cameron Scott ends.
I don’t usually go for blonde guys, but on him it works.
His hair is like spun wheat or corn silk—perfect really since he’s a born and bred Midwesterner—and it has a slight natural wave that keeps it from lying flat against his head. And his eyes? Well, when he looks at you … that deep, piercing blue feels like it’s drilling down deep and analyzing all that you are, all you want to be. His voice? God, that voice. When he speaks to you it’s like you’re the only person in the room, but you have a hard time paying attention because you’re distracted by chiseled cheekbones that could cut glass. How I envy those damn cheekbones. And his smile? Well, that’s probably his best feature. He’s just a supremely happy person and it shows in the play of his full, kissable lips as they slash across his face in cheerful amusement.
See? Utter hotness.
But getting back to how we met and became friends. I’d see Cameron around town, at casting calls, and then in call backs and he was always unfailingly polite, effortlessly sweet to everyone he met. He treated us all with respect, regardless of where we were in the pecking order—the girl who brought him a glass of water was just as important as the director he was hoping to impress. I guess you could say he was untouched by the cynicism of Hollywood and that was what first caught my attention. He was gorgeous and he was charming and every time I saw him I’d walk away smiling. He just made you feel good, you know?
All that changed, though, on the day he totally blew an incredibly important audition for a director whose offices were down the hall from ours. He was the last call back of the day and everyone in the building knew the director was in a foul mood. When it was Cameron’s turn he came in and approached the role in a way that pissed the director off, big time. The guy totally chewed Cameron out, grilling him on why he chose to do a scene in a particular way and asking him repeatedly what his motivation was. To hear it told, Cameron never faltered under the guy’s scrutiny and was gracious under the pressure of interrogation. He never wavered, didn’t kiss the director’s ass, or ask to do the scene again. (I can’t tell you how many times that happens just before an actor or actress spouts some sad excuse about why they fucked up.)
Anyhow, by then I’d seen him around town and in some cases had even hung out with him tangentially through our many mutual acquaintances. We were on a first name basis, saying hellos and whatnot when our paths crossed, but we’d never had a real conversation or anything.
Until that day.
I was walking to my car when I saw him in the parking lot and I could tell right away from his body language he was upset. Before leaving the office I’d heard what had happened from another PA and I felt really bad for him since the role would have been a huge break. Most guys in his position would have been stomping around, screaming into their phones about what a dick the director had been, but not Cameron. He was just standing there, leaning against his pickup truck, looking lost. Like he didn’t know what to do next. If I had to put a label on it, I’d say he looked like a man who was seriously considering packing up and heading back to wherever it was that guys like him came from. Kansas, maybe. Or Nebraska. Ohio perhaps.
“Hey,” I said. (Eloquent, right?)
“Hey Sarah.”
And then we just stood there. I had no idea how to make him feel better. I didn’t even know if it was my place to do so, but I couldn’t let him stew over the situation either. He was a good guy who was upset and I thought I might be able to help him see the situation in a different light.
“So, that was brutal back there.”
He let out a sardonic laugh. “Yeah, brutal is one way to put it.”
“Look, I know you’re pissed off but I from what I gather, you were right back there. Fat lot of good it does you to hear me say it though, right?”
His stance changed, a slight tightening of his eyes and a clenching of his shoulders. “From what you heard?”
Shit. I’d basically just revealed we’d been gossiping about him. Smooth move Sarah, real smooth.
Despite the obvious fact that he wasn’t pleased to learn it, I could sense he wanted to know what I’d heard, see if I could provide any extra insight into what the director said after he left. Whatever it was, he’d become fully attuned to me, at what I had to say. Maybe that’s why I kept on talking. I shouldn’t have. Really, really shouldn’t have, but when a gorgeous guy—no, scratch that, a good guy—paid attention to every word that left your mouth, that could be a pretty powerful thing.
“My friend said your instincts about who the character is and how to approach his backstory was better for the role than some other interpretations they saw today. You were right; he can’t be so one-dimensional. The way the director is playing it though is the safe bet.”
I should have shut up after that. It wasn’t my place to contradict what a director wanted to do with his movie. If word got back to Broderick I was bad-mouthing his colleague, I’d be in so much trouble. But something about Cameron, about the way he’d always treated everyone around him, about the way he always appeared so unfailingly kind, made me want to take that chance.
“Look. I know it sucks and you probably don’t care what I have to say, but they’re going to make a movie that critics won’t like and you’ll be saved from being the actor who’s at fault.”
I couldn’t say at what point during our conversation his stance had gone from weary to interested, but at some point I’d put my bag down and had joined him in leaning up against his truck. We talked for another 45 minutes about his bad luck with auditions and what I did for Broderick, and then to my utter astonishment we were on our way to get a coffee at a diner down the road.
I know what you’re thinking. I even thought it myself: he was buttering me up because he thought I could help him. With anyone else that would have been the case, absolutely. But with Cameron? I didn’t think so. What I did think was that Cameron was too good for this ugly, superficial town.
By the time I finished my coffee, we’d stopped talking about work altogether and had moved on to what life was like growing up in a small town in rural Ohio (ding, ding, ding!), then he’d asked me what I’d been like in high school, and finally, we regaled each other with stories about the ridiculous situations we’d gotten ourselves into as only 21-year-olds could. Coffee turned into dinner and by the time we finished eating, we’d spent several hours in each other’s company.
He walked me to my car and, like a perfect gentleman, didn’t try to put the moves on me. I fully expected him to and maybe I wouldn’t have turned him down. No, that’s a lie. I definitely wouldn’t have turned him down. But he didn’t, so that was that. Instead, as I was pulling out of the parking lot, he approached my car and invited me to go hiking with him and a group of friends that Saturday.
And that’s how we started hanging out.
That hiking trip led to barbeques, which led to trips to the beach, and group outings to Disneyland. Have you ever been to Disneyland after dark when all the kids are gone? It’s so much fun. Don’t laugh, but I have a season pass.
On this one particular day it was like 110 degrees out and we were on a mission to ride every single water ride because it was too hot to wait in line for anything else. It was about 7 p.m., the sun was still shining, and we’d already dried off from our last ride when we got in line for Splash Mountain. When it was our turn to load into the imitation log, I sat in front with Cameron positioned directly behind me. I know there’s nothing sexual about an amusement park ride, much less one at Disneyland, but when you find yourself firmly ensconced between your crush’s legs, your mind goes to a lot of different places. Let’s just say I was giddy.
You should see the picture they took as we went down that last huge drop. I look like the biggest weenie, my eyes screwed shut and my mouth hanging open in a high-pitched squeal of terror. Cameron though? He’s as beautiful as ever, his hands thrown up in the air and a giant smile spread across his face like he was having the best time in the world.
I think that was the day I started to see him in a different light.
Alright, alright. I get it
. What you really want to know is when I realized I was in love with him, isn’t it?
That’s an easy question to answer.
About a month later he’d texted to ask if I had any plans that coming Saturday. Since I didn’t, I asked what he had in mind, not thinking too much about the question. We were buds, we hung out a lot, and there was nothing odd about the request. He wrote back quickly, telling me it was a surprise but I should dress comfortably. Even though I badgered him, he wouldn’t give me any other hints and all sorts of different scenarios ran through my head. In the end, none of them were correct.
He picked me up at 7 a.m., with a cup of my favorite coffee in hand, and asked me if it was okay if we brought Duke. Before I could respond, he’d grabbed my dog’s leash off the back of the kitchen door and Duke came bounding into the room, barking and jumping like a maniac. You know how they say animals can tell good people from bad? Well, Duke loved Cameron from the very first moment he’d rubbed his head and called him a good boy. Sometimes I’d watch the two of them together and think maybe that damn dog loved him more than me.
Twenty minutes later we pulled up to a nursing home which was not what I expected. He turned to me, a sheepish grin on his face. “I hope you don’t mind. I volunteer here once or twice a month and it occurred to me last time that Duke would be spoiled rotten.”
I couldn’t guess how Cameron knew I’d have a good time that day, but it was amazing. My dad’s parents, who I’d spent so much time with as a child, had been gone for fifteen years. I hadn’t realized how much I missed them until I’d been surrounded by people from their generation.
Throughout the day, I watched him interact with nurses, orderlies, and patients and saw how everyone responded to him. You could tell the patients especially really cared for him. And I became convinced that Mrs. Jones, who was at least 95 years old, fancied herself madly in love with him. As we left, he shook hands with everyone, and some of the women even gave him hugs and kisses, asking him to come back soon. Mrs. Jones stole herself a number of those kisses and even went so far as to smack him on the ass!
SCRUMptious: (Dublin Rugby #3) Page 14
