I laughed. “OK, I’m going to let that one go,” I said. “Come on.” I started to jog in the direction of the beach.
He trotted next to me, looking genuinely embarrassed. “Seriously, I’m sorry. I’m an idiot.”
“All right, all right,” I smiled at him. “I don’t want to hear any more apologies. I can’t be held responsible for what I’ll do.”
He laughed, still shaking his head. The easy warm-up gradually morphed into a real run. He was definitely faster than I was. I wasn’t sure I could keep up this pace for five miles.
"Hey speed demon, where's the fire?" I nudged him with my shoulder.
"Too fast for you, slowpoke?" He grinned at me.
"Guess you never read 'The Tortoise and the Hare.'"
"I'm an actor, we don't read actual books," he joked.
We ran silently for a few minutes, and I started to get used to his pace. Or maybe he was slowing down. Either way, my breathing began to settle, and we hit a good rhythm.
“You’re out early today,” I noted. “How come?”
“You mean, why aren’t I sleeping in until 11 like I normally do, being the spoiled-brat actor that I am?”
“Yes, that’s exactly what I meant.” I pursed my lips at him to drive home the sarcasm.
He chuckled. “I actually run early at least a couple days a week. You haven’t seen me do it because you don’t get there until 8 most days.”
How did he know when I arrived at work?
We were quiet for a few minutes.
“So, uh, what’s your family like?” I asked. I had run with other people in the past, and found this was always a good topic to get the conversation going. Everyone had a family to talk about; or if they didn’t, that was a story, too.
"Uh, well, I'm the youngest, two brothers and a sister. I grew up in Hay Springs, Nebraska, about 43 miles from absolutely nowhere."
I glanced at him and caught his grimace. "Is that what you always say?" I asked, trying to sound gentle.
He laughed softly. "Yeah, I guess that's the line I use when I talk about home. It is true though. It's Nowheresville, USA."
"Is that bad? The towns in Norman Rockwell paintings could be called Nowheresville, USA."
He gave a wry laugh. "Norman Rockwell was not painting Hay Springs, I promise you."
"Why? What was it like?"
"Small. Small town, small minds. Everyone I grew up with is still there. We went to tractor pulls. I belonged to 4H. Everyone thinks the same and they all try desperately to not stand out in any way, except in football or being, like, a wealthier farmer. It's a wasteland."
"So how did you get out? How did you become you?"
"How did I become me. Hmm," he glanced at me. "I had to. I always knew I would leave, it was just a matter of when and where to. My dad hated it, but I joined this little local community theater group, and when I was a sophomore in high school the director got us into an exhibition thing in Chicago. I had never been anywhere bigger than Lincoln, and Chicago just blew my fucking mind."
"Wait, why did your dad hate it?" I asked.
"Please. Acting, and anything artistic or creative, was just completely foreign to him. And to make things worse, I chose it over football," Quinn said.
"What about your mother? Didn’t she encourage you?" As soon as I asked, I remembered that his mother had died when he was very young. I don't know how I knew; it was one of those things you somehow just know about celebrities.
"She died when I was 11," he said, more matter-of-factly than I would have expected. “Cancer.”
"I'm sorry. I think I knew that," I admitted.
"No, it's OK," he said, glancing at me again.
"So go on. What about that trip to Chicago?"
We approached the end of the path. It ended abruptly, and it was about a one-foot drop onto the hard-packed sand. The tide was out at this hour. When it came in, the whole beach was covered with water, so the sand never fully dried out and softened. But even with the hard-packed sand, this half-mile stretch, which I ran out and back, was a challenge.
I jumped down and Quinn followed. “Wow, that sand feels nice,” he remarked.
“Yeah, you may feel it tomorrow in your calves, but it’s a good hurt,” I said, breathing a little heavier from the added resistance. “So you were saying, about going to Chicago?”
He chuckled. "Sorry, Curious George. Why am I doing all the talking?”
“Hey, I’ll ask the questions here,” I joked.
“OK, OK, yes, ma’am,” he said, laughing, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “Well, school was never really my thing, and I never thought much about the future, but after that trip I knew I had to get out. So I applied myself”—he made air quotes around that—“got my grades up, saved money from odd jobs and between grants, loans, and some work-study jobs, I got myself to DePaul in Chicago."
Wow, that sounded familiar. "Didn’t your dad help?"
"With school?” He was breathing a little heavier now, too. “No. I mean, I don't mean to paint this bad picture of him. He's a decent guy, and God knows he did not sign up for raising four obnoxious kids on his own without my mother. But college just wasn't something he really planned for or thought about. He was proud as hell when I graduated though, even came to Chicago for it. I think he thought a degree in theater arts was stupid, what was the point, why not study business or law. But he was proud of me, and that was nice."
“Did you ever think about it? Studying business or law, or something else?”
He grimaced. “No. I thought about a minor in English or poly sci, but ultimately I just wasn’t that into it. I liked school, it was fun to, like, explore different things, but I knew I was going to be an actor.”
We got to the turnaround point. “Do you want to stop and stretch for a sec?” I asked, slowing a bit.
“Nah, let’s keep going.”
“Sure, OK.”
“When do I get to give you the third degree?” he asked lightly.
“Maybe some other time.” I hoped he wouldn’t probe me just then. My life felt pretty small compared to his.
He started to say something, but we reached the point where it was time to hop back up onto the road, so he got distracted.
“You OK?” I asked. “Feel like slowing down a bit?”
“Nah, I’m good,” he smiled at me. “Actually, I was thinking maybe we could pick it up a little?”
Uh oh. “Yeah, sure,” I said, trying to sound nonchalant. OK Emmy, let’s do it. You must keep up, no matter what.
We didn’t talk much the rest of the way, just matched our strides and our breathing. To my surprise, I was OK with the increased pace after about a quarter of a mile. I couldn’t have kept it going forever, but for a couple of miles it was all right. The silence was kind of nice, not awkward at all.
I had had the same kind of experience with other running friends in the past. There was something intimate about running with another person, especially early in the morning or at night, when you didn’t see anyone else on the road.
We sped up slightly more at the end, as we approached the Beach House, then slowed to a walk.
I put my hands on top of my head to ease my breathing and felt the cool air blow my running top up slightly over the waistband of my shorts. It felt so nice, refreshing. Closing my eyes, I enjoyed the breeze. I opened my eyes and looked at Quinn. I couldn’t be sure but I thought he might have been glancing at the little bit of my belly that was exposed.
Yeah, right. Dream on, Emmy.
"Uh, so, there's no way I'm doing that big hill on my own," he said with a grin, nodding in the direction opposite to the one we just came from. "Can I persuade you to take me up there tomorrow? Were you going to run tomorrow morning?"
I hesitated.
"You can't say no, Em. I just yammered on about myself the whole time, I didn’t get to hear about you at all."
"OK, sure," I replied, though I hadn't been planning to go the next day. "I'll be ha
ppy to take you. Hearing my life story might put you back to sleep, though."
"I’ll take my chances. And you can share your perversion with me," he winked.
I blushed. "What?" Oh, right. "Oh, the hill. Well, we'll see if you can handle my level of perversion."
He laughed. "A challenge! Awesome. Should we make a wager? If I make it up the hill without stopping, I win. If I don't, you win. What do you say?"
"What are we betting on? What am I going to win?" Fake bravado hid my inner nerves. What if he flew up the hill at his faster pace and left me in the dust?
"Oh, you're so sure of yourself?" He had moved a step closer, and now I was conscious of the warmth pouring off him.
Plus, I knew I had to be a sweaty mess, not to mention smelly as hell. I had to get out of there.
"You're the one who thinks you can't make it on your own, even though I do it all the time and I'm just a girl," I said, raising my eyebrows.
"Ha! 'Just a girl.' Please. I don't know you that well, but from what I've seen, you aren't 'just' anything," Quinn emphasized the “you” and poked me in the shoulder when he said it.
"Now you're just changing the subject,” I said, shaking my head. “We don't have to wager if you don't want to. Or you're scared."
I smiled, eyebrows raised, looking him in the eye when I would normally have turned away. I couldn't believe I was flirting with him. It was like an out of body experience.
"Man, you're tough!” he shook his head back at me, holding my gaze for a few extra seconds. He seemed to do that a lot, or maybe it was just my imagination again? “OK, big talker. I don't want to bet money. How about, the loser has to give the winner a gift. No determined amount, just something the loser thinks the winner might like."
"Done. What time is good for you tomorrow?"
The next morning at 6:30 I was standing on the porch, stretching, when Quinn came out. He looked tired and seemed much more subdued than he had been the day before.
"It's raining," he muttered, looking out at the street.
"This isn't rain. It's mist," I said, smiling at him. "You're not going to lose a bet over a little bit of weather, are you?"
He mock-scowled at me, but seemed to come out of his mood a little. "There you go, assuming I'm going to lose again. Let's go, Paula Radcliffe, show me what you've got."
"This way," I gestured, and we started off jogging. “So, I meant to ask you, whatever happened with… you know. I mean, what we talked about the other day? The staff?”
He was quiet for a moment. “Nothing yet. I talked to Julianne about it briefly, but we were interrupted. She made the point to me that I have to be careful that no one takes any pictures of me, posts anything on Facebook, stuff like that. I get it. But threatening people’s jobs… That seems unnecessary to me. She started to say that we can’t change things now, it will confuse people, but-” he shook his head. “I usually trust Julianne’s judgment, but sometimes... I just…I don’t know.”
Something about the way he trailed off made me quell my desire to ask more questions.
We ran quietly for a few minutes, gradually picking up speed. Again he went just faster than was comfortable for me, but I did my best to keep up. We broke the silence at the same time.
“So tell me about-” he started.
"So is everything-” I started.
We both laughed.
“Technically it's my turn, but ladies first,” he said with a slight smile.
“Thanks,” I said. “So is everything OK at the Beach House? Are you comfortable there?"
He didn’t answer right away. Had I said something wrong? Was he miserable but trying to figure out how to say something nice?
"I'm actually loving it. Even though the people who work there are so unfriendly," he said quietly, glancing sideways at me so I would know he was kidding. Then he faced forward and got more serious. "It's supposed to be kind of an exile, a suspension. But the atmosphere is so... Different.”
“What do you mean?”
“Um, well, it isn't a resort, where you're surrounded by extreme luxury but still ‘on,’ kind of like performing for the other guests. And it isn't someone's tricked-out vacation home in the mountains, where the solitude drives you nuts,” he said. "It's kind of perfect for me right now, in a weird way. The other guests are cool, people I probably wouldn't have met otherwise. Mr. Matthews is a trip."
"He's the best, isn't he?"
"Yeah," Quinn agreed. "If only the food didn’t suck so much."
"We have a saying around here," I said, nodding. "I think you're ready to hear it."
"Fire away."
"Bite me."
"Oh nice, very ladylike."
I laughed. We ran for a while without speaking, just listening to each other breathing again, like the day before. Except for the occasional car passing by, we didn’t see any other people. It was comfortable, intimate; at least, it felt that way to me. I couldn't begin to know what Quinn was thinking. I started to realize that I felt less nervous now than I ever had around him.
"So can I-?" I began.
“So tell me-" he started at the same time again. We laughed.
"Go ahead," he said. “And then it’s really my turn.”
I felt bold, so I went for it. "So, what is this really about? I mean, why are you really here?"
He sighed. "What do you mean? You know why I'm here."
"No. I know what we were told at our briefing and I know what the tabloids are saying, thanks to Shari. But I don't believe it." There, I said it."I mean, it's none of my business, obviously. But I'd like to know, if you feel like talking about it."
He was quiet again, and I was about to apologize and tell him to forget that I asked.
"Em, you're so fucking smart. No one seems to pick up on it, but you just…" he practically whispered. "You're right not to believe it. It's all fake."
"But why?"
He hesitated. "Can I trust you?" He didn’t look at me, and for once he wasn't smiling or flirting. Tension crackled in the air.
"Yes," I replied firmly. Silence for another minute. “I trusted you the other night. You can trust me.”
He exhaled sharply. "The movie sucks," he said.
"What?"
"You heard me. Kill Switch. It's truly, seriously bad, like, a fucking disaster. This whole thing is a way to get people interested in it, to create buzz. Without this, no one would see that piece of shit after opening weekend and the press would kill us. But it cost a ridiculous fortune, so we had to do something to try and make it back. It could end a few people’s careers if this thing just dies."
I was flabbergasted. "Wait. So, what about you and Maya? Everything is OK between you? Why did you walk off the set?"
"Em, no. Jesus. I didn't walk off the set. I would never do that, and I did not cheat on Maya. There’s nothing to cheat on. There's no relationship, there never was. We’re friends, that’s all. Barely that.”
I had so many questions, I didn’t know where to start. “I’m sorry, but is this, like, normal? This kind of thing?”
He laughed humorlessly. “I don’t know. I think this is pretty extreme. The whole stupid fucking thing was made up, engineered by the studio. I took the fall so Maya wouldn't have to."
I caught him glancing at me. I wanted to be jaded and casual about it, but I wasn’t. I couldn’t be. I was shocked. "I can't believe this. It's all a lie?"
Now his smile was bitter. "Really? You can't imagine people in the movie business lying to you?”
I didn’t respond, just shook my head.
“I didn't want to go along with it at first," he continued. "But the studio people pushed really hard. Then I started to think that maybe I could use a break. So I said OK."
We were both quiet as we got to the hill. So many thoughts were flying through my head. On one hand, I was glad he wasn't with Maya, so it was OK if he really was flirting with me.
Don’t be an idiot, Emmy.
On the other hand, he had d
eceived everyone, gone along with this elaborate lie. Could he be trusted at all?
"Dammit. Fuck. Are you kidding me?" Quinn was panting, struggling up the hill. We were only about a third of the way up. "Is this what a heart attack feels like?"
"OK grandma, chill out over there," I laughed. I was breathing heavily, too, but not as much as Quinn. "You aren't having a heart attack. Let's just slow down a little. Stand up straighter, and imagine there's a string in your belly button that's pulling you up the hill.”
Quinn started to falter, as if he was going to stop.
"No! Don't stop," I grabbed his arm. "Come on. Slow down as much as you need to, but keep going. It's much harder to stop and start again."
"Goddamn it, Em!" he yelled, but he kept going.
"Come on, just a little more. Let's go." I picked up my pace and charged up the last 50 yards. Quinn didn’t go faster, but he didn’t stop.
"Hey, you did it!" I high-fived him as he reached the top, where I was running in place. "Great job. Keep going." I pushed his shoulder to keep him from stopping. "Go slow, but don't quit now."
"Em, I-" he was panting, "Holy shit. OK, OK."
We slowed to a jog.
"Look out there," I pointed out over the cliff, where there was a stunning view of the ocean.
"Wow, you weren't kidding," he choked out between pants. "That is an amazing view."
We jogged back down the hill slowly until he caught his breath.
"Jesus Christ. I thought I was in decent shape," Quinn said, shaking his head.
"I'm glad I could be here to disavow you of that notion," I smiled sweetly at him.
"Big talk for someone who just lost a bet," he said, glancing at me with a grin and one raised eyebrow.
"Please. You can't really count that as me losing the bet."
"Um, yeah I can. The bet was that I couldn't make it, and I did. I never said anything about how," he shrugged.
"That is so lame," I complained, but I was laughing. "This is what I get for helping you out?"
"Didn’t anyone ever tell you that no good deed goes unpunished?"
"Oh yes, I think I learned that in my cliches class in college."
"Ouch, that hurts. You still lost and you still owe me," he knocked shoulders with me in a big-brotherly way.
The Beach House Page 6
