by Jane Galaxy
“I was taught, for whatever it’s worth, that pauses should be avoided lest it turn into a punishment,” he said, and laid the final set of noodles on top before dressing them with a thick helping of tomato sauce. It was going to be an excellent dish, he could tell already.
“You gotta let a pause breathe,” Sophie said. “Sometimes you want a page of silent panels.”
He thought about what a page full of silent panels between the two of them would look like, and his mind traitorously conjured a lot of closeups on hands and open mouths, silhouettes and—he had to stop himself, his hands were about to start shaking. Tristan changed course.
“What do you think about in the middle of a pause? Don’t they make you anxious, thinking so much about how awful it is?”
“Usually if I pause in a conversation it’s because I’m thinking about something else.”
“Like?”
Sophie paused, let the pause play out, and when Tristan began fidgeting, said,
“I was expecting your place to be full of pop culture stuff. Prasad said you have a life-size Gordy the Robot from the original Steel Knight movie. The Steve McQueen one.” She looked like she doubted that, given the sterility of what she’d seen so far, but hoped it was actually true.
“Actually, I do, it’s in the office. Through that door.”
She ambled off in that direction, and gave a shout of surprise upon finding it. Tristan smiled and loaded the glass dish hurriedly into the oven before gleefully dashing off to join. He found her standing arms akimbo in the office doorway, staring at the six-foot-tall ideation of The Future As Rendered By The Glorious Year of 1961.
Gordy was a chunky thing shaped like the Michelin Man with metal grips for hands and a rack of lightbulbs atop its head. In the original Steel Knight stories, Dirk Masterson created a robot avatar that he could see through and use to fight off mobsters and bad guys. It wasn’t until the gritty stories from the 1980s that poor outdated Gordy was put to pasture and Dirk had the bright idea to actually build a robot he could run around in.
And the exoskeleton was born.
“I’m actually impressed,” Sophie said, gazing up into its lifeless features, a set of grills to represent eyes and a mouth. “It’s taller than I expected.” Tristan quickly shuffled some of the papers on his desk and shoved them into drawers, including several scripts with his handwritten draft notations and scratched-out bits of dialogue.
At the bottom went the Dark Magic script pages Prasad had sent him over the summer, with all of Tristan’s hard work of rewrites written frantically all over the back. All those tweaks Sophie had hated so much.
He was cringing hard inside—of course he’d been meaning to say something, but there never seemed to be a good moment, and he really hated the thought of upsetting a ship that was finally calm. No sense in torpedoing it all.
“I’ve had a couple of prop engineers look at him to see if they could at least get the lights to work, but the circuits are worn out and it would damage the original paint if I refurbished him,” Tristan said, coming up behind her.
“Wait, so this is a real one?”
Tristan nodded, and then rolled his eyes.
“Gordy came out of a warehouse from another movie I was in a couple of years back. They were making room to build new sets and came across him in a storage closet. Nobody wanted him, so I brought him home, cleaned him up, and there he is.” He tilted his head and looked at the strange contraption of wires and metal hull. Gordy was considered a quaint embarrassment nowadays, but Tristan hadn’t the heart to let anyone send him to the scrap heap.
Pop culture was still culture. It was their history. There was nothing obscene or unlovable about it. Tristan ran his thumb over Gordy’s spotless arm mechanism.
Sophie was looking around the office again, carefully inspecting each movie poster, lobby card, and still shots from the films he loved best, and the large array of perfectly housed comic books that took up most of the space.
“Whoa, you have a Spectral Spectre #1?”
“That’s an original,” said Tristan excitedly, leaning over her to point at the symbol in the upper corner. “My granddad was really into comics during the war when they were hard to get ahold of. An American gave him this one, and he gave it to me before I left for boarding school. I wasn’t supposed to have them, so I hid it all in a box at the back of my closet at home.”
Sophie cast him a funny look, but one that definitely wasn’t meant to prevent him from going on.
“You’re a collector?” she said.
Tristan gave her a look in return.
“You should’ve seen that box. Fan magazines, omnibuses—which were worthless then and aren’t much better now—I got anything I could get my hands on. For a long time I had the whole run of Red Rogue, but then I—” He stopped, suddenly remembering in a bolt of surprise. “You’re here,” he said to Sophie.
“I am,” she replied.
“You’re here,” Tristan said.
Sophie cast her eyes to the side, as if checking to be sure that was correct. Tristan dove for one of the bookshelves, fingering through the spines until he found an original Imperium #1 and whirled around, holding the case at eye level and grinning.
The woman in front of him blinked, stunned for a moment, then slowly realized what he was aiming for and turned pink.
“Will you sign it for me?”
If anything, she blushed harder.
“This is seriously the most adorable thing that’s ever happened to me,” she said, sounding a bit self-conscious. “Do you have a pen you want me to use?”
She clicked the one he handed her and this time when the two of them paused, Sophie sitting at his desk with the first issue she’d ever penned in front of her and Tristan looking over her shoulder, it took him a moment to realize that this was an awkward pause that didn’t feel like one.
“Sorry, do you mind?” she said, laughing.
“Oh! Of course,” Tristan said, “Be sure you dedicate it to the best fake boyfriend ever, and doodle lots of hearts and stars, or whatever will make it the best, only make sure you don’t cover up Morganna’s face—”
Sophie was bent over the table laughing into her folded arms now, and Tristan bent over to look at her, smiling.
“I’ll get the stuffed peppers and check on dinner,” he said, heading out the door. “Do you want some wine?”
“Sure!” her voice carried down the hall after him.
Tristan practically strutted to the kitchen. Sophie had seen into the awkward gangliness of his youth, an entire decade spent buried in stories of amazing superpowers, most definitely not anything serious or studious or what he was expected to know, and she wasn’t remotely put off.
She thought it was impressive, cool even. Well, of course she did, she was Sophie Markes, but it was so different from just sitting in Prasad’s office, chatting.
Maybe it was because of Gordy the Robot, but there had definitely been an expression on her face of genuine awe, of surprise at his framed pieces on the walls, the thick stacks on the bookshelves all neatly piled together. He carefully set the tray of peppers on the countertop and turned to grab the potholders out of a drawer before opening the oven. Usually the kitchen would smell strongly of oregano and spices by now, surely he’d put enough—
Tristan stared in absolute horror into the ice-cold oven, where a glass dish of noodles, cheese, and tomatoes was slowly congealing. He’d forgot to turn the oven on.
You idiot, you got too excited and now dinner’s going to be so late. This is what happens when you’re thinking with your cock and not your brain—
“Oh, these look good,” said Sophie from his right side suddenly, and he shot up quickly. She instantly clocked the panic on his face. “What’s wrong?”
“Er…” He glanced into the oven. “Needs more time. It might be a bit longer than I expected,” he said, but rather than staying put and finishing her appetizer, Sophie came over and peered into the oven as well.
Now there was a very long pause before she straightened up.
“It happens to everyone at some point,” she said in a kind voice he’d never heard come out of her before. “We’ll turn the oven on, get totally lit with wine and peppers, and figure out a backup plan if we need to. If it’s takeout, it’s takeout—and we’ll have lasagna tomorrow night.”
He instantly felt his shoulders relaxing a little. Of course she wasn’t angry, why would she be? It was only food, it wasn’t worth getting into a fight over just because it wasn’t perfect—
The lights in his apartment went out with a loud click and the sound of electronics powering down in a slow whine. After a moment of waiting to see if it was just a flicker, Tristan realized the city lights in the distance were still on, illuminating the room faintly through the windows on the far wall.
“Well,” said Sophie, “I guess we’d better eat all the ice cream.”
“How did you know I had ice cream for dessert?” Tristan was slightly disappointed that she’d guessed the surprise—a really good blend handmade in Omaha that he’d had flown in.
He could see Sophie’s dark outline shrug her shoulders.
“I didn’t, that’s just what my dad always used to say.” She imitated a goofy older man’s voice, “Uh-oh! Guess we’d better eat all the ice cream!”
Tristan felt his shoulders drop, and even though Sophie probably couldn’t see him, her voice still held that tone of sympathy and understanding.
“Or we could go out.”
“No,” said Tristan quickly, determined to get this all right, “I owe you.”
He wasn’t sure why she didn’t say anything at first, but felt himself flush at what sounded like a guilty conscience worming its way out of his own mouth. Did she know? Had she guessed? Or had Prasad, in the ultimate betrayal, told her everything? He’d only just begun making headway, there was no sense in ruining it all so soon. He needed to ruin it, to get the hard part over with before it all came out and she’d hate him suddenly, said a nasty little voice inside him. “I, er—you’ve been dragged into this whole thing, I mean. The spotlight. It can’t be easy, being shown off like a pony, or seeing your photo splashed all over the Internet. You didn’t ask for this.”
“No,” Sophie admitted. “But—” she seemed to be thinking of the right way to put this. “I made the decision to go talk to Gabriella. I did this, my actions that got us here. I mean, I’ve stuck around, haven’t I?”
Tristan had to admit she had a point.
“Besides,” Sophie continued, “There aren’t a lot of social opportunities for me, working this much. You and Prasad, and maybe Joanna, are the closest things I have to friends so far in a totally new city.”
She didn’t sound irritated, or even remotely hostile. Just… honest, and on the level.
“Do you have any candles?” asked Sophie. “Maybe we can salvage things.”
They set about to locating candles and matches, and soon the room was filled (rather romantically, in Tristan’s view) with tea lights and pillars and even one scented like cedarwood and sage that Prasad had given him as a Christmas gift. It smelled weirdly like a cross between cologne and a cabin in the woods, but was the biggest and brightest of everything he had, and threw a beautiful warm light into Sophie’s face and made their mild disaster seem like a lovely adventure instead.
With the lasagna dish nicely wrapped up and set quickly into the fridge for another time, they settled onto the living room floor with a blanket like a panic, and went for the peppers and wine with gusto. The lights slowly came on across the dark swaths of city before them, and the jazz playlist on Sophie’s phone was cool but kind.
“What got you interested in comic books in the first place?”
Tristan thought about it.
“I suppose it wasn’t really anything in particular,” he said, “But it wasn’t the sort of thing that was done or approved of in my family. There’s a bit of a gap between me and Julia, so I was allowed to do whatever I felt like, for a time at least.”
Sophie poured him another finger’s width of wine. Whatever it was, it was good.
“And what was the first one you ever remember owning?”
“I think it was a children’s cartoon,” he said after a while. “Something about a duck going on adventures around the world, searching for hidden gems inside temples, things like that. And then later, when I found out there were whole series dedicated to people in costumes fighting crime, I started buying them with pocket money from the corner shop in town.”
Tristan could just see Sophie’s features dimly in the strange light.
“I was in a production of As You Like It when they came out with your first issue, you know. One of the stagehands had it, and I borrowed it, and then I had to buy it.”
Sophie breathed out a light laugh.
“I’m trying to imagine you backstage in full Shakespearean costume, reading about an Amazonian fighting the patriarchy.”
“Well, I was definitely dressed in full Globe gear, Elizabethan ruff and all.”
“Really?”
“Probably. Let’s assume yes, it’s much funnier that way.”
She laughed, and they sat in an easy quiet for a moment, and Tristan thought—this is what it’s supposed to be. You sit with someone, and it’s not about what you owe them, but what you both bring to the table. It was easy. It was… doable, even.
“My first comic was about Barbie,” said Sophie. “In the letters section at the back she gave tips about how to dry your hair so it came out nice and thick—bend over and flip your hair to volumize those roots, and give it a quick shot of heat! Then add some hair spray to set things for an all-day hold.”
“Sounds like solid advice,” said Tristan. “My duck comics never gave practical tips like that. Usually the letters section asked about historical inaccuracies, or where to find the made-up hidden temples.”
“Every time I use a hairdryer I think of it,” Sophie replied. “The things that stick with you.”
She poured herself another glass of wine.
“Did you ever meet Jack Gerhig?”
“Me? No. They just sent me a general outline of what they wanted.”
Tristan hesitated, not wanting to seem a braggart, and leaned back against the couch.
“Why?”
“I wrote to him after I auditioned for Lucius.”
“Did you get anything back?”
Gerhig was a notorious recluse after the disastrous ending to his career.
“He met me for lunch at a diner in West Covina.”
Tristan still couldn’t see Sophie, but the air grew thick, like her attention was laser-focused on him.
“He told me he was so glad that someone had done right by Morganna. Those were his exact words—that you’d taken his work and done what he hadn’t been able to.”
Sophie took a slow, deep breath.
“That means a lot,” she replied. “Thanks.” She meant it, too.
Tristan felt something lock into place inside.
And there was no voice telling him to stop or go forward.
Just himself, alone and free at the same time, somehow.
So he decided, when Sophie was in the doorway telling him goodnight, that it was all him, nothing else, not the voice or Gabriella or anybody else, who decided to kiss Sophie’s mouth again.
And it was all him that felt another shocking jolt straight through his body, wondering if maybe he should follow her down the hallway, catch her wrist and murmur into her ear that she ought to stay, spend the night with him, the lights could wait, the film could wait, the whole world could wait.
Chapter Nine
“So if I’m getting you right,” said Ash, her voice filtering through the headphones connected to Sophie’s phone in a way that made Tristan’s trailer seem strangely huge, “You’re dating, but not dating-dating.”
Sophie shrugged and made a face that said That about sums it up.
“Huh,
” Ash replied. It was quick and brash, her shorthand way of letting Sophie know it wasn’t a situation she herself would tolerate, let alone willingly live in for a few months. That was the biggest difference between the two friends—Sophie was willing, for the most part, to try something for the sake of a story, while Ashley had had her life mapped out from the moment she could write in a planner. The blonde’s eyes started to drift toward the upper right corner of Sophie’s phone, distracted by something off-camera before she suddenly hollered so loudly that Sophie yelped. “WILKERSON, ANOTHER LAP!”
“Are you at practice?!” Sophie quickly hit the volume down button on her earbud cord.
“Yeah,” said Ash, not looking into the camera. “Didn’t I tell you that?”
“No.” Her friend leaned out of frame, and Sophie could see polished wooden beams and flags commemorating the team’s championships. Ash sat up again. “I guess your head was in the way of your awards.”
Ash shrugged.
“So how did the date at his apartment end?” Her best friend had a way of asking questions that other women probably did, but briskly, and entirely without the ooh-la-la suggestiveness that always burned Sophie’s nerves whenever someone did it on TV or in a movie. Ash was upfront, straight to the point, and somehow it made these kinds of conversations easier.
“The lights went out, we sat and talked for a while, and… I went home.”
The blonde tilted her head down to her phone’s camera and stopped tracking her players’ movements across the gym floor to frown at Sophie.
“You went home,” Ashley repeated. “A grown man who you are dating—”
“Fake dating,” said Sophie automatically.
“—who has won awards for his body parts invites you over to his apartment, where he lives and sleeps, and the power goes off, and you went home.”
“Yes?”
Ash gave a flat look right into the camera.
