It never ends.
The list of things that needs to be done marches through my head, an infinite line of tasks and meetings as we prepare to shoot on location. This drama with Camille today? Last damn thing I needed. Everything I thought would happen if I got involved with Neevah is happening exactly as I predicted.
And yet . . .
Glancing over at her, curled up and asleep in my passenger seat on the way to her place, I don’t regret it. I don’t regret kissing her on Thanksgiving. I don’t regret our time away in Santa Barbara. I don’t regret starting a relationship with her, because it’s like nothing I’ve had before. I hate the chaos Camille’s interview could potentially create, but Neevah is the best thing to happen to me in a long time. Today, when faced with the consequences of our actions, I had to admit that to myself. In spite of all the trouble this could cause, I can’t regret her.
Of course, my phone has been ringing nonstop. Neevah nodded off almost immediately and has been that way for the forty-minute drive to her rental in Studio City. It’s not far from the lot, but this is LA, so everywhere you go becomes a hump. I have one more call to make before I can rest for an hour or so. Maybe we can have a quick meal before I go home and prepare for tomorrow.
I use one earphone to make this last call so the speakerphone won’t disturb Neevah’s sleep.
“Canon, hey,” Verity answers on the first ring. “I wasn’t sure if our call was still on.”
“Why wouldn’t it be? I told you I’d call to talk through the script revisions. They’re minor, but I want to give the cast plenty of time to learn the new lines before we reach those scenes.”
“Yeah, but you’ve had quite the eventful day, breaking the internet and whatnot,” Verity says, her voice curious and cautious.
“I didn’t break the internet. Camille did, and every day for the last three months has been eventful,” I answer stiffly. “We’re shooting one of the biggest biopics of the last decade, so things get busy. You got a point?”
“Don’t get defensive with me, Canon. You know how much I like and respect Neevah. The interview was everywhere today, and I’m sure that was disruptive. Not trying to be all up in your shit. Just trying to be sensitive.”
“I don’t need you to be sensitive. I need those revisions, like, yesterday.”
“Why you gotta be a dick?” A bit of laughter eases the bite of her words.
“Occupational hazard,” I say, allowing myself to relax the smallest bit.
“Can I just say I’m happy for you?”
I don’t discuss my personal life freely. I haven’t known Verity long and I don’t know her as well as I do Jill or Kenneth or Evan, who have worked with me for years. Verity, though, is good people. I’m not sure what went down with her and Monk, but for some reason, I think I can trust her.
“Thank you.”
“She’s amazing.”
“I’m aware,” I say, an unstoppable grin taking over my mouth.
“Much too good for you.”
“Also, very aware of that fact and agreed. Now can we please talk through these line edits so I can check you off my list and maybe have half an hour to eat uninterrupted with my girlfriend?”
The word lands between us like a rock for a moment before it starts to float. It’s the first time I’ve called Neevah that even to myself, much less aloud to someone I work with. I expect it to feel like a shirt that’s one size too small—tight, restrictive, choking at the collar. Instead, it’s the opposite. It feels the way she feels—tailor-made for me.
“Girlfriend, huh?” Verity chuckles. “Alright. I see you, Canon. All booed up.”
“The edits,” I remind her. “We need to tweak that dialogue with Cal and Dessi in France after she receives Tilda’s letter.”
That refocuses her, and we talk through how she might approach retooling some of that scene. After promising to send revisions before morning, she disconnects. Perfect timing because I pull up to Neevah’s place. She hasn’t stirred the whole drive home, and without the heavy makeup, the shadows under her eyes are much more evident. She’s wearing one of the head wraps she often puts on when she sheds Dessi’s wig for the day. The tempting fullness of her lips is unpainted, unadorned. Her arms are folded at her waist. Is that rash she had in Santa Barbara worse?
“Why are you frowning at me?” she asks, her voice drowsy.
I glance from her arm to her bleary-eyed expression. “Your arm. The rash seems to be getting worse.”
“Oh.” She rubs the discolorations, looking down and clearing her throat. “Yeah, we should get the results of all the tests they ran any day now. I think it’ll be fine.”
She reaches for the door handle. “I’m exhausted and starving. You coming in or you need to go?”
“I have some stuff to sort through before we leave tomorrow, and I still have to pack.”
“Okay.” Her smile looks a little forced, and like most of the emotions that cross her face, I can easily read the disappointment. “I understand. I’ll see you in Santa Barbara then.”
When she gets out, so do I, alarming the car and following her to the front door.
“Oh.” She turns to face me, her gaze flitting from me to my car parked on the street. “I thought you had things to do.”
“I do, but a man’s gotta eat.”
She grins and retrieves her keys, opening the front door. “Well I hope you don’t expect me to cook. I’m ordering takeout and calling it a night.”
“Sounds great, but let the record show I did cook for you.”
“Not after a twelve-hour workday you didn’t.”
The house is dark and quiet, and as soon as the door closes behind us, the stress drains from my shoulders. She walks ahead, but I catch her from behind by her waist, pulling her into me.
“Hi,” I say, dusting kisses along the curve of her neck.
She tilts her head, offering me more of her satiny skin like a cat who wants to be stroked. “Hi.”
“Today was crazy.” I turn her to face me, trying to read her expression in the half-dark. “You okay?”
“I am if you are.”
“What’s that mean?”
“At first, with everyone looking at me and all the phones going off and . . . it kind of caught me off-guard.”
“And then?”
“Well, with some time to think about it,” she says, grinning, “and to nap on it, I feel the way I did before. Let ’em talk. Let them believe what they want to believe. We will show them. Dessi Blue is brilliant, Canon. I dare anyone not to be moved by this story. It’s music and art and history. It’s restorative. Redemptive. And I’m proud to be a part of it.”
She reaches up to skim her thumb across my bottom lip and then the top one, tracing the bow and trailing over my beard. “And I’m proud to be with you. How could I be ashamed of this? Of us? I’m not.”
“I’m not,” I echo back to her. She put into words what I felt when I was talking to Verity. The way forward is open. “I told Verity you were my girlfriend.”
Her eyes widen and her mouth pops open, shock projected onto her face. “You what?”
“I think it’s kind of anti-climactic after Camille’s stunt.”
“But you haven’t even asked me.”
Well, ain’t this some shit? I don’t call a woman my girlfriend for . . . years, and when I do, she responds like this?
“So . . . you don’t want to be my girlfriend?”
“Oh my God! You should see your face.” She points at me and laughs. “Of course, I want to be your girlfriend. What do you think I am? Crazy?”
She snatches the phone from my hand, waggling it in the air. “And in my boyfriend’s best interest, I’m taking this. No work for a few minutes.”
I try to grab the phone, try to grab her, but she dances out of reach, running up the hall. I’m so damn tired, but do I literally run after her like a horny teenager?
Yes. Yes, I do.
She dashes into one of the bedrooms and I follow her in. She locks the door as soon as it’s closed.
“You fell for that?” She grins, plucking at the buttons running down the front of her sundress. “Now I have you.”
Our lovemaking has been restricted to Sundays for the last month. Having her during the week? No longer needing to keep this a secret?
I push the dress away from her shoulders and sigh at the delicious sight of her.
“Now you have me.”
