“I need you to go grab that C up top, Neevah.”
I swear. If Monk tells me to go “grab” one more damn note. We’ve been rehearsing for hours, and he more than lives up to his reputation as a perfectionist.
“Okay,” I say, shifting beside him on the piano bench in the hotel ballroom. Galaxy Studios bought a block of rooms for the cast and crew’s accommodations, and has also blocked off portions of the hotel for rehearsals and shooting.
“Walk Away,” the tune Monk wrote for the French Riviera scene, will be on repeat in my head long after we’re done. The opening strains float from the piano as we start the song again. It’s lush and heartbreaking and haunting. A song about a love betrayed, a lover abandoned. I close my eyes, blocking out the empty ballroom and Monk on the piano and every other distraction. I fall into the heartbreak of the lyrics—crack my heart open to let Dessi’s pain over losing Tilda flood in.
When I first started this movie, Dessi was some distant figure trapped in the pages of the past. She was history, but now I feel her present with me every day. I thought she was here to serve me, a means to the end of my big break. Now, I realize I’m here to serve her—to make sure a voice this rich and true, swallowed by the years and by injustice, is finally heard.
The closing notes hang in the air before evaporating into silence. I almost can’t bear to open my eyes, I’m so lost in the feeling this song perfectly conveys. I wipe the tears from my cheeks and force myself to look around, surprised to see several cast and crew members now gathered around the piano, some of them with wet cheeks and shiny eyes, too. Some of them snap their appreciation, some clap approvingly, and others offer smiles. I let my gaze lovingly drift over their faces. In only a few months, you can become pretty tight, and we have.
After the initial shock of Camille’s interview, no one has said anything snide to me or made me feel weird about my relationship with Canon. We’ve only been on location two days, and I’ve barely seen him, so there hasn’t been much opportunity for awkwardness, but I can already tell most of them are fine with it. A few of them even teased me, asking how I tamed the beast.
“Now that’s a song,” Trey says, leaning his elbows on the top of the piano. “You wrote that specifically for the movie, Monk?”
“I did.” Monk’s fingers skate across the keys in a brighter-sounding flourish. “I used the script to write some of the original songs. I won’t score the film until after I see the final cut.”
“It’s a fantastic script,” Livvie says.
“Thank you.” That comes from the ballroom entrance where Verity stands, watching us all, but her eyes invariably returning to Monk. His eyes always invariably return to her.
“You know,” Monk says, “there was a song that was perfect for that scene when Dessi realizes Tilda was unfaithful. That she cheated and couldn’t be trusted.”
He looks directly at Verity, his fingers coaxing a few haunting notes from the instrument.
“It’s called ‘Don’t Explain,’” he continues, eyes still locked with Verity’s. “Billie Holiday wrote it when she discovered her husband’s infidelity. When she found out he wasn’t who she thought he was. Or maybe he was exactly who she thought he was, and she had lied to herself. Either way, he was a cheat.”
I glance at Verity. Several of us do, the discomfort filling the room the longer they stare each other down. Her lips tighten and her eyes slit with anger behind black-rimmed reading glasses.
“That would have been musically anachronistic, though, since this scene took place in 1939 and she didn’t write the song until 1946.” Monk presses his fingers into a dark extended note and then slams the piano lid down. “So too late.”
His harsh words seem to break a spell, and the people around me start laughing and talking, most of them about how long the day of rehearsal has been and how hungry they are. I concur, except I’ve been feeling a little nauseous. Even if I were hungry, I probably wouldn’t eat much. This sick feeling has persisted. Probably just nerves, but I’ve pushed it aside to get through today. We shoot this tomorrow, and I don’t want to be the reason things slow down.
I can’t be.
“I came to tell you guys dinner is ready and down on the beach tonight,” Verity says, looking pointedly away from Monk. “They’re doing a bonfire for us.”
“Oooh, fun,” Livvie says, gathering her bag and script, which we all seem to carry with all the new lines we’ve been getting.
“You sound amazing, Neevah,” Monk says, standing from the piano and walking with me toward the ballroom exit.
“Gosh, it feels like it took all day to get it right.”
“You weren’t that far off anyway. I’m just a demanding dude who’s hard to satisfy.”
“Between you and Canon, I don’t know how any of us survive.”
“So, you and our esteemed director, huh?” Monk asks, the smile he slants down to me teasing and kind.
My cheeks burn, but I don’t look away. “Guess everyone knows now.”
“I mean, I already knew.”
“He told you?”
“No way. We don’t sit around talking about that kind of shit.” He laughs and takes my elbow as we negotiate a steep set of steps leading down to the beach where the cast and crew have already started forming a line at an outdoor buffet. “I knew because he’s never been like this before about anyone else.”
“Thanks, Monk.” I smile gratefully, but shut the conversation down as we approach the watching eyes and listening ears of the cast and crew. They may be fine with Canon and me, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t rabidly curious. And I have no intention of giving them any food for thought.
“I see Takira over there,” I tell him. “Thanks again for today. The song sounds a hundred times better.”
“You were already good, but you sound even better.”
I’m still glowing with the pleasure of that when I reach Takira. She and I have separate rooms, which I didn’t expect. She, like most of the crew, has a room in the hotel. I, along with other “above the line” cast and crew, am staying in one of the luxurious cottages along the shoreline. Not a bad view to wake up to. The only thing that would make it better is waking up with Canon. He, Jill, and Kenneth have worked tirelessly with the production team these first two days to prepare the sets and the equipment, plan the shots, review the line edits, confirm the costumes—everything to ensure things on location go as efficiently as possible. I’ve barely seen him, much less slept with him. He did text from a production meeting last night that went on well after midnight. He knew I had an early start and said we’d see each other today.
But alas . . .
“How’s it been going for you guys?” I ask Takira as we load up our plates. I’m pleased to see lots of fish, leafy greens, and fruit.
“All these damn extras! They may be in the background most of the time, but they all need costumes, hair and makeup.”
Takira doesn’t just do my hair and makeup, but helps wherever she is needed.
“How was your day?” She looks at me searchingly. “You feeling okay?”
“Good.” I don’t mention the nausea, which even now stirs at the smell of the mahi mahi on my plate. I’m sure it’s just stress and working too hard. “Monk’s song is great, and we spent most of the day getting it just right for tomorrow’s shoot.”
“Any word from the doc on your blood tests yet?”
“Nope. They sent them off to the lab, and should have them back maybe tomorrow.”
We sit at one of the long tables dotted along the shore, and soon, with the evening breeze, the setting sun, and the great conversation, I’ve forgotten the unsettled feeling in my stomach and am having a great time.
“Hey,” Canon says an hour or so into dinner, standing beside my table. He’s holding a plate loaded with chicken and salad. “Mind if I squeeze in?”
The girl beside me, one of the grips, hastily scoots over to make room for Canon. I feel all eyes on us, but I don’t give a damn. I can’t suppress the grin that widens when he settles in at my side. It’s quiet around us for a few seconds, like everyone’s not sure if they should carry on with the boss at the table. One by one, the crew resume their conversations, and Canon shoots me a wink and a grin.
“How was your day?” I ask when there’s a break for us to talk, keeping my voice low.
“Long. Getting ready to start shooting, but Verity is also tweaking the London scene in the tube during The Blitz.”
“I’m licking my chops for that scene. It’s already fantastic. Can’t wait to see how she makes it even better.”
“If anyone can, it’s Verity. And how was your day?”
“Long.” I laugh. “Monk is as bad as you are.”
“I try to tell people, but they don’t believe me. He fools them with the smile.”
“Whereas you don’t bother with a smile?”
He flashes an exaggerated caricature of a grin, which looks so odd on him, I snort.
“Was that a snuckle?” he asks, taking a bite of his chicken.
I lean my shoulder into his, laughing. “I can’t believe you remember that. I was so nervous around you that night.”
“And now?” he asks, his voice husky, his eyes smoldering. “Do I still make you nervous?”
I don’t answer, just shake my head. Someone across the table asks him a question, and Takira pulls me into a debate about some love at first sight or arranged marriage reality show. Canon and I go our separate ways conversationally, both being drawn in different directions, but he anchors us by holding my hand under the table, and it’s so sweet it makes my heart ache.
He calls me his girlfriend.
He seeks me out in front of everyone.
He holds my hand.
I’m not starstruck by Canon anymore. That’s not where this surreal feeling comes from. You don’t really know a person when you’re starstruck. You’re awed by the idea of them and your idea of them is filtered through a public lens. What has me tripping is that Canon is so much more, so much better in private, when we’re alone. And he’s so guarded that most of the people at this table are still a little in awe of his talent and his reputation. Starstruck.
Me? I’ve kissed the star. I’ve felt its burn and held it close.
And when Canon squeezes my hand under the table, stealing a look that is private even at a dinner for a hundred people, I feel like, as improbable as it seems, this star belongs to me.
When they light the bonfire, everyone gathers around, singing songs and getting a little drunk.
“You wanna go for a walk?” Canon asks.
I nod, gripping his hand as he leads us away from the large circle of people rimming the fire.
“This brings back memories,” Canon says, taking off his shoes and holding them in the hand not holding mine.
I slip off my shoes and do the same. “You mean of New Year’s?”
“Yeah. That was such a great time.” He slides me a hot, teasing glance. “Though we barely left the house. We only walked on the beach once.”
“And got caught! Canon, is that you?” I imitate Sylvia Miller’s fake surprised tone.
“We can laugh about it now, but that shit pisses me off.” The smile fades from his face, and in the moonlight, his expression hardens. “Camille didn’t just come after me. She wanted to sabotage you. Not cool.”
I step closer and he slips an arm around my waist. For minutes, neither of us speak. I don’t know if Canon is lost in the myriad things he must have to do before we start shooting tomorrow, but I’m not. My mind is clear of everything but him and this moment with the stars as our chaperones. When he finally speaks, his words surprise me.
“Mama loved photographing at night, too.” He stares up at the sky. “She thought the darkness, the stars, were almost as beautiful as the sunset. You know what an aspect ratio is, I assume. The ratio of an image’s width to its height. Well, she used to look up at the sky and say aspect ratio infinity: immeasurable.”
“I wish I could have met her,” I whisper, squeezing his hand.
“She would have loved you.”
And all of a sudden the question, the one I’ve promised myself I will not ask, enters my head even though I’ve banned it from my thoughts.
And could you love me?
It’s still so early, too early for me to put much stock in whatever he would say.
But if I’m honest with myself about what I feel for him . . . I can’t be. Not yet. My feelings are like a priceless carpet, unrolled little by little until it fills the room. And we are really just getting started.
I thought our walk was as aimless as our conversation, which meandered from our childhoods, to our heroes, to the scenes we’ll shoot tomorrow, but there was some direction. He was guiding and I didn’t even notice until we arrive at my cottage door.
He looks down at me under the light of the small porch.
“Come inside,” I whisper, glancing around, searching for prying eyes.
“I will, but only to kiss you because these folks don’t get that for free.”
We laugh and I fumble to get the door open. As soon as we’re inside, I’m in his arms. Our mouths fuse with immediate passion, lust that has lain low and waited to strike. Walking me back the few steps to my bedroom, he doesn’t bother turning on the light, and gives me a gentle push to the bed. He feathers kisses over my cheeks, down my neck, lingering at my breasts to pull my dress away so he can suck hard, worshiping each nipple with lips and teeth for long moments. My legs spread beneath him, and I grind up against the steel of his cock. His fingers find me, stroking along the seam of my pussy, filling the aching, empty, waiting void with three fingers and then four and it’s still not as much as he would be. I cannot get his belt off, his jeans undone fast enough.
“Neev,” he whispers into my neck. “Damn, I missed you.”
It’s only been three days. Three days multiplied by interminable.
“Fuck me, Canon,” I beg, sliding my own panties down my legs as far as I can get them, down to my knees.
“I don’t have a condom.”
“I took my insurance physical for the movie.” I blink up at him, panting and starved. “I’m clean and on the pill. I haven’t been with anyone but you since then.”
“Same.” He pulls back a little, his eyes burning and intent. “Are you saying we can—”
“Yeah.” I flip onto all fours on my bed, panties still ringing my knees, and pull up my sundress, offering him my bare ass.
“Damn,” he mutters, positioning himself behind me, the jangle of his buckle, the susurrus of the ocean the only sounds in the room. “I’ve never done this before.”
“What?” I laugh and pull one cheek, spreading myself for him. “Now I know for a fact you’ve hit it from the back.”
His answering chuckle is husky, but there’s a note of . . . something. I look over my shoulder. “What’s wrong? You don’t want to?”
“It’s the first time I’ve ever done this raw, with nothing. You’re the only one.”
It strikes me that Canon won at Sundance when he was twenty-one years old. He’s been swimming in the shark-infested waters of entertainment nearly half his life. A man like that would have had to, by necessity, approach every encounter, sexual or romantic, as a potential snare. As a possible trap, or at the very least, as an ill-motivated act. He’d have to vet a woman before even considering this kind of vulnerability. The trust this must require of him.
I sit up and face him, letting my dress fall back around my hips and legs. I cup one side of his face. “If you’re not comfortable, we can—”
He silences me with a kiss—a craving, intense thing that sends subcutaneous shivers burrowing beneath my skin to skitter over my bones. A tender thing that disarms all my anxieties, my worries. He breaks our kiss long enough to pull the dress over my head and toss it aside. We tug at his clothes until they fall in a heap by the bed, and there’s nothing between us. We’re skin to skin. Our heartbeats strain for each other through our chests. My hands travel over him in claiming sweeps. He is suede and silk and leather, smooth and hard and rough, a decadence of textures between my sheets.
Staring into my eyes and tangling our fingers on the bed beside my head, he enters me on one deep thrust. The slick, hot entry, with nothing separating us, is startlingly good. He clutches my thigh, pulling it up and sinking deeper, his eyes blazing into mine. A harmony of gasps and sighs are accompanied by the pounding rhythm that thumps the headboard against the wall. A voracious hunger builds between us, and we grip, our hands tight on each other like we might slip away, might lose this if we don’t cling. It’s like riding a rocket, the propulsive force of it beyond our control, and its destination a place our minds can’t even conceive. When I unspool inside, I turn my face into the pillow, bury my scream of release. When my body jerks beneath him, it triggers an answering response, a matching release. This is the moment I treasure most, when he comes apart in my arms. When all the rigid discipline fails him in the face of our passion, and he drops his head to the curve of my neck, his breaths coming harshly, holding onto me like we are indeed in outer space and I’m the only solid thing in his universe.
Zero gravity.
Celestial. Astral.
Infinity: immeasurable.
