My grin slips, but doesn’t fall completely. “It was one of my mother’s favorites. She played it all the time.”
“My mom’s, too. My favorite Luther is ‘If This World Were Mine.’ Technically a duet, but…”
“I love that one, too.” I chuckle, leaning a little closer, catching the scent hidden behind her neck and ears. “My mom used to say, ‘Big Luther, skinny Luther. Jheri curl. Press and curl. I don’t care. I’ll take that man any way I can get him.’”
“I know that’s right. And then he’d bust that note. You know the one.”
We look at each other and in unison replicate Luther’s famous swelling run.
“Whoooooooooo,” we sing together, finishing with her giggling and me smiling wider than I have in weeks.
I no longer feel the need to find something to talk about because the things find us. She’s that kind of person. I’d like to think she’s this way—genuine and sweet and funny—because she’s with me, but I’ve watched her for weeks with the cast and crew. She’s like this with them all. The magic of Neevah is that she’s the same with everyone, but still manages to make it feel special for you.
She’s that way with Trey. I want to ask if she’s kissed him. If she’s fucked him. If he’s been to her house. I know exactly where Neevah and Takira are staying. As a producer, I have access to all that information, but she’s the only one whose housing I’ve checked or cared about.
“Speaking of your mother,” she says, biting her bottom lip, “I wanted to tell you how muchThe Magic Hourmeant to me. It’s my favorite work of yours.”
“A documentary I made on a nonexistent budget when I was twenty-one years old about my mom? Out of everything I’ve done over the years, that’s your favorite?”
“It is. I have a wall of inspirational sticky notes in my bedroom. Something she says in that documentary is up there.”
“Oh, yeah? What?”
“‘We are artists,’” she quotes softly, her eyes set on mine. “‘When there is no joy to be found, we have the power in our hands, the will of our souls, to make it.’”
I hear Mama saying it, looking into my camera and smiling from her wheelchair, the Nikon at repose in her lap. I see a hundred evenings on ancient piers, Mama brandishing the camera like a sword, defying the disease determined to diminish her. Her smile.
God, Mama’s smile.
Bright and brave and backlit by the sun. As much as my technique has improved, as large as my budgets have grown, capturing Mama’s story with a cheap video camera and no goal but to hear her shout—that remains the best thing I’ve ever done. Probably will ever do, because it was for her. Not Mama’s dying wish, but herlivingone.
“You know,” I say after a few seconds, “I think it’s my favorite, too.”
“What must that be like?” she whispers, her gold-flecked brown eyes dark and deep and curious. “To be your favorite?”
This balcony is not big enough for all the unsaid words collecting between us. The desire, unspoken, hangs heavy all around. The air turns viscous, and her breaths shorten, shallow, quicken.
“Neevah!”
Someone calling her name breaks the tension long enough for me to draw a calming breath and remind myself this isn’t a good idea.
“Neevah,” Trey repeats, stepping out onto the balcony with us. “I was looking for you. Hey, Canon. I didn’t know you were out here, too.” He glances between us, speculation entering his eyes. “Am I… interrupting?”
Damn. That’s the last thing I need—Disney dude starting rumors.
“Not at all.” I grab my glass from the ledge and nod to them both. “I was just about to go. Early call in the morning.”
Neevah’s stare burns a hole in my back as I leave them alone on the balcony, but I don’t acknowledge her or the moment Trey just shattered.
I don’t look back because I can’t.
Not yet.
TWENTY-FIVE
Canon
The Disney dude is good.
