And that scares the shit out of me.
“Zion?” she whispers. Is she awake or just mumbling in her sleep?
“Yeah?”
“Remember the first time we met?”
I pause, thinking hard. Not that I don’t remember. “I do.”
“You said…you were glad tofinallymeet me. Remember that? Before the red carpet boob fiasco and the…” She waves a hand in the dark, apparently not willing to use the word kiss. “What did that mean?”
For a handful of seconds, I’m trapped. Admitting truths to others isn’t easy when you can barely own up to them yourself. “Saw you on screen first. On my phone, actually.”
“Really?” She sounds stunned.
I remember it like yesterday. She was filtered, separated from me by time and space and actual distance. I couldn’t look away. Not for a breath, not a single goddamn heartbeat. Then, like now, she was mesmerizing.
What if?
What if the woman from that screen test were mine? Not just sex. And not just a fake marriage, set up for fake reasons, so I could… Fuck, I don’t know. I don’t know what I was doing. But now, I want it for real. The life we made people think we had.
“YourAngelsaudition. Remember that?”
“Of course. It was a big deal for me. You saw that?”
Her reading for the part of a young, Mexican-American mother who’d lost her child was gut-wrenching. Soul-destroying. She was beautiful, yeah, but that wasn’t what did it for me, ultimately. It was her self-containment. The other actresses poured everything out into the world, but Twyla kept it balled up, tight, not letting it out, like if a drop of emotion escaped, she’d lose the last of her sanity.
“I was hypnotized,” I admit, the words gruff and too honest.
Exactly how I felt in the hangar, with her gaze holding mine hostage, pure defiance making her features hard and hot, on edge, a volcano about to blow. Dangerous as hell and beyond compelling. And that wasn’t for a casting call. It was for me.
Even here, in the dark, without eye contact, half asleep, I feel the pull of her. I’m enthralled.
“You were so fucking good. Soreal.”
“I was acting.”
“Didn’t look like it. Or feel like it.”
“Thanks.” She sniffs. “You’re not so shabby yourself.” I hear the smile in her voice.
“Ach, I’m not in your league.”
“Shut up.” She shuffles back enough to smack my shoulder, tired and playful.
“Seriously. I’m decent. I just don’t have that deep thing. I’m a shallow actor. All surface.”
It’s not until she opens her mouth that I realize she’s truly pissed. “Bullshit. You’re as good as anyone. Jonny Devine was… Oh, Ilovedthat character.”
“It was good writing,” I concede. “The source material’s—”
“Oh my god, you’re kidding me, Zion.”
“What?”
“You think you’ve gotten where you are because of strong scripts and luck?”
“Partly. Mostly. Yeah.”
