“But if I kiss you,” she says, “I won’t get that same confirmation.”
I lean in and run my nose along her cheekbone, inhaling. “Oh, but you’re wrong about that, my sweet,” I say. “Your kiss—freely given to a zompire—will drive him with such desire that he’ll ravish you on the spot.”
She giggles. “Ravish?”
I nod slowly and pull away to meet her eye. “He’ll move right for your throat, teasing at first. A playful nibble here, a gentle graze there. But soon he’ll go deeper. You’ll feel the blood. Andthiswill most definitely be crimson, my love, because it shall be your own.”
Brinley gasps, then smacks my arm. “Stop it.”
“It’s true,” I say. “I mean,ifNick is a zompire.” On day one, I told Brinley that my script says what Nick really is, but I fudged that a little; it doesn’t. I’m just as clueless as she is. There’s a sidenote on my script that says I’ll find out just before we’re about to perform the final scene. From there, I’ll have to act it out accordingly, which is when Brinley, and perhaps all the viewers at home, will find out too.
At least Brinley seems less irritated than she did a moment ago, which is good, because I’m ready to get out of this room and get some food. With that thought, I lift my wrist to check my watch.
“Looks like we have almost an hour left,” I say. “Which scene would you like to work on?”
Brinley’s face turns thoughtful as her gaze settles on my wrist. She scoffs. “Really?”she says with a head shake. “You have to strut around flaunting that thing?”
“What?” I say, giving the watch a glance.
She shrugs. “It’s such abig money…wealthy guything to do, that’s all.”
And there it is. I felt a zinger coming, didn’t I? I could tell she had a bone to pick. But who would have guessedthisis the one she’d go for?
“Big money?” I repeat, bristling at the mere sound. “Wealthy guy, huh? You do realize thatyou’reconsidered wealthy to roughly ninety percent of the world’s population, don’t you?”
She rolls her eyes. “You know what I mean. Most of us just use our phones to tell time. But there are always those people who strut around with their fancy watches and make a point to lift their wrist and tell everyone what time it is.Oh, this old thing? Yeah, it’s a Rolex, all right. Daytona, line, yeah. Spent a cool million on it. No biggie.”
I can barely believe my ears right now. Is she really putting me in that category? It’s the exact way she used to talk about her father. And I amnothinglike the man.
Adrenaline rushes through me. I went from cucumber cool to level-eight pissed in half-a-second flat.
“That’s the second time you’ve accused me of strutting. I don’tstrut.And second, why do you have to do this?” I shoot to a stand and square a pleading look at her. “It’s like, you want to pretend there’s some…ocean-wide barrier between us when there’s not. And when you say things like…” I put up finger quotes. “Big moneyit actually comes off self-righteous.”
Brinley’s eyes go wide. “Self-righteous? Maybe I should have just said the rich and famous.”
“Ah, there you go. The whole us-against-them mentality. I hate that.”
“That mentality exists because it’sreal.I’m sorry you’ve never had to be the brunt of it.”
“What do you mean? It goes both ways, love. I’m taking the brunt of it right now.And, I might add, I took the brunt of it two years ago when you decided totake a break.”I use finger quotes for that one too because I’m on a roll and it’s all piecing together in a way that’s never been so clear. I’m paying for her jerk-of-a-father’s crime.
Wait a minute…
My stomach drops as I realize what just happened—the bubble…that ever-elusive orb floating beyond my reach—just popped. Exploded is more like it.
“You didn’t want a break,” I accuse. “You were looking for an excuse. Youwantedto leave because you were afraid that I would leave you, but you were wrong.”
“If anyone’s wrong right now, it’s you, Dawson.” There’s such sincerity in Brinley’s eyes that I almost waver. Her cheeks are blotchy and red. She pulls her gaze away from me, but not before I spot tears glistening in her eyes.
With an angry glare at the floor, Brinley climbs to her feet like she’s about to leave, but I take a step closer; I don’t want her to go before I’ve said what I need to say.
“I don’t think Iamwrong,” I say. “I think I’m spot on and that you just don’t know it yet.”
She grimaces. “Oh, really? These are my actions we’re talking about, yet somehowyouknow the reason behind them, andIdon’t?”
“Yes. People don’t always know why they do the things they do. Or maybe they do know but they don’t want to admit it, so they make up other reasons.”
Brinley’s nostrils flare. She shakes her head, folds her arms, and plants her feet firmly in place. “Stop deflecting.”
