Miles nods, and we start off on the trail.
“This is one of my favorite places.”
The trees blow in the slight wind. And for a few moments, we are silent, listening to the lapping water of the loch, the rustle of the leaves, and our bike chains turning.
“How’s the writing?” Miles asks.
The morning was extremely productive, even with my lack of time. I wrote over twelve-hundred words in the blink of an eye, fueled by coffee and our near kiss the night before. Then, when I went back to it, I got another thousand or so. I smile. “Good.”
“What’s your story about?”
I sigh. What is my story about? Love, loss, fear.
You.
But instead of saying any of that, I say, “Oh, just you know, murdery stuff.”
Miles laughs, and it booms against the trees and disappears into the mist hanging over the water.
I swiftly change the subject, not wanting to lie to him anymore. “How’s the character development going?”
“Good. I think. I thought I had a pretty solid handle on it, but now that more of the cast is here, I’m not as confident anymore.”
I’m not quite sure what he means, and it must be written all over my face, because he goes on.
“It won’t just be about what I think the character is. It’s going to be affected by all of our relationships and how we play with or against each other in the scene.” He sighs. “I don’t know if I’m ready for that, but it’s happening so… not a lot I can do. Got to jump in headfirst. Truth be told, the whole being in front of the camera thing is my least favorite part.”
“Isn’t that the main part of your job?”
Miles laughs again. “Yep.”
I nod. “What’s with you and that Ty guy?”
Miles looks surprised. “Is it that obvious we have beef?”
“You have beef?” I have no idea what he’s talking about. Beef? “Like for supper?”
Miles laughs. “Sorry. It means we have history. Not a super pleasant one.”
“Oh, what a funny saying.”
Miles laughs. “You’re one to talk. While I was traveling, someone said to me,"A pretty face suits the dish-cloot.” He says it in an honestly great Scottish accent—better than yesterday’s, even. “I still don’t know what that means.”
I laugh. “That’s a classic.”
“What’s it mean?”
I look up at the clouds, which are getting darker by the minute, searching for how to explain. “It basically means that if you’re attractive, it doesn’t matter what you’re wearing.”
“So they were kind of insulting my fashion choices.” He laughs. “But I get it, I think. Like Marilyn Monroe in a potato sack.”
“Exactly.”
It was smooth, but Miles essentially changed the subject from Ty Marshall. It doesn’t seem like he wants to talk about it, so I don’t bring it up again. The sound of the water’s gotten louder. I veer off the trail and to my favorite spot. A little clearing with a massive willow tree, its leaves a mixture of deep yellow and some green stragglers that can’t quite let go of summer.
Miles smiles. “This is just like in your Instagram photo.”
He’s looked at my Instagram? I know exactly what photo he means. I usually don’t post photos of myself, or at least of my face anyway, but even I could see I looked bonnie in that one. I’m shocked Miles has seen it.
