Which was why, the first time he’d met Lilah, it had felt like some kind of cosmic plan—which would later feel more like acosmic prank. Like theIntangiblecreative team had reached into the depths of his subconscious and pulled her right out of his horny teenage fantasies.
The worst part was, her hair was just the cherry on top, so to speak. She didn’t have a bad angle—not to be taken for granted in their line of work. He should know. He’d logged more than enough hours spitefully studying her, trying his damndest to catch a glimpse of something weak or drooping or asymmetrical.
But unfortunately, no matter the perspective, she was all angular jawline, cut glass cheekbones, eyes and lips that were about 30percent bigger than they rightfully should’ve been. His Botticelli wet dream come to life, sent from hell to drive him crazy.
And, since she was a natural redhead, her skin was covered head to toe in a constellation of golden-brown freckles that were only visible up close. More than once, he’d attempted to count them all as she giggled and squirmed beneath him, always getting too distracted somewhere in the low double digits to finish. But that might as well have been a lifetime ago at this point.
That was the problem with fantasies. They were shallow, passive, one-sided. Easily controlled. They always crumbled under the revelation that the object of your desire was not, in fact, an object but a flawed, willful, three-dimensional human being. No fantasy could withstand what the two of them had been through: the years of grudges and ego clashes and betrayals, amplified by a demanding schedule that had them spending every waking minute together.
Lilah wasn’t his dream. She was just a person. A person who, most of the time, he couldn’t fucking stand—and it was no secret the feeling was mutual. For the most part, they’d become experts at ignoring each other whenever they were off camera.It was the only way to survive working in such close contact with a hostile ex.
Still, he’d never been able to shake his constant, involuntary awareness of her, like there was some Lilah-specific radar burrowed deep beneath his skin that couldn’t help but ping out a warning whenever she was in close proximity. Worse, it seemed like their time apart had only made it stronger: without even looking up, he immediately knew when she’d returned to the bullpen. But maybe he could just tell from the way the chatter around him suddenly dipped in volume, full-throated conversations turning to murmurs several long moments before she slid back into her seat beside him.
Walt stood up from his seat on Shane’s other side and cleared his throat, prompting the last stragglers to find their spots.
“Morning, everyone. I’m so thrilled to see all your gorgeous faces here to kick off season nine. The big finish.” The furrow in his brow and the hard set of his mouth made him look anything but thrilled. “First of all, I’d like to welcome back Lilah Hunter. For those of you who don’t know Lilah yet, she’s incredibly talented, hardworking, and professional, and we’re very lucky to have her back in theIntangiblefamily.”
Shane looked down at his script as a modest smattering of applause traveled around the room. He didn’t join in.
Walt had them all go around the table and briefly introduce themselves before kicking off the reading without much fanfare. Shane struggled to keep his focus, feeling uncharacteristically self-conscious.
He’d sat beside her at dozens of table reads, of course, but this one felt different. Before, even if they hadn’t gotten along, she’d still belonged there. Now, she felt like an interloper, sitting there in stiff, judgmental silence. He could practically feel herscrutinizing his every line reading, whether he’d gotten worse in the three years she’d been gone.
But when they reached her one and only line—the final line of the episode—it was obvious she hadn’t been paying as close attention as he’d assumed. She still appeared to be studying her script, but as the silence stretched, every eye in the room turning toward her, she was clearly zoned out, lost in her own world. When she looked up again, it was to meet his gaze with a scowl—though it only took a second for her to realize her mistake.
“Oh! Um. Sorry.” She fumbled with her script before looking over at Shane again, her eyes wide and limpid. “Wh-where am I? Who are you?”
Her transformation was so seamless that he’d almost believe she wasn’t flustered, if her cheeks and neck weren’t stained scarlet. She’d always blushed easily—her only tell. He used to relish his ability to trigger it: undeniable physical proof that she wasn’t as unflappable as she appeared on the surface.
As Walt took over again to wrap things up, Shane slid his glance back over to Lilah just in time to see a split-second flash of misery cross her expression before she composed herself again, the color draining from her face. He felt a stab of something undefined in the pit of his stomach at the sight of it. He wanted to blame it on scarfing that donut down too fast, but he knew that wasn’t all it was.
For the first time in years, he found himself questioning why he felt the urge to antagonize her. What he wanted from it, what he got out of it. She’d given him more than enough reasons to dislike her, but even the most recent one—her parting shot before she’d left, arguably the worst of all—was years behind them at this point. Besides, there was no doubt that he had the upper hand in this situation. Maybe it wouldn’t be the worstidea to extend an olive branch. Try to leave the past in the past, and move on like they should have long ago.
The room dissolved into murmurs and chatter as everyone stood, stretched, and gathered their things. He looked over at Lilah, who’d shoved her script in her bag and gotten up in one abrupt motion. He hurried to his feet, too.
Say something nice. Something supportive.
“Good job today,” he blurted out, unable to think of anything else.
He realized immediately that was the worst thing he could’ve said under the circumstances. She shot him a look that could’ve stripped the paint off a car.
“Yeah, you, too,” she said. “It’s comforting, really, always being able to predict exactly how you’re going to deliver a line. I’m sure half the audience would die of shock if you switched it up and did something different for once. Versatility is such an overrated quality in an actor, don’t you think?”
She swept out of the room before he could respond.
Well, he’d given it a shot. Now he could go on hating her with a clean conscience.
…
When he arrived back home, his younger brother, Dean, was watching TV in the living room. Dean had been his stand-in onIntangiblesince season two but was somehow still “crashing” in Shane’s “guest room” as if he’d just moved to L.A. the week before.
“How’d it go?” Dean asked, his eyes never leaving the TV.
As Shane’s stand-in, Dean wasn’t needed at the table read—he notoriously never read the scripts at all. But then, he didn’t have to. His job was to be roughly the same size and coloring as Shane and stand on Shane’s marks as they adjusted the lightingand cameras. No context required. Sometimes he’d even played the back of Shane’s head when he and Lilah were having a particularly bad day. It hadn’t happened that often, but it had happened more than Shane was proud of.
“Fine,” Shane said curtly, sitting on the couch and dropping his bag of Mexican takeout on the coffee table. “You just get in?”
“Yeah, about an hour ago. I was over at Colin’s.”
