But I did. I was scared and out of control, and I pushed him away with both hands.Then I did nothing but act like a bitch afterward, because I was hurt that he let me.
I close my eyes against the harsh glare of the sun and practice the calming breathing techniques my therapist taught me. Finally, they have us ready.Troy calls out action, and I am Hemlock, bleeding out on the sand, eyes wide into the open sky.
Blake makes a strangled sound, falls to his knees beside me. “Sabrina,” he gasps, calling Hemlock by her real name. He looks in shock and horror at my wounds.
I channel Hemlock’s fear, her rage. I grit my teeth and try to move, imagining the pain ripping through me, forcing a sob through my lips.
“No, don’t—” he starts, putting his hand behind my head, cradling me. “Don’t move.”Tears well up in his eyes.
Tears.
Outside of his movies, I’ve never seen Blake cry. Not when we’d fight; not even when he said he wanted a divorce.
I was the one crying then. Always me.
I yell in angry Hemlock pain, seething that she should be so weak. “Leave me,” I hiss. “Go. Get back to your world before he destroys it.”
He holds me and chokes back a sob. “No,” he says, shaking his head. “No. I can’t leave you. Not like this—not ever.” He blinks and looks away, and I can see the moment when Farpoint makes the crucial third-act decision. He reaches into his vest to pull out the Astran Orb, the thing we’ve spent the movie thus far pursuing, the key to him returning to his home world. It’s this glowing blue chunk of what looks like a clump of Pop Rocks and maybe actually is. After our kiss, he’s going to smash the “orb” and use the magic to save my life, which will theoretically strand him here forever.
“Don’t be an idiot,” I say, trying to shake my head, knowing by his expression what he means to do. Hemlock spends much of the movie calling him an idiot.
“Too late for that,” he says, a tremulous smile forming through the tears, and my heart skips several beats at that smile. “I already fell in love with you.”
I can’t breathe, and it’s not because of my incredible acting skills. It’s Blake, and his face is so close, and he’s telling me he’s in love with me, and his eyes are my favorite shade, pale green like an antique glass bottle.
And I’m the idiot, I know it, but as he leans in to kiss me, his free arm outstretched to break the orb, I let myself believe that Blake feels the same thing I do.That he always did and always will.
His lips meet mine. Gently, softly, because I’m dying.
I don’t feel like I’m dying. I feel like I’m waking up for the first time in six years. Heat spreads through me, memories washing through me in this torrential downpour. My body hungers for him, for us, for the way we used to be.
His gentle kisses quickly begin to match my need, our tongues finding each other, sunlight sparking in my vision even though my eyes are closed. My arms draw him against me, and there’s a soft thump as he drops the orb, unbroken, into the sand, his hands in my hair. It’s like all those years of hurt and anger and sorrow are gone, and it’s just us again. It’s Kim and Blake and we’re together, our lips moving, our hands moving, makeup smearing all over each other.
Somewhere in the background, I hear someone saying, “Kim, you’re dying. Guys, not that much.”
But Blake’s on top of me, and my legs wrap tight around him, and I can feel him hard against me, he wants me again, and my whole body is on fire, and the rest of the world doesn’t exist—
“Cut!”Troy yells, and I realize it’s not the first time he’s said it. Just the loudest.
Blake seems to actually hearTroy at the same time I do. He pulls back, his eyes wide, his breathing as ragged as mine.
Oh yeah, the rest of the world exists. And is watching us, gaping, filming us with actual goddamn movie cameras that Iknewwere running because I’m in a goddamnmovieand not with Blake in real life, no matter how turned on he seemed to also be—
He rolls off me, his face pink. “Kim,” he says, barely above a whisper.
I stare at those green eyes, shame burning through me.There’s no way he—along with everyone else watching—doesn’t know the truth now, that I have never gotten over him. So much so that I’m apparently willing to turn this film into a porno the minute I get my hands on him.
I feel all the eyes on me, but it’s his that really matter.
Was any of that real for him?
I might have kissed him like I used to, but he kissed me right back, way more than the film called for. He wanted me, if only for that moment.
I don’t want to feel this tiny sliver of hope. I can’t let myself feel that hope, only to lose it again.
“I—I can’t do this,” I say, forcing myself back to my wobbly feet.This time there’s no dignified walk off set.
This time I run.
