“You know, Bertram,” Peter intones, “our next scene is an important one. Perhaps we should try again that technique I taught you the other day. Have you told Kim about it?” Seemingly without hearing Bertram’s muttered “Good god, not this,” Peter looks back at me.
“It’s a spectacular technique for bonding two actors before a scene,” Peter says. “For connecting on a deep level.”
“Really? Sounds fascinating.” I raise an eyebrow at Bertram, who slumps deeper in his chair.
“I’m always seeking new ways to improve my craft, as we all are, of course.To truly find the soul in the art . . .” Peter continues to drone on, but my attention is back to Blake, who, after giving the kid a high five, is walking toward us, smiling at me with that gorgeous, heart-melting grin of his.
His assistant, Cassie, hands him a bottle of chilled water—Bertram glowers, probably wondering why in the hellhisassistant isn’t here with water—and Blake walks up beside us just as Peter dives into describing the actual technique.
“ . . . And the true beauty of this technique—as I explained to Sir O’Dell here, when I was teaching it to him—is in its simplicity. It’s called the Hug Connection, and it is just that.Two professionals, spending two full minutes doing nothing more than hugging one another. Staring into each other’s eyes. Connecting.”
My eyes widen, imagining Peter and Bertram hugging and staring into each other’s eyes for two minutes. Bertram squirms miserably under Peter’s grasp.
“I gave him twenty seconds,” Bertram says flatly, turning his glare to me as if daring me to say anything.
“And even that made our scene tenfold better!” Peter squeezes both our shoulders, and I can see Blake trying to hold in a laugh. “Which is why we should do the full two minutes before our next scene. Really utilize the full capabilities—”
“Sorry, chap,” Bertram says, jumping up from his seat. “I’ve got my acupuncturist waiting for me. I’m terribly late. I will see you later, Kimberly, Blake.”
“Perfect, I’m headed that way myself,” Peter says, lighting up. He turns to Blake, conveniently not seeing how Bertram looks like he’s considering whether acupuncture needles can be used as murder weapons. “Blake, why don’t you tell Kim about how well that technique worked for us? And Bertram, I have more thoughts on how we can really find the spirit of the dialogue in the—Bertram, you scoundrel, wait up!”
Peter scrambles to catch up with Bertram, who is all but fleeing to his trailer. I look back at Blake, whose cheeks are red.That’s confirmation enough, but I’m still going to ask.
“Please,” I say, “tell me you and Peter Dryden had a ‘Hug Connection.’”
Blake groans. “Before our first scene together. He called it ‘profound.’ I called it the most awkward two minutes of my entire life.”
I laugh so hard that tears spring to my eyes.
Blake’s smile turns soft, incredulous. “Totally was worth it, though, just to hear you laugh like that. God, I’ve missed that.” He sits next to me and links his fingers through mine.
I smile back at him. “Yeah, me too.”
“So my publicist is breathing down my neck about getting interviews set up,” Blake says. “You have any thoughts on that?”
I chew on the inside of my cheek.Tara’s been doing the same to me, and I get it—other than our much re-tweeted reconciliation and our official press releases, we’ve both gone radio silent about the future of Watterpless, and the press is going nuts for more. I’ve been avoiding it as much as possible, mainly because I have no desire right now to deal with the public reaction any more than absolutely necessary. Like doing so will somehow pop our happy little bubble.
We’re Watterpless, and this is part of the price we pay for the careers we have. But thinking about all the interviews and endless questions, all the attention on what caused our divorce in the first place, which will mean more half-truths, because I’m not even remotely ready for the world to know about my diagnosis . . .
I can feel worries starting to churn in my mind like I’ve hit some mental spin cycle button. I look down at my latte, swirling the melting ice cubes around.
“I’ve already got an on set interview tomorrow withEntertainment Weekly,” I say. “It was scheduled weeks ago.”That reporter is probably shitting themselves at their good fortune—the opportunity to get the first real scoop since the news broke. “I was thinking of just keeping to the press release party line, you know? We’re dating again, we’re spending as much time with each other and our kids as we can—that sort of thing. Mostly keep the focus on the movie.”
Blake nods. “Troy will be happy with that.”
There’s something about the way he looks out at the crowd of extras being herded into place for the next scene, rather than looking at me, that makes me feel the need to ask, “But you aren’t?”
His eyes cut back to me, and he frowns a little. “No, it’s not that. I think that sounds like a good strategy.”
I can’t tell if he’s being totally honest about this; we’ve had so many years apart, pretending to feel okay when we really weren’t.
“Cassie thinks she’s found us a good therapist,” Blake says suddenly, studying his recently-trimmed fingernails.
“That’s good,” I say, but the spin cycle speeds up. Is he worried about what the therapist will say about us? What if the therapist convinces him how hard it is to live with someone with my condition?
I squeeze the arm of the chair with my free hand.The what-ifs can pull me under like a riptide if I let them, but I can’t. Nothing will pop the bubble faster than an OCD panic disaster.
Distraction doesn’t always work, but I give it a try anyway.
