Inwardly, I cringe. He’s clearly new to this and doesn’t know yet that he shouldn’t say stuff like that in public, not at this stage in his career. All it takes is one loose-lipped bystander—or that PA adjusting the back of his hoodie—to go to the press and suddenly there’s some big story about how ungratefulTanner Berg is, how he’s ready to leave the show that just so recently made him.
WarningTanner about that in public would just draw attention to it, so I just laugh lightly, like I know he doesn’t really mean it. “Well, luckily you can do both. Great job on that last take, by the way. Your reaction to my line about your mom’s death was seriously moving.” I mean it, too.The kid’s pretty good.
“Dude, thanks,” he says, flipping his hair back the moment the stylist steps away. “I thought it was the shit, too. ButTroy is all pissy about it.”
The shit? God, this kid makes me feel like I’m a hundred years old. Kind of like Ivy does sometimes.
Also, he should probably learn not to bad-mouth the director so openly, either.
“Um, well,” I start, glancing over atTroy, who is slumped down in his chair glaring at the playback on the screens around him. “He’s got a lot going on. Filming usually gets a little stressful around this time.”
And that’s even when a directorisn’tdealing with the very public fallout from the Comic-Con debacle.
“Yeah, well, I think the dude could stand to lighten up. Speaking of which, you know about that new club out here, right? It’s called Hustle, I think, and it’s the shit. Like—”
Tanner doesn’t finish telling me what exactly Hustle is supposed to be like, beyond “the shit,” becauseTroy shouts for us to get back to our places for the next take.
I don’t think I need him to tell me what Hustle is like, though.Trendy new clubs come and go, but deep down they’re all the same. And I’ve seen way too many young stars lose themselves in them over the years.
I frown, but there’s not time to say anything, and what the hell am I going to say anyway? I don’t even knowTanner. He flashes a peace sign—or does it mean something else now?—and heads over to the opening of the alley where Hemlock finds him.
I stretch my cramping quads out quickly—my trainer worked me extra hard this morning since I didn’t get my daily workouts in LA—and jog back to my mark at the beginning of the sectioned-off street. I look to see if Blake is sitting out there watching me film, but then remember that he’s got a phone interview with some British magazine right now.
The thought of more interviews tenses me up immediately. It was bad before, but after what happened at Comic-Con, after all that came out about Claire and the continuing negative press around the film and—
Blake’s a pro, I tell myself.He knows what he’s doing. It’ll be fine.
Honestly, I’m just really glad it’s not me being interviewed today.
We run through the scene several more times, and with each take in the sweltering heat, I am increasingly glad I’m not wearing Hemlock’s standard plant-fetish leather. Instead I’m in linen shorts and a light cotton t-shirt. I’m Hemlock’s alter ego Sabrina Kane today, discovering that her nephew, who she thought was safely in another state, is actually back in Miami.
Finally,Troy determines our little family reunion has hit all the right notes of shock (me), guilt (Tanner), protective anger (me again), and caustic fondness (both of us) to call it good.Though judging by his tone, it’s more likely he called it because he got sick of arguing with the animal handlers over how long the two dogs being walked in the background of the scene should be out in the heat.
The dogs—both adorable Chihuahuas getting misted between every take—appear fine; it’s the rest of us who are about to become puddles of sweat on a Miami sidewalk.
I turn for the chilled water that a PA brings me every few takes, but instead of a production assistant, there’s Blake with that big sunny smile on his face, and a hand towel draped over his arm, my water bottle displayed like a fine wine.
“For the incomparably gorgeous and talented Miss Watterson,” he says with a formal bow.
I grin. “I don’t know which is more tempting for me to put my lips on right now, the water or the waiter.” I take the water from him, and a groan escapes me at how icy cold it is. I want to rub this all over my body.
He laughs. “I think that question just got answered.”
I’m too busy gulping down the water to laugh with him, but I lean in for a kiss shortly after; we smile against each other’s lips.
I’m afraid to ask how the interview went, so I go for another scary question. “How’s Ivy doing?”
Blake shrugs one shoulder. “I haven’t gotten a chance to see her much, but she seems happy enough walking Costanza. I’m about to have Aaron install that computer tracking program, though, so we’ll see how that goes.”
That sounds like how she was when I saw her a few hours ago—happy enough. It saddens me how relative that seems now. But she was glad for the break from the hotel and her little brother, even if it meant that she was essentially under the constant supervision of even more eyes. And though she still heaved a number of aggrieved sighs in my direction, I actually got a few smiles from her and a joke about Costanza’s terrible doggie breath.
I wonder if we should start bringing the situation with her up in our therapy appointments soon. We already had one since we’ve gotten back and have another scheduled in a couple days. I know these appointments are supposed to be about the problems in Blake’s and my relationship, but our kids are obviously an important part of that, especially given the way Ivy’s reacting to us getting back together.
“Speaking of Aaron,” Blake says, pulling a card out of the back pocket of his shorts—he’s dressed in regular clothes for the time being, since his next scene isn’t for another few hours. “My assistant came through for us.”
I smile at seeing the shiny American Eagle gift card. Blake’s assistant, Cassie, informed us that Aaron had gotten at least one of his pairs of ruined pants from there. So we decided we owed him some new clothes, sooner rather than later, and had Cassie pick the card up this morning.
“Five hundred dollars, right?” I pause. “Do you think that’s enough?”
