So why should I have to listen to him?
It’s an earth-shattering thought, one that I’m afraid to poke at too hard because I can already sense the consequences will be life-changing. And to be honest, I don’t know if I’m totally ready for that yet.
Instead, my thoughts circle back to what Lyle has been explaining to me. “So,” I say slowly, “shouldn’t you sacrificeme? Let Perry fire me, so you can save your pull for when it really matters?”
Lyle gives me some serious side-eye. “Didn’t I already warn you not to be a martyr?” Shaking his head, he fixes his eyes back on the road. “Besides, you are something that really matters. To me and Sienna and Rae. And Deja too. We all want you here.”
The answer makes me soften. Dear Lyle. I feel like he’s adopted me ever since I got to Green Valley and he insisted I go into town that first day instead of staying cooped up in the hotel suite. Now, he’s become my ride to work when I want to go straight to set instead of staying at the Lodge. The rides to set are usually the best part of my day. We sing along to Disney songs and Broadway musicals. He tells me about his dreams to someday be a famous film director, and we gush about which Met Gala outfits are our favorites. He’s become an insta-friend, and someone I am so, so grateful for.
I know what I’m getting out of my friendship with him. He’s fun and witty and helps pull me out of my turtle shell. But I have no idea what he and the others are getting out of keeping me around.
“Why?” I’m not fishing for compliments here. I’m genuinely perplexed. It’s not that I think I’m a terrible person or anything—well, not most of the time anyway—it’s more that I always feel like I’m wholly forgettable. So why is this group of strangers willing to stick their necks out so far to keep me around?
“Because we like you, doofus.” Lyle winks at me. “Don’t worry about Perry. He gets distracted easily by shiny things. He’ll forget you even existed by next week ...”
We drive in silence for a while, just enjoying the serene beauty of the lake and the majestic forest surrounding it. It’s obvious we’re no longer scouting any filming locations, we’re just enjoying the view, but I’m not complaining. The music is good, and the company is even better. We’ve both been singing at the top of our lungs toThe Sound of Music, music up, windows down, and my heart feels full and happy in the absolute best way.
But as much as I love the film,The Sound of Musicis a loaded musical for any ex-nun. Julie Andrews had it so easy once she left the convent. Well, aside from the Nazis, I mean. She found her captain and her new family, and it only really took a song or two for them to realize how amazing she was.
I can’t help but think of my own time returning from the convent. The long, angry silences from my uncle and aunt. The whispers from my cousins. The stares from the congregation at church. I always felt like I had to work extra hard to get any scraps of love or attention, and after leaving my order, it got so much worse. My whole life became a penance for something I wasn’t even sure I regretted doing.
Kissing Cass. Which I guess was actually kissingWes. It’s weird; I still can’t fully see them as the same person. Somehow it feels like Cass is still out there, doodling in prison and daydreaming about me. Okay, that sounds bad. I don’t want him to be still trapped in prison. Maybe just on an island somewhere with no women, still pining for me. Is that so much to ask?
Wes feels like an entirely different person from Cass in so many ways. He’s definitely not as dreamy and romantic. But he’s funnier. So much funnier. My sides were aching from laughing the other day on set when I was ... painting his body while he was standing there in his underwear.
I try not to go back to that memory too much, really. It feels skeevy, picturing all the guys in their underpants. But truthfully, it’s not all the guys I’m picturing. Just one guy. I can glisten the other men’s chests and contour their abs, and I feel absolutely nothing. But when I am that close to Wes, feeling his warmth, his presence, almost close enough to touch ...
Lust, I remind myself. It’s just lust! I hear the disapproving voice of my uncle in my mind, warning me that it’s a sin—and one that, apparently, I’m especially susceptible to.
But at the same time, that word feels wrong. Because lust isn’t what I was feeling for Wes on set. I wasn’t ogling his torso or arms or any of the rest of his body because they were hot, sexy man parts. Theywerehot, sexy man parts, to be clear, but for me, it was mainly because they were Wes’s. I could see another pair of hands that looked exactly the same but would do nothing for me because they belonged to somebody else. But asWes’shands, they became irresistible. The allure was not in divorcing the body from the person, trying to take away his worth as an individual; the person imbued the body with worth. The body meant something to me because it was Wes’s.
So is that still sinful?
I decide to ask Lyle, because apparently he likes me and wants to keep me around, so why not jump into the deep pool of conversations about morality? “Do you think lust is a sin?”
Completely unfazed by the question, Lyle grins back at me. “Only if you’re doing it right.”
I laugh in surprise, reminding myself yet again that not everyone comes from my super religious family or has the same strict outlook on life. And sex, mainly. There’s a whole demographic of people who celebrate sexuality and don’t treat it as something shameful.
Must be nice.
I should probably just drop it there, but I’m too curious, and the topic is weighing too heavily on my mind. “What if you’re devaluing someone by only seeing them as a body, or ... you hurt someone who gets caught in the cross fire?” I think back to my biggest mistake, the one I’ve spent most of my adult life atoning for, and I swallow heavily.
“What if,” Lyle counters, “I like driving my car. I like that it’s a nice car and runs smoothly and gets me where I need to go. It’s possible Icouldhurt people with my car if I drive recklessly or don’t pay attention, but I don’t. I’m careful with my car. So why shouldn’t I enjoy it?”
Whoa. I sit back in my seat, impressed. The look on Lyle’s face tells me that he knows he’s wowed me, and I can’t help but laugh at how pleased he is with himself. “Okay. I see your point.” It can’t be that easy though, can it? I search for another loophole. “But what about?—”
“Let me ask you this, before you ask that question,” Lyle interrupts, kindly but firmly. “Is the question you’re about to ask me whatyouthink, or is it what your uncle has made you believe you should think?”
Again, whoa. I stare at Lyle, flabbergasted. “Are you a mind reader?”
He grins, keeping his eyes on the road. “No, but I grew up Catholic.VeryCatholic.” He waves his hand at me. “I know it’s not quite the same with your uncle’s church?—”
“I was a nun for about a year,” I blurt, mostly so he won’t feel the need to try to explain to me the differences in belief systems. And, yes, I was a postulant, not a full-fledged nun, but it’s just easier to explain it this way to laypeople.
Lyle’s eyes widen as he looks over at me. “Shit, really?” He throws back his head in a loud, cackling laugh. “You are the most interesting, random little pixie, aren’t you? Please don’t tell me you’ve also worked for the CIA.”
He has no idea how close to home he just hit with that joke. “Not yet,” I demure.
