One Last Shot, page 22
“Well now you’re older and she might want to sleep before working a fifteen-hour day. At least bring coffee or something. Now get out and let me sleep.”
I exit the room quietly and take the elevator down to the lobby to get a coffee, a matcha, and an assortment of breakfast pastries to take with us. Then I head back up to our floor and pray Emerson is as nostalgic as I am.
When she opens the door, all she’s wearing is a T-shirt. “Theo?” she says sleepily. “What are you doing here?”
I hold up the bag and smile, hoping I don’t appear completely desperate. “Want to watch the sunrise in Riomaggiore? I have breakfast.”
Emerson blinks, still waking up. “Right now?”
“If you want to. It’s our last morning here, since we fly out tomorrow. So I just thought … why not?” It’s too earnest for six thirty in the morning, but I don’t have much time left. I have to start putting my chips on the table.
And so when Emerson smiles, my heart soars. “Just give me a minute to change. And brush my hair so it doesn’t look like a total mess.”
“I’d be honored to see your tangled hair.” She shuts the door with a giggle and I blush and blow out an exasperated puff of air. What am I saying? Honored to see her tangled hair? I sound ridiculous.
But when she walks out of her room, she’s just in a tank top, and what she says makes me so happy it should be illegal. “The other sweatshirt’s for me, right?”
“Of course.”
When we walk out of the hotel to head to the train, it’s so early that no one is up yet. We quietly walk along the sidewalk overlooking the beach, toward the train that connects the towns. “I’m glad we’re finally riding the train,” I say at last. “Experiencing Cinque Terre like everyone else does for a minute, you know?”
Emerson nods and sips her matcha. “This is the only time we could do it. Or that I could anyway, before the crowds set in.”
I hadn’t even considered that. That I’m taking Em on public transit without a security team. Fortunately, when we get to the train station, we’re the only people there. In the crisp morning air I can smell the ocean and hear the waves, and it reminds me of so many mornings with Em when we had nothing bigger to worry about than which beach to bike to.
When the train pulls up, we board it and have the car to ourselves. But still sit right next to each other. My knee brushes against hers, and when we start moving, I don’t know whether it’s the jostle that presses her knee right up against mine or it’s her choice. But neither of us move.
The silence should feel strange, since there’s so much we could be talking about. Meeting Georgia and Allison, since the dinner was insanely tense. What we’ll do tomorrow when we fly to homes across the country from each other. But sitting together, not saying anything, feels perfect. Like for a moment I can be completely content and not worry about the future or stress about the past. When I’m with Emerson, it’s like my entire body knows I’m exactly where I’m meant to be.
It only takes a few minutes to reach Riomaggiore. I stand reluctantly and follow Emerson out of the train. There are signs directing us into a long, damp, dark tunnel. We both stare down it apprehensively. “Are you sure this is the right way?” Emerson asks finally.
“Oh yeah. One hundred percent. My Spidey senses are tingling.” I take a confident step forward into the tunnel, and she follows me without another word. The walls are damp with condensation, and it smells decidedly murky, like a boat that hasn’t been cleaned, possibly ever.
But I hear her take a deep inhale next to me. “It kind of smells like home,” Emerson explains when I look at her. And I’m glad she can’t fully see my face in the dark because it makes me way too happy to hear her call Salem home.
“It does,” I say softly.
When we exit the tunnel the sky around us is just starting to brighten, and in a few minutes I’m sure the sun will start peeking out. We follow the signs directing us toward the lookout point and walk downhill through the town, only to have to trudge back up a rocky path to get to the overlook. There’s a few other couples there, probably on honeymoon, who are so wrapped up in each other they don’t look twice at us.
We stand among them, leaning against the railing, and I touch Emerson’s arm lightly. When she looks back at me, I catch a glimpse of hope on her face. Hope that I’ll do something? That I’ll make a move? If what Georgia said is true, today is the day.
“I think we could make it down these rocks, if you want.”
Emerson grins wider than I’ve seen her smile all week. “Hope Anthem has a good insurance policy on talent.”
“I would never let you fall,” I scoff. I duck under the guardrail first, then offer a hand to Em and take us down the path that’s been created by all the other people who have decided they wanted to feel like they were a part of the scenery, not on an overlook. We walk down to a flat area first, that’s so close to the water that we can touch it, and both immediately reach down to test the temperature.
With our free hands. Because Emerson is still clutching mine, and there’s no way I’ll be the first to let go.
“Think we should go swimming?” I ask playfully. “It’s not bad.” And I would jump in, in an instant, fully clothed, cell phone in pocket, if Emerson said yes.
But she shakes her head firmly. “Not unless you want hair and makeup to last two hours this morning. It is pretty warm, though.”
We make our way across the rocks and climb down to a flat rock that was hidden from view until we were actually down here. It’s almost at water level, and directly in front of us we have a perfect view of the bright stacked houses. To our left there are three small row boats anchored and bobbing, and to our right we can see the rocky beach, and the town just starting to wake up. Emerson sits next to me, and I pull out the array of pastries I got, flatten the bag, then lay them on top of it, with our now half-empty drinks securing the corners.
“Not a moment too soon,” Emerson whispers, and I follow her gaze. The sky has been brightening ever since we stepped off the train, but now the stacked houses are being overtaken by a rich golden glow. The colors look more vivid, and this entire setting, from the water and boats to our left to the houses and tiny town, might be the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen. The color is incredible, and for the second time in twelve hours I wish I had my camera.
On instinct, I wrap an arm around Emerson and pull her to me. She leans into my chest with a slight exhale of relief, which I feel in my bones.
I want to kiss her, to say how I feel, but not before we work together shooting underwear for the entire day. I don’t want her to feel uncomfortable if her response isn’t what I hope. I don’t want us to have to rush back to set after what could be the biggest moment of our lives.
So I just hold her to me while we watch the sun rise, all too quickly. “I want everyone to be able to experience this,” Emerson whispers. “I mean, fifteen-year-old me never thought I would go to Italy. Ever. I just want to help all the girls who grew up like me dream big. I didn’t dream big enough.”
I respond in a whisper too. It’s such a fleeting moment that it feels like speaking at full volume could break it, even though in reality the sunrise will power through every day no matter whether Em and I are watching, shouting, or across the world. “Are you dreaming big enough now?”
Emerson’s exhale is heavy. “I still don’t know. But now I’m trying to. How about you?”
“I dreamt bigger when we were kids. But I think I could use some scaling up now.” I squeeze her tightly to me. “You inspire me like that.”
Emerson burrows her head deeper into my shoulder. “Your work is stunning, Theo. You make me look better than anyone else, and when we do this together it’s actually fun. Promise me we’ll shoot together again?”
“I promise.” And it’s the easiest promise I’ve ever made.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Emerson
“Emerson, why don’t you try by the fireplace?”
I can hear the frustration in Theo’s voice as we try to find a good shot in yet another area in the living room. Each model has shot at least two looks in this room and Stacey’s no longer happy with anywhere in the house. I try to position myself in a different way, but indoor days (i.e., undergarment days) are tough when it’s a tight space.
On indoor days everything moves slower, because the assists have to move the artificial lighting around between shots and there’s limited space to work with. We also have what feels like a million and one household items to work in, from throw pillows to lamps to cutlery, since Anthem sells it all, even if this shoot is swim focused. There’s not as much depth to the images, and there’s much less movement to be had when you have to stay within the three-foot radius of living room that’s lit. On the other hand, the benefit of an indoor day is that it’s completely private, and we finally have some peace from the crowds of people that have gathered each morning since TMZ revealed I was here.
Theo snaps a test shot and it’s immediately clear that Stacey is displeased. She picked the locations and which looks would be in each spot, but it’s obvious she expected Theo to make something out of … not much.
Theo clears his throat. “Emerson, why don’t you take five and we’ll look around.”
I’d rather stay and rearrange myself until Stacey likes his shot, but Theo looks super uncomfortable. “Sounds good.” I jump up and head into the kitchen to get myself a juice from the fridge. It’s a gorgeous kitchen. The appliances are high-end but with a retro look, and the cabinets and island are made of a stunning white marble. The side of the room opens onto a terrace that overlooks the coastline, and I hope that whoever owns this place spends every morning out there with their coffee. But since they’re renting it by the hour on Peerspace, they probably spend about a month out of the year here.
I hear the click of the shutter as I close the fridge door, and when I look over my shoulder the camera clicks again and the flash goes off in the other room. “Stacey!” Theo calls. “This is it.”
I freeze with my juice half uncapped, waiting for their determination. Stacey nods in agreement. “Let’s clear this room.” Immediately, PAs and producers begin moving craft services, the impressive layout of charcuterie and snacks, off the island. Lighting assists carry the flash into that room and Theo begins taking test shots of me.
“You can just keep doing what you’re doing. Drink your juice.”
I laugh. “Usually I only fake eat when it’s on camera.” I’m wary of having food stuck in my teeth, juice marring my lipstick. I can’t see Theo, his camera’s blocking his face, but I like to imagine his eyes are dark and sultry.
“Em, I’ve always liked watching you eat. You shut your eyes and it’s practically org—” He stops himself and takes a photo as I break into laughter, his entire face going red.
Orgasmic. That’s how much he likes watching me enjoy myself. I’m glad the crew can’t tell my real blush from the fake one that’s painted onto my cheeks. “I think that’s been trained out of me. An ex of mine thought it was weird.” I still shut my eyes for my first bite when I’m alone, but I’ve long since stopped doing it in public, no matter how decadent the meal. My first real boyfriend, a football player who shoveled his own tasteless health food in mindlessly, had made fun of me over it, and even though when Theo teased me I loved it, when it came from this near stranger it stung.
“Well, we hate him,” Theo declares quietly. In high school he’d sometimes ask me to remind him why I didn’t like someone. “Why do we hate him again?” he’d ask, and I’d explain my rationale. I was pettier then, but Theo was always steadfastly by my side.
“Emerson, can you fry an egg? Just do it however you normally would.” Theo stares at me expectantly, camera halfway to his eye.
“I’m not much of a cook.” I have a chef that prepares my meals and leaves them in the fridge when I’m home, something I’ll never admit to Theo.
“It’s okay if you burn it,” Stacey assures me.
“Burnt eggs in lace underwear. I love it!” Miranda darts in and pulls down my boy shorts, tweaks my bra strap.
“Fine, I’ll do my best.” I open the fridge and look for eggs.
“They’re on the counter; room temp is better,” Theo interjects.
“Hey! No backseat cooking. You said to do it how I normally would.”
“Comment withdrawn.” The shutter snaps.
I turn back to the counter and put the eggs in the fridge, then start again. I preheat the pan on the stove with exaggerated movements, keeping my face on the entire time so the shots are usable. No frowns for this cook. Then I break the egg with one hand, a smile aimed at Theo through the camera. We spent one day in the summer cracking egg after egg, until we could each do it flawlessly. We had to bake hearty omelets and three different cakes afterward to use them up, after my mom chastised us for wasting eggs. She was never going to use the forty-eight eggs she bought because they were on sale, but she hated to see them wasted. Much better to waste flour and sugar too, to bake them into things we wouldn’t finish. But Theo always made whatever problems I had with her feel less severe, almost comedic.
I hop up on the counter while the egg cooks, and Theo moves toward me, snapping away. I stretch and lounge, swinging my legs and doing all sorts of things that would look good in the images, but no one else would ever do on their counter. After a minute I hop off to get the egg and flip it perfectly. “Anyone?” I offer.
When we’re shooting indoors, the sets stay small. In the kitchen it’s only me, Theo, Stacey, Miranda, and hair and makeup, but I know that in the living room everyone else is watching the images live on a monitor. Theo is tethered, so everything he shoots shows up there. But with such a small set it almost feels like I really am cooking for friends in my kitchen, while Theo takes a few photos.
Theo offers Stacey a look at the photos, and she nods her approval as they go through. “This is great. I want to do a group shot here after lunch. I’ll have production get ingredients for waffles.” She eyes the kitchen. “And a waffle maker. Try to get a few color options. Early lunch, everyone!”
It’s only noon, earlier than we’ve broken for lunch any other day. Everyone leaves to eat in the garden out front, but Theo lingers, so I kill time washing my hands, eager for a moment alone together. “Any idea what lunch is today?” It’s the most superficial of small talk, but I want to tear his eyes away from his camera and onto the live version of me.
“I would place bets on something involving pesto.” Theo sets the camera down on the table, only to have Kevin instantly whisk it away, to dump cards and put batteries on charge.
“Where are they hiding these massive basil gardens? One tablespoon of pesto has a massive amount of basil, but I haven’t seen any gardens. I’m starting to think we’ve been duped.”
“You think this is”—he whispers the next words dramatically, hands cupped around his mouth—“imported pesto?”
“I don’t think we can rule it out.” I hop back up on the counter and he makes his way around the island to me, leaning against it, pulled by some invisible tether. I offer him the plate with the egg, and I pull my legs up onto the counter while he pulls a fork out the drawer under me.
“This is a pretty mean fried egg.” He eats it in three bites. “I didn’t realize you were such a cook.”
“Is there a word for the type of cook that only makes egg-related dishes?”
“An egg-cellent chef?”
I whack him with an oven mitt and my heart races. The clock is ticking, and I only have two days left to tell him how I feel before the marriage pact, and my self-imposed deadline expires. “I’m withdrawing the offer I was about to make to cook you my signature scramble. That pun doesn’t deserve my cooking.”
Theo’s laugh is smoky and rough. I’m suddenly conscious of still being in my underwear, just a thin boy brief and a lacy balconette bra, both white. My nipples are now hard through the fabric. He’s only inches away, clad in his rough-and-tumble on-set clothes, and I want him to close the gap and press me to him, let his skin and shirt be rough on my smooth skin, rip the lace of the bra—
“I’m more of cereal guy anyway,” Theo says, interrupting my inappropriate thoughts. “Do you still eat the peanut butter Kashi one? I think Anthem actually sells that.”
I only bought that cereal so he would have it at my house, but I still keep it stocked in each of my places, out of habit. But admitting that seems grossly inappropriate, way too intimate, and also a little embarrassing. I jump off the counter and grab the robe Miranda left out for me and wrap myself in it. It’s thin, but I’m less exposed with it. “Oh, occasionally…” I mutter, trailing off as I knot the robe’s sash aggressively.
“It’s still my favorite. Want me to bring both of our lunches out here?” He nods toward the terrace, which I’ve been admiring all morning, but I can’t tear my eyes away from his face. Theo’s eyes are earnest as he braces an arm on the counter next to me, so close I want to sink into him. The muscles in his arms that flex lightly with each movement, begging me to press my own lean torso into him. There’s been so many times when we were young that I did exactly that, leaned into his side with an audible sigh of relief and let him wrap me up in safety and comfort.
“I’d like that. I’ll meet you out there after I change.” I dart around him, taking care to let our skin brush the tiniest bit when I slide by. Sliding by, instead of going around him through the totally open path on the other side of the counter.
“Em!” I freeze when he calls after me. Every hair on my arms stands up while I wait to hear what he says. “Want a dessert? They’re going fast these days.”
Catering has been bringing three trays of miniature Italian desserts in addition to our specific lunches each day. Absolutely decadent looking. All of the models split one miniature tiramisu yesterday, and it was outrageously good. “Oh, I shouldn’t. The tiramisu is fantastic, but we have more intimates this afternoon. But … maybe one thing? You know what I like.”
