He took a shirt (perfectly folded) from his bag, and went into the corner behind a box.
“I realize this is ridiculous,” he called from his impromptu dressing room. “Guys take their shirts off all the time in public, but I have the Southern thing going on, remember?”
He emerged, wearing a T-shirt so snug and perfect that Scarlett first thought that someone was playing a joke on her.
“It’s how we show respect,” he said. “We don’t flaunt our nakedness in front of ladyfolk.”
This was both a staggering disappointment and a touching show of thoughtfulness.
“I guess we should start moving this stuff,” he said, looking at the disaster around them. “And I guess there’s no chance there’s an air conditioner in here, is there?”
He poked around for a moment and eventually produced a small dolly with an unstable wheel.
“This should be fun,” he said, giving the dud wheel a spin. “Why don’t we move most of it toward the back? We’ll just pile it high. If you can move chairs, I’ll get the big stuff back there.”
It was clear from the first moment that Eric was going to try to keep Scarlett from doing the heavy work. She was torn between wanting to throw herself in and show that she was just as capable and, frankly, not wanting to get absolutely disgusting in the painful heat of the church. She decided the best idea was to fold as quickly as possible and help move the chairs. This also gave her the opportunity to watch Eric work, which was admittedly pretty engrossing.
“Do you know anything about what that thing yesterday was for?” he asked, shoving a refrigerator-sized box onto the dolly with only a little difficulty. “All Amy told us was that she was helping out someone who’s developing a reality show.”
Scarlett bit down hard on the tip of her tongue before answering.
“I think it’s just a test,” she said. “They’re just trying out some ideas.”
“Spencer and I were just talking about why it was done. We were thinking that maybe it was some kind of audition that Amy set up…”
The hope in his voice was depressing.
“I don’t think so,” she said. “I’m pretty sure it was just…something to work out some ideas.”
“Oh.” He didn’t show any disappointment, but Scarlett still felt swamped with guilt. He worked quietly for a while on the other side of the room, and she finished up with the chairs. It seemed that he had nothing else to say to her, but then he abruptly stopped stacking boxes and came over to where she was.
“You two are a lot alike, you know that?” he asked, helping her with her halfhearted effort. “You and Spencer. You don’t look alike, but you act alike.”
“We’re close,” she said. “But we don’t seem alike. He can act. He likes to throw himself over walls. I can’t do anything that Spencer does.”
“He’s good at that,” Eric said, his voice getting twangy and soft and Southern again. “I think he’s the best I’ve ever seen. But you are alike. You’re both…personalities. Half the girls in the cast are after your brother right now. I’m not sure if you want to know that or not.”
“He was like that in high school. But you should tell him that. He thinks he’s losing his touch.”
“Stephanie—Ophelia. She has it really bad. We walked home the other night, and I promise you, she didn’t shut up about him for an hour. ‘Spencer’s so funny.’ ‘Spencer’s so good-looking.’ ‘Spencer sang today and he has a great singing voice.’ ‘Spencer can fall over a half a dozen trash cans.’ I started to get a complex.”
“Why would you get a complex?” Scarlett said, without thinking.
Eric stopped in midreach for a pile of chairs. His shirt was soaked through in spots.
“I’m not smooth,” he said plainly. “I don’t have that natural…whatever it is that your brother has. I’m a hick, Scarlett. A hick in the big city who doesn’t know what he’s doing half the time.”
Was this how he saw himself? This gorgeous person with so much talent?
“But you’re…amazing,” Scarlett said. “You’re the most amazing person I’ve ever met.”
He looked up at her and visibly worked through some kind of mental calculation. Then he stepped over to her, coming so close so quick that for some reason Scarlett assumed it was because something was wrong with her—like a spider on her arm.
“I really hope I don’t mess this up,” he said.
“Mess what…”
He kissed her. First on the nose, as if testing for approval, working down to her lips. He kept his mouth firmly closed, but that didn’t take away from the intensity of the moment at all.
He broke contact when her phone began to ring.
“I’m getting really sick of your phone,” he mumbled good-naturedly, gesturing for her to answer it. “I’ll bet I can guess who it is.”
Mrs. Amberson was maddeningly chipper on the other end.
“How’re things?” she asked.