But Jamie waved her off. “I want to,” he said, “seriously. Go get your stuff.”
She said a quick goodbye to Thandie, then followed Jamie down the long, cavernous hallways of the studio building and out into the darkened parking lot. It was wildfire season, and a smoky haze was just palpable in the air. As he turned the key in the ignition of his massive SUV, the radio turned on, a country station clanging away at top volume. Fiona laughed out loud in the moment before she remembered he was technically her boss.
“Sorry,” she said, clapping a hand over her mouth.
Jamie fixed her with a look as he waved to the parking attendant. “Go ahead,” he said wryly. “Have a giggle, go tell all your cool young Hollywood scenester friends. It’s my secret shame.”
“I mean, I’m not going to pretend this isn’t embarrassing,” Fiona said with a grin.
“The old stuff isn’t!” he protested. “The beer, God, trucks stuff—yeah, I’ll grant you that.”
“And you’re not here for the beer, God, trucks stuff?”
Jamie sighed. “I will be honest with you, Fiona,” he admitted, “I kind of like the beer, God, trucks stuff, too.”
“Uh-huh.” Fiona settled back into the passenger seat. She hadn’t spent a ton of time alone with Jamie since the show had started filming the year before; he intimidated her sometimes, with his insistence on perfection and occasionally stormy temper, though tonight he was in good spirits, drumming lightly on the wheel as they cruised toward the Valley.
“How you doing, St. James?” he asked once they were on the highway, the orange safety lights making patterns on the dashboard and the asphalt humming underneath the tires. “You good?”
“I’m good,” she echoed reflexively. “No complaints.”
Jamie lifted an eyebrow. “Why do I feel like you’re bullshitting me right now?”
Fiona smiled. Nobody ever called her out like that, with the possible exception of Thandie. “My parents are going through a thing,” she admitted, waving a hand in the hopes that it would seem like less of a big deal than it felt like. “But it’ll blow over. It always does.”
Jamie nodded. “I’m sure it will,” he said. “But if it doesn’t, you can talk to me about it. I know you’re a big tough TV star and I’m a hundred fucking years old, but still.”
Fiona huffed a laugh. “You’re not that old,” she said.
Jamie tilted his head to the side. “No,” he agreed with a wry smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling up. “I guess I’m not that old.”
They were quiet for a moment, just the croon of the radio and the rumble of the engine. Fiona glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. The makeup ladies were always going on about how hot Jamie was, that he looked like a young Harrison Ford in his sunglasses and leather jacket. Fiona had never really gotten the reference, though when she glanced over at him now she thought she kind of knew what they meant: his broad shoulders and stubble, his hands splayed out on the wheel. The windows of the SUV were tinted, but Fiona imagined people in other cars could see inside anyway. That’s Jamie Hartley, she imagined them saying. That’s Fiona St. James.
“You did a nice job in that scene with Sam today,” he told her, reaching out and turning the music down. “You like working with him?”
Fiona glanced across the gearshift, trying to gauge why he was asking. She worried that it showed sometimes, her crush on Sam; occasionally she looked at fanpages for him on the internet, and she knew his astrological sign was Pisces and his favorite ice cream flavor was rocky road. “It’s fine,” she said. “He’s a good scene partner.” This wasn’t strictly true: in fact, Sam forgot his lines half the time and relied a full click too heavily on the fact that most people found him winning. Still, Fiona thought it was possible that the way she felt about him made her own work better, even if she lived in perpetual fear that one of these days someone was going to point out that she was giving their brother/sister scenes a weird, Folgers-commercial incest vibe.
Jamie snorted. “That’s very diplomatic of you, considering everybody knows you’re carrying him.”
Fiona wasn’t sure what to say to that, torn between knee-jerk loyalty to Sam and guilty pleasure at being the teacher’s pet. “We all carry each other, right?” she replied finally. “That’s the Birds of California way?”
“That’s the Birds of California way.” Jamie smirked. “He likes you, though.”
Fiona made a soft, surprised noise before she could stop herself. “I mean,” she said, glancing out the window so Jamie wouldn’t see her face, “I don’t know about that.”
“Why wouldn’t he?” Jamie asked. “You’re spectacular.”
He said it as an empirical fact, the sun coming up in the morning or the traffic on the 101. Her whole body prickled with pleasure and curiosity, but by the time she looked over at him Jamie had already moved on—talking about plots he had in mind for the rest of the season, a pilot he was working on. “What do you want to do, huh?” he asked. “Once we finish our six seasons and a movie, I mean.”
Fiona considered that. She thought of the play she’d been reading today—the way she’d been able to picture the set in her mind, imagine the actors moving around in the space. How they’d sound. The costumes they’d be wearing. “I don’t know,” she said. “Theater, maybe?”
“Really?” Jamie raised his eyebrows.
Fiona frowned, instantly regretting her answer. Ugh, she should have said something else: art films, or Michael Bay movies. She didn’t know what would be impressive to him, and as much as she hated to admit it, she wanted to be impressive. “What’s wrong with theater?” she asked.
“No, nothing,” he promised quickly. “Theater is great, for a certain kind of performer.” He shrugged. “I just think you’re probably destined for greater things, that’s all.”
Fiona smiled a little uncertainly. It was a compliment, wasn’t it? After all, he’d literally just told her she was spectacular. Still, there was something about the way he said it that rubbed her the wrong way—like she was Riley Bird and he was her wise-but-cool father, like maybe he knew her better than she knew her own self.
Then again, he’d been in this business a hell of a lot longer than she had. Probably he did know better.
Jamie made a face just then, like possibly he could read her mind. “Scratch that,” he said, his fingertips landing briefly on her arm by way of apology. “I’m being an asshole. You’re a grown woman. You know your own mind.”
Did she? Fiona wondered, forgiving him instantly. Sometimes she felt grown-up, like the kind of person who could walk red carpets without giggling at the absurdity of it and talk eloquently in interviews with magazines and TV hosts. And sometimes she felt like the same dopey little kid she’d always been, frizzy-haired and noisy and awkward around guys. “No,” she said. “I appreciate it. I can use all the help I can get.”
“I’m always here for it,” Jamie promised, glancing over his shoulder before signaling for the exit. “You’re special, Fee. I knew that as soon as I saw you in that audition room with that neon streak in your hair. The second you walked in I thought, Holy shit, that’s my girl. None of those other guys in there knew their ass from their elbow. But right from the beginning, you were different.” He reached over and squeezed her knee, just quick, before letting go and putting both hands back on the steering wheel. “Even back then, you were a fucking adult.”
Fiona smiled. She knew it was just Jamie being Jamie—he was generous with feedback like that, everybody’s big brother and best friend; just this morning he’d told Sam he was a prince among men—but there was a part of her that felt like maybe this was different. That maybe he actually saw her, the two of them sitting here in the dark.
“This is me,” she said when they pulled up in front of her parents’ house a few minutes later. She felt suddenly embarrassed by the unremarkable smallness of it, thinking of the party he’d thrown at his place when the show first got picked up: his land and his pool and his collection of vintage arcade games on the lower level, how glamorous it had all felt. This was just a regular house where she lived with her parents. Her parent, she amended to herself. Just the one, now. “Thanks again for the ride.”
“Yeah, no problem,” Jamie said, waving her off. “I can drive you whenever.”
“Oh, you don’t have to do that,” she said. She didn’t want to be, like, a charity case, some sad orphan he felt like he had to look out for.