Early summertime is downtime in the world of filmmaking. Producers leave on Friday for the beach, execs motor out to Palm Springs, television shows are on hiatus. The whole studio lot feels like a college campus during summer school, as everyone breathes a little easier and daydreams a little longer. There’s no sweeter time to fall under the spell of love.
And I’ve been doing my part, floating from that first Michael Warner kiss for nearly two weeks now—or floating from kiss to kiss, I should say. There have been luscious handfuls of them, including a tussling session on Michael’s sofa last night that reached fevered, limb-tangled proportions before we called “cut”. With Andrea asleep in the next room, we both knew it was time to pull away before we wound up in a completely horizontal position. He sat there on the edge of the sofa, raking his hand through his disheveled hair, and I sat on my side, listening to the rush of blood in my ears. Even in the darkness, I could see the rise and fall of his chest, and I didn’t miss the way he tugged at his jeans, adjusting them when he stood to help me up.
But then afterwards, as he walked me quietly to the car, I sensed him withdrawing. He offered no more kisses, not even one of his trademark flirtatious grins with “Night, Rebecca” tagged onto it for sexy measure. Just a wave and a faint smile as he opened my car door. But if he thought he’d concealed his thoughts from me, he was mistaken.
While a part of me felt insecure as I drove back over the darkened hills to my apartment—I even wondered fleetingly if he’d seen my scarred chest during the tusslefest—I also suspected the real issue. One Alex Richardson. He’d passed between us like that before, right in the middle of some intense moment of connection, changing the mood unexpectedly. Michael doesn’t talk about him much, but he’s often there, sometimes broad and tall, other times ghostly and whispering, always an eerie form of romantic competition. He’s the hero, the one who got away, the first love, the soul mate. Thousands of threatening definitions could apply—and yet I’m fascinated with him. After all, he’s a legend to the map of this world I’m cautiously entering, a clue to what once held them all together.
And a clue to what’s keeping Michael and Andrea apart.
See, it’s those secrets again. I feel them, tugging at the edges of their family like the draw and release of the tides. There’s a definite rhythm to their melancholy; sometimes it’s flat, and other times it swells intensely, unexpectedly lifting away. Joy is there, too, like last night when Michael chased Andrea around their patch of backyard until they both collapsed in the grass, giggling, red-faced, and breathless. But then there’s the crashing wave of memory, and Andrea pulls in tight again—she’s angry, features set like cold granite against her father, sulking away in her room.
I do have my questions about their relationship. Like if he’s her adoptive father, then why does she call him by his first name? I know she called Alex “Daddy”, but didn’t she call Michael something similar—like Dad or Papa or even Father? I am curious about the reasons for that, and also about Andrea’s birthmother—the agency-provided surrogate Michael told me carried her for nine months—but I know enough to wait for all the facts. Not to push Michael when he’s obviously not ready to talk. I haven’t gotten this far in show business without knowing when to stay quiet, that’s for sure.
Still, watching their wounded dance from the outside is tough. After she stormed off last night, he sat there on the ground, looking stunned and hurt. Then he finally stood, brushing away bits of freshly mown grass from his hands and knees.
“I know that has to be hard,” I said, moving to clear the dinner plates from the table on the deck. “When she opens up like that, and then closes off again.”
“I keep trying to figure it out. Our counselor says to give her time.”
Andrea had placed a dandelion by each of our glasses, and I sniffed mine, saying, “You don’t exactly strike me as the patient type.”
“Yeah? Well, I’m pretty fucking ready for a breakthrough,” he said, staring at the patio door through which she’d just vanished. “I can tell you that.”
“And you don’t strike me as one to mince words, either.” I laughed, handing him the dandelions from around our plates. Thankfully, he began to smile then too, rolling the flower stems between his fingertips.
“She talks to you,” he said after a moment, contemplative. “She tell you anything I should know?”
The hopeful expression in his brown eyes pained me, but I had to say, “Not really, but maybe she will. If we give her enough time.”
He nodded seriously and bent down, kissing the top of my head. And for that moment, despite all the heat that usually stormed between us, I’m sure I became a standin for one closed-off, absent little girl.
***