Twice in a Blue Moon

by Christina Lauren

  In the distance, I see the looming shadow of Sam. Near the panel of video screens, I see Dad pacing, his arms crossed tightly across his chest. I’m not sure why he’s here since he isn’t on the call sheet today, but I can only assume that he’s either worried about my performance, or trying to play the role of the Involved Superdad. Blinking back to Gwen, I put on a smile.

  “Hey.”

  “It’s a lot,” she says. “I know it is.”

  “It’s okay. I’m just finding Ellen’s voice.” And trying to ignore two very distracting men in the audience.

  She nods, squinting out into the distance. “It’s only day one. You have time to get there.” A pause. “For what it’s worth,” she says quietly, “he needs this more than you do. You’re not the one I’m worried about.”

  She’s talking about Dad, but it’s still heartening. “I needed to hear that.” On its own volition, my head turns, my eyes find Sam in the crowd. He’s watching us, eyes narrowed, like he’s trying to read our lips.

  Never one for much sentimentality, Gwen claps me on the shoulder. “You good?”

  “I’m good.” I close my eyes as her footsteps hammer back down the steps and take a deep breath. I know I can do this, and there are so many people out there waiting for me to step up and just own it.

  But only one of those people haunted my sleep last night. I look back to where Sam stands at the edge of the tree line, the boundary of Ellen’s “backyard.” Our eyes meet and a piece of me falls backward in time, locking onto the solid reassurance of him the way I used to, feeling that strange awareness that he’s my beacon, a safe harbor.

  But then he gives me a single, sharp nod. It’s definitely a Don’t fuck this up—which dissolves any of my nostalgic tenderness and sends me directly to pissed off. My adrenaline spikes, and I turn, catching my reflection in the farmhouse window with the movement.

  The sight of it pulls me up short.

  For actors, there’s something about being in costume that transports us into the heart of the character we’re playing. I certainly felt that shift earlier when I saw myself in Ellen’s clothing, in full makeup, with my wig on. But here, on the back porch of the farmhouse, with the wind moving my dress and my mouth set in the hard, determined line I imagined Ellen’s would make a hundred times a day, I feel possessed by someone else.

  Look at her, I tell myself. That isn’t you. That’s Ellen. Be her.

  Fuck Dad and his twentysomething girlfriend. Fuck Sam and his opinion of my acting skills. And fuck anyone who thinks there’s a chance I won’t end up being perfect for this role.

  A delirious silvery, clean energy slides into my limbs as soon as Feng yells that we’re rolling. I look at Nick and can tell he’s getting in the zone, too. His eyes light up when we banter; we hit every beat we need to hit, and the chemistry sparks readily between us. We sail through the scene and do it once more for the master shot before Gwen lets us go for a fifteen-minute break and the crew breaks down the cameras for the tighter shots.

  Nick high-fives me before trekking up the small hill to the restrooms, and I move to a quiet place in the shade of a wide apple tree, escaping the late-summer Northern California sun.

  Charlie approaches, telling me to sit on a bench nearby before carefully tidying the makeup around my eyes. “You good?”

  “I’m better now. That last take was good, right?”

  “That last take was fucking killer,” she agrees. She glances over her shoulder, to where Sam is bent with Gwen over her copy of the script; the two are deep in conversation.

  I tap her arm to turn her attention back to me. Charlie’s always protective, but her inner mama bear has been on high alert since learning about Sam. “Your fierce face is pretty epic.”

  She growls. “That kid has no idea what he’s up against if he tries to wiggle back into your good graces. Not only can I shave a full six years off your age with the power of my makeup brushes, but I also know some pretty epic fight moves.”

  “You do?”

  “As far as Sam Brandis knows, I do.”

  I laugh. “It’s going to be hard to keep my distance from him,” I admit. “I mean, especially with him having such a clear creative relationship with Gwen. I won’t be able to avoid him entirely.”

  She pulls a brush and some powder out of her makeup belt/apron and brushes my cheeks. “I mean, even if you could, that would look weird, right?”

  I chew my lip, considering this. It’s not that gossip scares me. But gossip that spins out of my control does. From my upbringing, to my relationship with Chris, to my string of “boyfriends” chosen primarily by publicists, my life to date has been a work of carefully cultivated rumors. I know Dad and Nick—maybe others, too—saw my meltdown when I ran into Sam yesterday. So I have to be strategic and figure out what narrative I’m spinning.

  When I look back up, Sam and Gwen have finished talking, and he hovers only about ten yards from our shady retreat. He glances at me and then quickly away.

  “He’s waiting,” I realize.

  “To talk to you?”

  “I think so.”

  “Do you want me to stay here and touch up your makeup for the next fifteen minutes?”

  I laugh, but my stomach shrivels up in anxiety. “No, it’s okay. We’re going to need to interact at some point. We’re here for like seven weeks.”

  With a small air-kiss near my cheek, Charlie heads back toward the set, shooting daggers at Sam as she passes. Almost immediately, he heads directly toward me. His eyes fix on my face as he approaches, expression hard to read. By the time he lowers his redwood body down beside me on the bench, cupping his knees in his hands, my heart has volleyed into my throat.

  I smile at him as he sits, but I’m sure he doesn’t miss the flat disdain I can’t seem to clear from my eyes. He swallows, looking away from my face and back out to the set. “It’s amazing to watch you work.”

  When I don’t say anything to this, he adds, “It’s eerie to me how good that was. You were just like her.”

  Against my better judgment, I look back over at him. He’s wearing a blue linen button-down, worn-soft jeans, and the same well-loved brown boots. When I glance at his hands, I surmise that he doesn’t spend all his time writing screenplays: he still has the calloused, rough-handed look of a farmer. “I was just like you imagined Ellen?”

  He stares at me for a few seconds, frowning, and then nods. “Yeah.”

  I don’t want him to see how relieved this makes me, so I turn my attention away, back down the small hill to where Nick and Devon are twerking like idiots, and Liz is laughing hysterically.

  “Look,” Sam says, bringing my attention back to him. “I know things are complicated between us—”

  “There’s no complication, Sam. There’s no us.”

  “Okay,” he concedes. “What I’m trying to explain is that I didn’t want you to do the role without knowing I was involved, but the more I thought of you as her—as Ellen—the more I really wanted it. I’m sorry that you felt blindsided yesterday, but I wanted you to know that I’m also really glad that you’re her. It’s… sort of perfect.”

  I don’t know what to make of this, or how to process the tiny, carbonated feeling that courses down my arms to my fingertips. It feels dangerous to be this close to him, and not because I want him, or want him to want me—but because my body genuinely doesn’t know how to react to him at all. I’m cycling through a hundred feelings every minute. Am I angry? Indifferent? Happy to see him doing well? I think the fact that I never got to fall out of love with him—that I just had to keep moving forward, stumbling into something new and totally different—means that my brain and heart don’t know the protocol here.

  I keep my expression neutral. “You didn’t look like you believed I could do it, though,” I remind him.

  “I absolutely believe you can,” he says quietly. “And you looked right at me, and—look, I was just remembering—in spite of everything—how well we did as a team. I’
m on your team, Tate.”

  The way our thoughts had aligned rocks through me.

  But, “That was your way of being on my team? An angry nod?”

  “I don’t think I meant it to look angry.” He lets out a long breath and seems to deflate. “This is hard for me, too, okay? Really complicated.” I start to laugh, and he quickly adds, “I mean, I know it’s definitely harder for you—”

  Self-preservation rushes to the surface. “It isn’t just having you here that’s stressful. It’s also having my dad.”

  I think saying this out loud was a mistake; I sense it in the way Sam turns to look at the side of my face. “I thought you two were close?”

  Now I’m trapped between lying and offering him something real that I’m not sure I’m willing to give. I remembered last night, while lying awake, that Sam had promised to come with me to LA to find my dad. Instead, I’ve muddled through the farce of it alone ever since.

  Wait, I realize, Sam thinks he’s the hero of this story, by reuniting father and daughter, by enabling me to have a dream career. Parts of that are true, parts aren’t, but regardless, he doesn’t get to be the good guy here.

  “I mean,” he says, “that’s how it looks from the outside.”

  “That’s how it’s supposed to look.” I stand, swiping any dirt from the back of my skirt, and get back to work.

  * * *

  Over the next week, we shoot the scenes leading up to the moment that Richard finally wins Ellen over—through autumn and the fake rain, to summer and the brilliant sun mimicked by a hundred intense lights aimed directly at the porch. By the time Nick stands at his mark, facing me from across the yard, the budding relationship feels hard-earned and I’m jittery in that electric, impatient kind of way to see Richard walking up my driveway, flowers in hand.

  EXT. MEYER FAMILY FARM, BACKYARD — NEW DAY

  Ellen looks up to see Richard rounding the house, holding flowers. Warily, she looks to her father in the porch rocking chair — his expression is vacant — and then back at the man on her lawn.

  RICHARD

  Hello, Ellen.

  ELLEN

  My answer is still no.

  Richard nods, tipping his hat.

  RICHARD

  Would you mind if I asked again tomorrow?

  She bites her lip to stifle a smile. With a little smile of his own, Richard turns to leave. From the porch, her father looks up, and seems to come into the moment.

  WILLIAM

  You like him.

  ELLEN

  He’s fine.

  WILLIAM

  Fine? I see the way you hover outside, waiting for him to show up every day. But I didn’t think you’d much care what the town thinks about who you choose to dine with.

  Ellen stares at William. It is the first lucid thing her father has said in days, and it catches her off guard.

  ELLEN

  I don’t care what they think.

  WILLIAM

  Then why refuse a nice meal with a nice man?

  ELLEN

  You think I have time for a nice meal or a nice man?

  WILLIAM

  You have all the time you make for them. I know you don’t want another Daniel, but I don’t want you lonely.

  Deeply affected by this, Ellen walks to the side porch, sees Richard halfway down the driveway: hat on, shoulders square, roses in his fist as he leaves.

  ELLEN

  I don’t like roses!

  Richard turns, and with a grin, tosses the flowers into the field.

  RICHARD

  What roses?

  ELLEN

  I don’t like flowers at all.

  RICHARD

  That’s fine.

  ELLEN

  I like steak, though. Think you could find me a good steak?

  Richard’s radiant smile could light a dark night. Ellen grins and then tries to smother it down as she straightens and turns back to her father.

  ELLEN

  Happy now?

  WILLIAM

  Just find the juice, Judy. I told you already I was thirsty.

  Ellen stares for another breath, and then sighs. A light has left his eyes. He’s lost to the dementia again.

  Gwen calls cut, we quickly transition into the closer shots, and then we’re done for the day, letting the younger cast take over to close out the back porch set. Giddy with relief, I look over at Dad as he stands from the rocking chair and walks over to me with a smile. The feeling in my belly is effervescent. As much as I hate his approval, I know I crave it too.

  His arms go around my waist, he lifts me up, and I feel the eyes of the entire crew on us. I feel like I’m becoming Ellen. I’m completely falling for Nick as Richard: obsessed with his shy smile, his understated confidence, good heart, and the shape of him in the suit.

  And Dad was brilliant: clear, wise, then blustery; his portrayal of beloved, lost William tugged at something deeper in me, some realization that he will age, that he might forget this—and me—someday. I pull him tighter, my generosity fueled by adrenaline and relief. I wonder how many pictures are taken of this father-daughter moment. It may be the first genuine embrace we’ve ever shared, but I know no one else hears him when he says calmly, “You’re almost there, kiddo. Keep at it.”

  Gasoline dumps into my bloodstream and I fear it will ignite if I let him get another passive-aggressive word in, so I pull back and smile warmly, turning to leave the porch. At the bottom, I’m pulled up short by the sight of Sam there, talking to Liz, his eyes red-rimmed. He reaches up, laughing, and swipes at his cheek.

  Was he crying?

  It’s hard to imagine, frankly, but if I try to frame him in my mind the way I’ve seen other writers on set—deeply moved to see their work being translated—I can only imagine what this experience is like for him. A tiny fracture forms in my Hate Sam wall.

  Before I can even process this, Charlie steps in front of me, blocking my view. I am so busted. “Why are we staring at Satan?”

  “I wasn’t.”

  “You were. Are you feeling nice things, Tate Jones?”

  “I wasn’t—I just… ” I lean to the side to peek again. “Is he crying?”

  She doesn’t even turn around. “We don’t care if it cries. We aren’t even sure it has feelings, remember?”

  “I remember,” I say dutifully, straightening and grinning at her.

  “We have much better choices for bad decisions in the boy-toy category: Devon, Nick, even Jonathan is still here.”

  “Ew.” I scrunch my nose. Not only has Jonathan Marino had a good deal of plastic surgery, but he’s almost as old as my father. Besides, studio execs and talent are a match made in hell. “No Jonathan.”

  “No Sam,” she counters, and takes my arm, guiding me away from the set. Once we’re clear of the farmhouse, the breeze hits us—a glorious burst of cool, apple-scented air. “It’s only two. Trey and I are going swimming down at the lake,” she says. “Wanna come?”

  An entire afternoon here, free? Normally on set I’d head back to my local apartment or, when we were shooting Evil Darlings, home. But here the location changes from set to camp as soon as Gwen dismisses us for the day. The idea makes me giddy.

  “Can we bring some beer and bad decisions?” I ask her.

  Charlie’s eyes light up. She looks back over her shoulder. “Nick! Lake! Swim!”

  * * *

  The lake is small but deep, with a beautiful crystalline sapphire surface that reflects the trees to almost a mirror image. It’s in the middle of a circle of forest, far enough away from the farmhouse clearing that we’re unable to hear anything on set and, more important, they’re unable to hear anything from us, either. The four of us hike out to the far end of the lake, where there’s a large, smooth, sloped boulder, just big enough for all of us to lay down our towels and bask in the sun.

  Nick and Trey wear board shorts slung low on hips, and I envy the obvious, shirtless ease in the male body. In my simple black one-piece, I�
��m slathering on sunscreen like I’m actually going to be traveling to the surface of the sun, but Charlie stretches out beside me in a minuscule bikini, her golden skin shiny with oil.

  “Are you trying to catch cancer?” I ask her.

  She opens one eye just wide enough to let me see that she’s rolling it. “Shh.”

  From behind us, higher on the rock, Nick jogs down and takes a running leap over our prone bodies, cannonballing into the water. When he comes up gasping, yelling that the water is cold as hell, Trey holds up both hands, giving a score of eight.

  “Eight?” Nick protests. “Eight? I jumped over two people!”

  “Point deduction for form.” Trey lifts his beer, sips it delicately.

  “I went in so clean!”

  “I think a cannonball is about the splash,” Charlie explains without opening her eyes.

  “Man, that’s some bullshit.” Nick scrambles out of the water and lies stomach down, body dripping on the warm rock. He lets out a long, happy groan. “Oh my God. This is the best rock on the planet.”

  We all hum in agreement.

  “That was good,” Nick murmurs, and then catches my eye, squinting from the brilliant sun. “Today, I mean. That was good, Tate. Today was good. We were great.”

  I cup my hand over my eyes and look down the rock at him. “We were.”

  “Can you imagine?” he says, grinning. Hopeful.

  “Don’t go there,” I say with deep warning. Buying into the hype before the movie is even shot is a dangerous path.

  Nick waves me off. “I know, I know.”

  I prop my weight up on an elbow. “What made you want to do this role?”

  Nick adjusts his weight on his forearms. “Is that a serious question?”

  “I know it’s a great role, duh,” I say. “I guess I’m asking specifically what drew you to it.”

  “Richard is a black dude who saves a white woman in the 1960s, goes on to run for city council with her, wins over an entire community on the strength of his character alone. How could I turn that down?”