Twice in a Blue Moon

by Christina Lauren

  “You think Richard saves Ellen?”

  “Without question, I do.”

  It’s funny. I always thought the script was less about either of them being saved and more about each of them finding their person. I thought it was about the bravery of two people fighting bigotry and racism and becoming leaders in their community.

  But I think I see what he means. “You mean that she would have been alone for the rest of her life if he hadn’t come along,” I say.

  Nick nods. “Exactly. Ellen was so ready to be old when she was so young. Richard wouldn’t let her.”

  For some reason, this hits me right in the chest, a direct shot. Whether Nick realizes it or not, he’s just found my Achilles’ heel: the sense that I stopped being young the second I left London.

  Oblivious to my internal brain freeze, Nick rolls on. “So. Let’s recap. We’re a week in. Tate was right about Devon the walking alarm clock and our unpleasant, occasionally non-smoking production secretary. Who wants to dish on Tate and the writer?”

  Charlie and I say “No” in unison.

  With a little growling laugh, Nick seems to let it rest. I tilt my face to the sun and feel its heat soak into my skin. “Can we pause time right here?”

  Nick turns his face to the sky, too. “I thought your dad might join us.”

  I know he’s playfully fishing for dirt, and I am too relaxed and happy to have my guard up too high. I point without looking over my shoulder. “He’s with the girlfriend in the cabin.”

  “Her name’s Marissa,” Nick says, grinning.

  “I remember,” I lie. Nick laughs.

  “Can I be honest?” he says.

  I suspect we’re still going to be on the subject of Dad, and I am immediately wary. “You can talk about anything you want, but I can’t guarantee that I will respond while I’m on this nice warm rock.”

  “Fair enough,” Nick says. “I thought this shoot might be all about Tate and Ian bonding in front of everyone.”

  “You’re not the only one,” I tell him. I’ll do whatever I can to keep people from prodding into the Sam backstory; if a few Butler breadcrumbs accomplish that, so be it.

  Charlie rolls onto her side to face us, and throws me a questioning Can I speak freely? look. I nod.

  “I can absolutely guarantee that’s why he brought Marissa,” she says.

  The suggestion stings a little, mostly because she’s probably right.

  Nick tries to work this out. “You mean, he doesn’t want to bond?”

  I hum, unsure that this is the right interpretation. “More like he doesn’t know how. Marissa is a good buffer.”

  Nick rolls to his back, staring up at the sky. “So you didn’t know him at all growing up?”

  “I lived with both parents until I was eight,” I tell him. “Then I didn’t see him again until I was eighteen.”

  “That’s when the story broke,” Nick says, nodding.

  I glance over at Charlie, who meets my eyes at the same time. Nick is getting dangerously close to where Sam comes onto the scene.

  “Yeah, it was time,” I tell him, going for breezy. “I was ready to start working, and so a ghost publicist dropped the scoop to the Guardian.”

  Even Dad would back up this story, because he still thinks it’s true: that I wanted to reconnect with my father and was ready to begin an acting career, so Mom and Nana hired someone to break the story. In fact, Dad was initially furious with Mom for not letting his team in on the plan.

  “For real, though? That’s a pretty sophisticated publicity feat for an eighteen-year-old… ” Nick says, skeptical now. I wonder what information he has, and how he’s been turning it over in his mind since we got here.

  “For real.” Charlie moves to her stomach, adjusting the towel under her. “You realize Tate is telling you things she could sell to People for like a hundred grand. You better be trustworthy.”

  “What,” Nick says, grinning, “you want some quid pro quo? I could talk about Rihanna. Or my night with Selena Gomez.”

  “No, it’s okay,” I tell him, laughing as Charlie says, “Hell yes, give me all the dirt.”

  He confides a little, telling us bits of things I knew, and bits I definitely did not. I’m not sure if he’s this open with everyone, or if it’s the obvious comfort I have with Charlie and Trey that makes Nick feel like he’s among family, but he gives us a genuine glimpse of who he is: an actor like me, who wants connection, yet has a hard time knowing how to find it in the bright light of the world’s stage. It’s clear neither of us would be very good at a fling on set, no matter how much he wants his reputation to make me think he could pull it off.

  Nick looks up, and points across the water to where Gwen walks along the lake edge with Sam and Liz, the three of them deep in conversation. I’m guessing they’re done shooting for the day, and the sun is already sagging in the sky, threatening to duck below the tree line and pull the cold air over us like a blanket.

  I stand, just as Nick teases, “I’m gonna find out what happened with you and the writer.”

  “Why do you think it’s at all interesting?” I ask, keeping my tone playful. “I told you we were just kids.”

  “Nah. I’m going to be here with you for, what? A couple months?” he says. “I want to get in that head of yours. And that story feels like a real glimpse at you. You’re an enigma, you have to know that.”

  Charlie and Trey go still, as if they’re working to be invisible during this conversation.

  “I’m an enigma?”

  “Beautiful,” he says, “but sort of unknowable.”

  Huh. That’s exactly how I’d describe my father.

  seventeen

  EVERYONE GATHERS IN THE Community House for dinner together; tonight it’s a rustic spread of roasted chicken, root vegetables grown on the farm, salad, bread, and for dessert, apple pie. I sit at a table with Dad and Marissa, Nick, Gwen, Liz, and Deb. It’s fun, and definitely good to bond with all of them together, but I find myself glancing in yearning every now and then at the raucous table just beside us with Devon, the teenage versions of Ellen and Richard, some of the livelier members of the crew… and Sam.

  Despite what my head tells me, my eyes have missed the sight of him. It’s so crazy how we age but don’t completely change; how I can still see the twenty-one-year-old in him. I imagined him so many times in the first few years after London, trying to remember exactly what he looked like, the way he sounded. And then I worked to forget him entirely, and mostly succeeded. It’s hard to believe I’m not staring at a mirage.

  My attention is jerked back to our table when I realize Dad is telling a story about me. “… she ran off the deck and jumped right into the river. I thought I was going to have a heart attack.”

  Everyone laughs knowingly—kids, am I right?—but I scrabble through my thoughts to place the story he’s telling. The only time I remember running and jumping off a deck into the river is up in Guerneville, where Dad han’t been since before I was born.

  “Apparently she and Charlie did it all the time,” he says, shaking his head. “They’d just never done it before during any of my visits.” Dad meets my eyes and winks. My fingers tingle cold. “She probably knew I’d go insane if I saw that. Such a cute little river kid.”

  He’s full-on telling a story about something that never happened. It’s not unexpected that we’d have to share some fabricated father-daughter time—we’ve had to do it once or twice for magazine interviews—but I’m aware of Nick watching me closely, remembering what I said earlier. But as complicated as my feelings are about Dad, I don’t want him to be exposed publicly as a liar. I’m aware of everyone else watching me, waiting for me to chime in with my side of the story.

  I smile over my wineglass at him. “No one ever got hurt,” I say.

  “As far as I know,” Dad teases, eyes light. Our eyes lock, and his are so full of glimmering adoration, it seems he believes the lie as much as everyone else does.

  “S
o—wait,” Gwen says, “you’re talking about Charlie, from hair and makeup?” She looks at me. “Did I hear right that you’ve been friends for years?”

  “Since elementary school, yeah,” I say. “She’s a trip.”

  “Oh, Charlie,” Dad says, laughing. “Now she was a handful.” He leans back in his chair and regales everyone with stories about some fictional version of my best friend, daredevilish in ways that feel true to Charlie’s spirit but are completely fabricated. Skiing down hills on cardboard skis, climbing water towers our town didn’t even have. I look around—my eyes flitting past Sam’s broad form only a few feet away—and find her at a table with Trey and a few of the grips. I make a mental note to tell her about all the trouble she got up to as a kid later. Dad didn’t actually meet her until she was well into her twenties.

  I risk a glance at Sam as I turn back around, and he’s looking directly at me, smiling at something Devon has just said, but his eyes are distant, like he’s really only straining to hear what is happening at my table. He blinks away when our eyes meet, down to his plate, and spears a piece of chicken.

  I tune back in to Dad, talking now about what it was like to volunteer in my classroom and try to pretend he wasn’t Ian Butler. My God. I feel half of Nick’s attention on me, half on my father, as if he’s trying to put together what version of the story to believe. Does he see me as the bitter child of a Hollywood legend, trying to make him look like a deadbeat dad? Or does he see through Ian’s lies and my bright smile to the facade we’re trying to maintain?

  “Okay, Dad,” I say finally, laughing lightly. “Enough embarrassing the kid.”

  He grins, and stretches his arm across the back of Marissa’s chair. “You know you love it.”

  No words. I have no words.

  Liz shakes her head at us. “You two are so cute.”

  “She’s a chip off the old block,” he says.

  My voice comes out clipped. “No one says that anymore.”

  After a long beat of silence, his head falls back and he lets out a booming laugh. The pressure is released from the moment, and everyone else finally laughs too.

  The wine flows, and even Gwen starts to loosen up, telling us stories from other sets: disasters, successes, urban legends that turn out to have been true. For a short while she even keeps Dad quiet and riveted. But then it’s his turn again and he dials up the charm. I’m faintly aware of the tables around us going quiet to listen to him, and my pulse picks up, worried about what he’ll say, and constantly aware of Sam so nearby, hearing everything.

  With a few glasses of wine in my blood, I can no longer keep such a stranglehold on my thoughts, and the itch is back, tickling my brain, making me want to know whether Sam thought of me. Whether he saw my life taking off and ever regretted shoving me away the way he did. Were his feelings at all real? Or was it always a play to get money, from that very first night?

  I return my attention to Dad, seeing directly through his veneer of self-deprecation, of humility. He’s telling one of his favorites, and at least this time it’s true: the first time he visited me on the Evil Darlings set, and all the ways I had the entire cast and crew wrapped around my finger. The subtext is always clear: My daughter has the magic touch—she got it from me.

  Out of the corner of my eye I see Sam stand, check his phone, and then ask Devon something that makes him point over in the direction of the stairs, to the same office I had used to call Mom earlier. He straightens and crosses the room like a ship cutting through water.

  He’s going to make a phone call.

  Before I really think it through, curiosity propels my legs back so I’m standing, pretending I have to use the restroom, following Sam across the room.

  I’m not even sure what I’m expecting to happen, what information I think I’m going to glean from this. But I need to know where he’s been all these years, who he calls after dinner.

  Once he’s out of the dining hall and past the entryway, he climbs the stairs two at a time. He’s so long; maybe he’s in a hurry, maybe it’s just his stride. It means I have to fall back, hang in the shadows. My hands are sweating. My head is telling me to go finish dinner and stop playing Nancy Drew.

  I just want to know who Sam Brandis is.

  He ducks into the office, lifts the phone, and I hear him dial; there’s the electronic beep of a landline, touch-tone phone. I lean against a wall, pressing into the darkness.

  If Sam is the man who can write the script I fell in love with, how can he also be the man who threw me to the world in London? How can this sensitive, compassionate writer live inside the body of such a heartless, cold man? I feel unbalanced. Maybe a little unhinged.

  “Sorry to call so late,” Sam says quietly. “The service here sucks… No, I’m good. What’s the latest?”

  A pause.

  “So they’ll keep her overnight?” he asks. “Okay.” Another pause. “Okay, that’s good news at least. Shit, I’m sorry I’m not there.”

  Is it about his mother? Or Roberta? I’m still trying to get clues from the words I’ve just heard when he says quietly, rumbling: “Sounds good, Katie. Kiss the girls for me. Tell them I love them.” A pause. “I will. Go get some sleep.”

  * * *

  With our backs on the grass and our faces to the sky, Charlie, Nick, Trey, and I proceed to finish off whatever bottles of wine were left half-empty on the various tables throughout the dining room once everyone left.

  I’ve warned Charlie that she used to ski down the hill on cardboard boxes. I’ve reassured Nick that he’s sworn to secrecy now that he’s figured out Dad is full of shit. I’ve let Trey braid my hair, and the entire time I’ve felt like a balloon being filled, pressure increasing inside me, but with so much wine in me, I finally break.

  “So I think he’s married,” I say. “And he’s definitely got kids.”

  Charlie has been peeling the bark from a stick she found in the grass, but at these words, she aggressively tosses it into the bushes. “Motherfucker.”

  “Can you believe it?” I ask, slurring and cutting out about two syllables. “I’m here, single, lonely, with all kinds of baggage, and he’s fucking married. With daughters.”

  She groans and passes the current bottle of wine down the row. We’ve given up on the pretense of glasses. I take a swig and hand it to Trey, who partakes, even though he’s barely awake.

  “Who’s married?” Nick asks. His words are slow, voice deep and hypnotic.

  I stare at his mouth for a few seconds too long and it curves up into a smile. “Sam Brandis,” I say.

  He nods drunkenly, the momentum keeping the nodding going for a few beats. “Your first love.”

  “Why do you think he’s my first love?”

  “Because I saw you react to him,” he reminds me. “You freaked the fuck out.”

  “No, I was just surprised.”

  He waves a heavy hand. “No, no, also you get that look.” He points to his own face and puts on a shocked expression that in no way demonstrates what a good actor he really is. He gives it up pretty quickly, too drunk to bother. “The one where it’s like you’re just trying to keep breathing around him. I think he’s your first and only.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it anymore,” I say. I feel spinny, like I’ve had one drink too many. I have had one drink too many. “I don’t want to talk about Sam ever again.”

  “I need to get this one to bed.” Charlie stands, pulling Trey up. “I’ll see you at five,” she tells me, and I groan.

  I pull back the sleeve of Nick’s sweater to look at his watch. It’s after midnight, and most everyone has been smart enough to go to bed early. Only a small group, some of the camera crew and sound techs, remains at a table inside the dining hall. Devon reminded us of our call time and gave us both lingering Be good looks before disappearing to his own cabin. We probably should have taken his nonverbal advice, but drinking wine was so much more appealing; I needed something to put out the fire in my blood after hear
ing Sam on the phone to what was very clearly a significant other.

  Kids. How does he get to be a dad? How does he get to have his shit together?

  I’m sure whenever he thinks about my life, Sam thinks everything turned out okay. I’m famous. I have my dad back. Everything is great. Except my personal life is a total mess, and it’s his fault. He’s the one who taught me what love looked like and felt like and then taught me it’s a lie. I have never been able to come back from that.

  “No shit,” Nick says. “That sucks.”

  I groan, swinging my head to look at him. “Did I say all that out loud?”

  “You did,” he says, nodding.

  “What parts?”

  “About how he taught you what love looked like and that it’s a lie.” He grins. “You also said how you wanted to make out with me under this tree.”

  I gasp. “I said that, too?”

  He laughs. “No, but now I know it’s true.”

  “You’re trouble,” I tell him.

  “Not really.” His words are so gentle, they’re almost self-deprecating. It feels like he’s admitting he’s a mess, too, that distraction is good for everyone. If I were less tipsy, I would press into this a little, turn the attention away from my heartache and toward his.

  But I am tipsy.

  We come together like we’re falling forward, mouths meeting in a sweet, messy press of breath, and tongue, and teeth. It stirs me, waking that heat in my belly for the first time in so long. I haven’t loved since Sam, but I’m not dead inside, either.

  Even so, it doesn’t feel right. It only lasts the span of a few kisses before I’m turning my face away. Nick kisses my neck, my jaw, my ear. It’s so sloppy, so loose; I have the sense that we’re leaning sideways and then we are, toppling over.

  Nick laughs into my neck. “What are we doing?”

  “God, we are too drunk for this.”

  He helps me stand, and I brush off my jeans, struggling to remain steady.

  “You kissed me,” I say.

  “I think you kissed me.” Nick grins at me, asking again, “What are we doing?”