Twice in a Blue Moon

by Christina Lauren

  “All set, then?” Devon tilts his head up the hill, making his meaning clear.

  Up the hill, that is, where nearly everyone who has ever been involved in this movie has gathered to watch this enormously important scene being shot. Even Plastic Jonathan has returned and will be seated a safe distance from the barn, in a posh area of executive seating.

  Sam, as usual, hovers at the edge of the action. Dad and Marissa are sipping cocktails in the executive galley. Nick stands with Gwen, at a set built to resemble the entryway of the cabin, poring over our marks, our path of movement. I join them, and when Nick meets my eyes, I swear I can hear his heartbeat.

  The barn, which has slowly been built since we first got here, looks suddenly enormous. I wonder whether it’ll be thrilling or devastating to the set designers to watch it burn down.

  Everyone gets into position; Nick looks at me and then takes my hand. “You good?”

  “Yeah. You?”

  He shrugs and only then do I notice that his hand is shaking in mine. I lean forward, kissing his cheek, and then Gwen calls for quiet on the set.

  The fire crew gives the okay, the pyrotechnic specialist hits the trigger, and we’re rolling.

  I swear my heart has never beat like this. Not just fast, but thundering. We burst from the farmhouse in our pajamas, racing together across the lawn. Nick has to duck into the barn for buckets; he scrambles through a safe zone and back out, completing the shot. But the fire hasn’t stopped, and we’re still rolling.

  It’s such a tightly choreographed scene; the stunt coordinators having organized everything between the principal actors, the stunt doubles, the extras, and the crew, down to the most meticulous detail. Extras as townsfolk come in, in staggered waves, and we’re all throwing bucket after ineffectual bucket on the roaring flames. I know it’s all a set, that we’re safe—it isn’t real—but panic fills me like a rising tide. The fire isn’t just hot, it’s loud. It pops, whines, and cracks; the first wall of the barn screams before it collapses, right on cue, and the sound is deafening; the dust is real. So, too, is the feeling that we are battling this thing that we are never going to beat.

  It is hot, unlike anything I’ve ever felt before. Even beneath the protective gel, my face feels dry and crackling. I know we’re acting, but with Nick—Richard—at my side, doing everything he can to save our barn, I feel for the first time how genuinely terrifying it would be to have someone you know and see around town, who smiles to your face, try to burn down your home. I can’t fathom what it had to have been like for Luther, or the bond that must have existed between the two of them to press on, continue to fight against such bigotry and evil, and in the end truly live such vibrant, optimistic lives.

  After, Nick and I sit in the grass, staring at the hissing steam that rises from the wreckage as the firefighters ensure that every ember is gone. I think we’re both a little out of words, lost in our thoughts about our lives now set against the backdrop of what Richard and Ellen’s lives were then.

  “You okay?” I ask finally. Our faces are sooty, our limbs shaking from exertion.

  He lets out a low, quiet whistle. “That was intense.”

  “I know.”

  “That wasn’t even fiction, is the thing.” He wipes a trembling hand down his face. “It blows my fucking mind that someone would have burned down that barn—someone’s livelihood—just because some white folks didn’t agree with what kind of love was going on behind closed doors. It’s a miracle they both made it.” He pauses. “So many don’t.”

  I bend, resting my forehead on my arms. With the acrid smell of smoke still lingering on my skin I’m reminded all over again that this is bigger than a movie and the people who inspired it, and how the color of my skin means that I can empathize, but I’ll never truly understand. “I’m sorry,” I say, but the words feel insignificant. “It’s sickening.”

  When I look up, he points at the smoldering remains of the replica barn. “You asked me why I wanted this role? It’s amazing, okay, but I feel like people forget: shit like that happened and, honestly, still does. I want them to remember.”

  “They will.” I lean my head against his shoulder. I truly adore this man. “This fire, in particular, actually did happen,” I tell him. “The screenplay is about Sam’s grandparents.”

  He turns to look at me. “For real?”

  I nod. “I put it together a few weeks ago. His grandfather mentioned something about a barn fire when we first met. When we were shooting the scene with the men at the restaurant, it just felt so familiar. I confronted him and, yeah, it’s based on real events.”

  “You met his grandfather?”

  An uneasy wiggle takes up in my stomach, but I want him to know. Keep it simple, Tate. “Yeah. His name was Luther and he was pretty great. You’re a lot like him, you know. Both constantly up to no good.”

  He laughs and wraps an arm around my shoulders. “See? I knew there was something bigger there. You knew his family.”

  “I didn’t, really,” I insist. “Just while we were in London.”

  Nick absorbs this, and then gives me a sly grin. “How old did you say you were?”

  I think he’s making the connection, or maybe I’m just being paranoid. “I didn’t say.”

  A shadow looms over us both, and then I feel the warm presence of Sam settling into the grass on my other side. “How’s everyone doing?”

  It’s the first time he’s approached me and Nick together, the first time he’s approached me at all as a friend. The realization makes me glow inside.

  “I’m hot,” I groan, and lie back in the grass. In a breath, I realize what I’ve done: lying down beside Sam in the grass, looking up at the sky. For a few tense beats, I’m begging him to not lie down beside me.

  Thankfully, he doesn’t.

  “Man, I didn’t know this story was a biography,” Nick says.

  “Loose,” Sam says, “but yeah.”

  “Loose how?”

  “They raised me,” Sam explains, “but I left all that out.”

  “So this all happened before you came along?” Nick asks, and I assume he’s gesturing to the site of the barn fire, but my eyes are closed now as I half listen to the two of them talk. Their conversation wanders from Luther and Roberta, to growing up on a farm, to Nick growing up in Houston, to how cold the night is turning.

  “You think she’s asleep?” Nick asks after a while.

  I feel the heat of Sam’s body as he leans over me, getting a better look. “Maybe.”

  I am, but I’m not. I’m drifting, half-aware, comfortably buffeted from the wind by Sam’s body. It’s a return to childhood and listening to adults I trust talk in those meandering, easy ways while I can dip in and out of consciousness. On top of it, the sensation of grass at my back and the night sky on my face pulls me back years to that easy sensation of being absolutely blissed out in love with Sam, and feeling safe and known. I want to live in that space just a little longer.

  “I can carry her,” Sam says.

  A sharp ache slices through my sternum, and I sit up. “I’m awake. I’m good.”

  We stand up with quiet groans: sore joints from sitting on the ground too long out in the cold after an intense amount of physical exertion. Nick wraps his arms around my shoulders, kissing the top of my head. “You were good today, Tates.”

  I band my arms around his waist. “So were you.”

  “You were both perfect,” Sam says, behind me. Tonight the three of us skipped steps, shot up the secret friendship path in Candyland. I have the sense that the bond of this shoot will keep for years.

  “Come on.” Nick breaks the silence. “I gotta be fresh for tomorrow.”

  I gently chuck his chin. “You’ll be fine. Piece of cake.”

  Sam watches us, confused. “What’s tomorrow again?”

  “The sex scene,” I tell him, and without waiting for his reply, I turn, calling out over my shoulder, “We’re gonna be amazing again, Nicky. Good night, you
two.”

  twenty-two

  INT. MEYER FAMILY FARM, ELLEN BEDROOM — DAY

  Ellen is in her room. The late-afternoon sun filters through the window and washes the walls in gold. Ellen is changing clothes. Her shirt is unbuttoned. She’s soaked and dirty from a hard day’s work. She’s also angry.

  She looks up at a knock at the door.

  ELLEN

  Come in.

  Hat in hand, Richard starts to step inside but stops when he sees that she’s changing. He’s clearly flustered.

  RICHARD

  Oh—I’m—I’ll come back—

  With an impatient huff, Ellen pulls him into the room and closes the door behind them.

  ELLEN

  Don’t be ridiculous. I have to get these off and get back out there. Just… turn around.

  Richard turns to face the wall.

  RICHARD

  I see you’ve been running the tractor. I told you I could help.

  Behind him, we see Ellen slip off her shirt. Her bare back is exposed, and we hear the fabric flutter to the floor.

  ELLEN

  I have, but I’m sure that isn’t why you came up here.

  RICHARD

  I was in town and heard some people talking. They said your dad’s worse. That nobody’s seen him for a few weeks.

  Ellen slips off her pants, the fabric sliding slowly down her legs. In the window Richard sees her reflection, all curves and strong, capable muscle. He bows his head, looking away.

  ELLEN

  I don’t know why everyone can’t mind their own business. Jacob Hadley was up here yesterday and had the nerve to suggest I need a husband to take care of things.

  She steps into a pair of jeans.

  RICHARD

  I think people are just worried about you being alone up here taking care of him.

  ELLEN

  Where were all these worried people when Dad first got sick? When I had to take care of him and everything else. Where were they then?

  RICHARD

  Well I was in North Carolina…

  ELLEN

  You know I’m not talking about you.

  RICHARD

  But why not?

  ELLEN

  Why not what?

  RICHARD

  Why aren’t we talking about me? I worry about you too.

  ELLEN

  I don’t need you to worry about me.

  RICHARD

  I know that. I know you don’t need anything from me. I don’t need anything from you, either. Doesn’t mean I don’t want you.

  She stops buttoning her shirt. She turns to face him.

  RICHARD (cont’d)

  I want to give you everything.

  ELLEN

  Look at me.

  Richard slowly turns around. He takes in her unbuttoned shirt and slowly meets her eyes.

  ELLEN (cont’d)

  You sure I’m what you want? This? Here? You willing to take that on? I can’t fall again and pick up my own pieces. I don’t have it in me.

  He takes a step forward. Slips her shirt off her shoulders and lets it fall to the floor. We see her naked back as she leans in and kisses him.

  * * *

  Two hours later, the knock that I’ve been dreading sounds at the hair and makeup trailer door.

  Charlie tilts her head as she swipes a touch of powder under my eyes. “She’s decent,” she calls out.

  I’m not sure decent is the right word, considering that under this robe I’m in nothing more than pasties and the world’s smallest nude thong. I’ve been waxed and moisturized and airbrushed. Every scar and freckle has been painstakingly concealed, and this particular wig has been tousled just enough to look like I’ve spent the day in someone’s bed. Which is unfortunately what I’m about to do.

  The trailer opens and Devon’s dimpled smile appears in the doorway. “You ready to do this?”

  “Ready to roll around naked in front of a camera?” I ask. No point in putting it off. “Sure. Just your average Tuesday.”

  I once read that sex scenes in movies are just like actual sex, but with none of the pleasure and all of the awkward, fear, anxiety, and stress that come with it. They were not wrong. The good thing—if I had to pick a good thing—is that when done right, a sex scene can completely change a love story. It’s when we’re at our most vulnerable; when we let down walls and let another person see who we truly are. A lot of that rests on the actors’ shoulders, but the director and crew factor in as well. They set the tone for the shoot and the scene, determine how close the shots are, and let us know when it’s working and when it’s not.

  As a director, Gwen is known for being meticulous. The love scenes are no different. We know exactly how the scene will be blocked, how we’ll move and what we want to come across on camera. I’m not looking forward to this, but at least we’ll all be prepared.

  On days like today, only essential crew members are present. As we return to the room that’s designed to look like Ellen’s bedroom in the farmhouse, I see Gwen, Liz, Feng, the camera operator, the assistant camera operator, the boom operator, script supervisor… and Sam. It never occurred to me that he’d be here.

  I stop short but I needn’t have bothered, because he’s already headed my way. “I tried to grab you before you left earlier,” he says immediately, expression tight with what I can only assume is panic.

  I’m feeling a little panicked myself. Today will be hard enough, but knowing Sam will be here too? I mean, shit, we’ve just found some easy, solid ground. I’m not ready to be naked in front of him all day. “Sorry, I went for a run and then had hair and makeup.” I bite my lip.

  Why am I explaining myself?

  “So, if you look at your contract you’ll see I’m supposed to be here,” he says. “But since my name wouldn’t have meant anything to you before, you probably wouldn’t have noticed. I tried to tell Gwen I wasn’t needed but she said she’d prefer if I stay.” He runs a nervous hand through his hair and then looks around before lowering his voice. “I didn’t know what else to say without telling her too much… ”

  “No… it’s fine,” I say, exhaling a slow, steady stream. “Really. We’re all professionals, and I mean… it’s not like you haven’t seen it all before. Though fourteen years of gravity takes its toll… ” The joke lands harshly and creates a dead zone of uncomfortable silence.

  “Right,” Sam says finally.

  Thankfully, we’re rescued when Charlie comes over to check my makeup.

  Her glare follows Sam as he steps away and takes his seat just behind Gwen. “What is he doing here?”

  “His job.” I close my eyes as she runs a brush over each of my lids.

  “Well he better do his job in the dark corner over there. Behind a thick wall.”

  I look at her. “Charlie. Come on. He’s not Satan anymore.”

  “Tater, you’re going to be naked all day.”

  “Uh, yeah, I’m aware.”

  “You can’t blame me for being protective. It’s like when a friend breaks up with someone and tells you all the terrible things about them. They get back together but you’re just supposed to forget about it all?”

  “We’re not— You know that’s not what’s happening here.”

  “Fine. But if I see him looking at your boobs, I’m going to beat his ass. I’m ride or die Team Tate here. That’s my job.”

  When I turn back, Nick is watching us.

  “Everything okay?” he asks, tilting his head as Trey makes some last-minute checks on his makeup.

  “Just ready to get this over with.”

  Trey barks out a laugh and Nick reaches over to pinch my arm. “I can assure you that is the only time I’ve ever heard a woman say that to me.”

  * * *

  In the middle of some passionate thrusting, Gwen cuts and I have no choice but to stare up to where Nick is hovering—naked—above me. He’s not really naked, of course. He’s wearing a modesty pouch (a glorified penis sock) and has e
nough glycerin and rose water on his back to make it look like we’ve been at this for a long, long time. Which, frankly, it feels like we have.

  A sheet covers my right breast, and Nick’s arm blocks any view of the other. I’m at a place in my career where I can stipulate what I will and will not show. By contrast, Nick’s entire ass is on display.

  “Do you know what time it is?” I ask.

  “I left my watch in my pocket and, as you may have noticed, I’m not wearing pants.” For as awkward as it must be to have your junk in a sock and a pillow between you and the parts you’re supposed to be convincingly fucking, Nick is still as easy to be with as ever.

  “I meant, can you see a clock or a sun dial or something. All I can see from this angle is your gleaming chest.”

  He shifts slightly. “I can’t see a clock, but I can see our screenwriter. And he does not look happy.”

  This piques my interest, and without thinking, I try to crane my neck and get a look for myself. Nick stops me with a gentle hand to my shoulder. If I move, the shots won’t line up, and we’ll have to do the scene all over again. I know this, but the idea of Sam’s frowny reaction is throwing me.

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah, ‘Oh,’ ” he says with a shake of his head. “You ever going to tell me what really happened between you two or should I continue with the most lurid version I can imagine?”

  I’m saved for a few moments when Gwen calls for us to pick up where we left off, for me to bend my leg and slide it up toward Nick’s side, for him to kiss down my neck.

  “That’s right, that’s right,” Gwen calls out; her voice will be cut out later. “Arch your neck a little more, Tate.”

  “Yeah, give her what she’s looking for, Tate,” Nick whispers against my throat, his face hidden from view. “And tell me why Mr. Intense over there looks like someone just canceled his birthday.”

  The moan I give for the camera might be fake, but the way his words snag and hold my attention is completely real.

  “I mean, I am playing his grandmother in this scene. I’m sure he’s not enjoying watching this.”