Twice in a Blue Moon

by Christina Lauren

  His desperate incoherence throws me. In the barely there light, when I look up I can see the angry red bite on his neck, the conflict on his face. He presses into my thigh, and we both fall still.

  I am a girl made of a million questions. Or, maybe, just two:

  Do you really want this? Or is this part of your penance?

  “Are you going to regret this?” he asks.

  In truth, maybe. But it would wreck me to watch him back away right now, put himself together, and climb out of the truck.

  “I’d regret it more if we stopped.”

  He ducks his head, chin to chest, and seems to debate whether this is good enough for him. But I want to touch. I unbutton his shirt, tiny button by tiny button, and spread it open, feeling the hard, smooth expanse of his chest. He is a continent, maybe even a planet over me.

  Fingertips brush across his nipples, down to his stomach, and the muscles there clench under my hands. I trail a finger across the soft hair, and find him, making the decision for both of us, bringing him to me.

  Sam’s hips come forward, and he adjusts his position with one leg on the floor of the backseat and one wedged on the seat. He pulls my legs around him, and when I hear his shaking exhale, it sounds like the most exhausted kind of relief. Like succumbing to sleep on a battlefield.

  “Tate,” he says, and rests his head on my shoulder. “You don’t know what you do to me.”

  I try to tell my body, Focus on this, just here, don’t remember, don’t compare, but it’s hard because nothing and no one has ever felt like Sam. There isn’t an army of men between then and now who’ve been this tall, this broad, this capable of blocking out the sky overhead or the grass beneath and just giving me nothing but him. There’s never been another sensation like this, and it’s impossible to not feel that, somewhere deep in that ancient part of my brain that stores up these perfect experiences and brings them forward when I get even a little whiff of them again. See? It says. This is what you’ve been waiting for.

  But I’m not getting a little whiff, I’m getting everything. Sam is giving me everything, in deep, long strokes and his mouth on my neck, his hand on my ass pulling me up to him, onto him, and then he reaches between us, his thumb finding what it wants, and he circles, and circles, and I can see him moving in the odd hazy light, and can see his stomach growing tight and that’s what does it for me, that realization that this feels good to him, and it feels so good and so fast that he’s close and we barely started.

  My back arches away from the soft leather of his seat and he rears up, bringing his other hand there, holding me while I fall. He tells me he’s coming, saying my name again and again and when he finally does come, he makes a sound I’ve never heard before. It’s a cry, muffled by my neck.

  Then I hear nothing but crickets outside and the jagged push-pull of Sam’s breath and mine. He stills, and then slowly shifts us so he’s sitting and I’m on top. I think he wants to look at me, for me to look at him, but it’s not that easy. I think looking right at him might make me crumble, so instead, I focus on his jaw.

  His hands come up, cupping my neck. “You okay?”

  “I’m not sure yet.”

  He leans forward, resting his mouth on my shoulder. “I admit I don’t love that answer.”

  “I don’t have a better one right now.” This swirl of reactions is too big to process in this small space, especially when all I can smell or feel or hear is Sam.

  His mouth makes a tender path from my shoulder to my neck, to my jaw. “I’d do anything to get you back.”

  “You never tried to find me. Even here, you’ve been so careful. I don’t see you fighting.”

  “I figured it wasn’t my right to try.”

  I close my eyes and lean forward, resting my forehead on the bulk of his shoulder. I can’t exactly argue with that. If he’d pushed me, I would have shoved him away. And when he was cautious and distant, it felt like disinterest.

  “I haven’t been good for anyone else,” he says.

  “That makes two of us.”

  “Tate, come on, talk to me about this. Is there even a chance here? If there isn’t, I need to know. This isn’t just fucking for me.”

  “It isn’t for me, either,” I tell him.

  He cups my face, turning me to him and kissing me, and it gives me an excuse to close my eyes. I am both relieved almost to the point of debilitation, and mildly nauseous—I was going to get up and leave in a perfect display of love-him-and-leave-him, and here I am, melting under his touch. I push the thought away, unwilling to trip down the road of self-flagellation. I wanted this, wanted him, and here I am.

  I can deal with the fallout.

  “We’re in the backseat of a truck,” he laughs into a kiss, “but I don’t want to leave. Not for anything.”

  And with this, Sam’s just reminded me that he’s still inside me, still half-hard. The single kiss melts into another, and I’m lost again, dizzy from the taste of him. His hands slide down over my shoulders, around my back to the zipper of my dress, and it’s like we’re doing everything backward—undressing after the sex—and soon he’s exposed my back and then is sliding the fabric down my arms and pressing his mouth to my collarbone.

  The words spill out of me: “I am okay. There’s your answer. I’m better than okay.” I push my fingers into his hair. “I missed you.”

  At this, his hands go from gentle to hungry, to desperate. I hold his head to me as he pulls my breast into his mouth, gripping the other in his palm, and we go from still to moving again.

  twenty-four

  IT’S UNREAL TO ME that, only a day later, we’re already having the wrap party. It’s been a surreal time warp from the moment Marco and I drove down the gravelly path to meet Devon to now. I’ve been so preoccupied with what happened between Sam and me last night that I’m disoriented when I see a few crew members walking past my cabin, dressed up instead of in sweaters and jeans.

  The party is so loud I can hear it before the Community House comes into view. It’s the golden hour, that elusive period of perfection when the sun is still above the horizon, but just barely. Scenes shot in this light always take my breath away, but the moment is so fleeting, the sky shifting from blue to sherbet colored too quickly for anything requiring multiple takes.

  In fact, it seems to get darker with each step; the shadows growing longer all but disappear by the time the Community House comes into view.

  Inside, the main room is packed, drinks passed around and plates piled high. Someone’s been brought in to cater and even the craft services folks get to enjoy themselves.

  My eyes scan the crowd. I’d like to play coy and pretend I’m not looking for him, but even I know it’d be a lie. I haven’t seen Sam since we climbed out of his truck and he left me at my cabin at the crack of dawn, early enough to avoid an awkward encounter when Devon came knocking for my call time. Sam should be easy to spot—standing at least a head above everyone else—but I don’t see him anywhere.

  “I can only assume you’re looking for me.” It’s Charlie, dressed in leggings and a long sweater, makeup as camera ready as always. She loops an arm around my shoulders and I lean into her.

  “I mean, obviously,” I lie, and we probably both know it.

  A server passes with a tray loaded with sparkling pink cocktails, and Charlie snags two, passing one to me and looking out over the crowd as she takes a small sip. “I can’t believe we go home soon.”

  I take the glass and try not to let on how my eyes keep finding their way back to the door, hoping to catch Sam walking in. “I know. It feels like we just got here.”

  “This gorgeous place. That lake. The endless possibilities for skinny-dipping and rolling around in the literal hay, and neither of us got any.” She raises an eyebrow at me.

  I down my drink a little too fast. “Yeah. About that.”

  She slowly turns.

  “I sort of,” I say, hesitating while I try to come up with the best way to say this. T
here isn’t one. “I had sex with Sam. Last night.”

  Charlie’s brows disappear beneath the sharp edge of her bangs. “I know I heard that wrong because there is no way you, of all people”—she leans in to whisper-hiss—“would sleep with a married man.”

  “Apparently he’s not. I mean, he was but they’ve been divorced for about three years. The girls I heard him mention are hers, but with her new husband. Twins.”

  Knocking back the rest of her drink, she eyes me shrewdly before reaching for my hand and pulling me toward the door. “Follow me, young lady.”

  Outside, we head down one of the trails that lead away from the Community House. The sun is gone entirely now, and the light is soft and diffused, like the world is suddenly wrapped in a blue filter. Charlie pulls her sweater tight around her body against the chill.

  “So,” she says. “You and Sam. Hot dates.” She narrows her eyes at me. “Lovers.”

  “Not exact—”

  Charlie holds up a hand. “Tate Jones, do not lie to me right now, or so help me I will throttle you. You told me you slept with him. With Satan.”

  I take a deep breath, knowing that straightforward is best with Charlie. “He was weird yesterday during the love scene, so I confronted him and asked what his deal was.”

  The protective glint in her eye is visible even in the fading light. We pass one of the small cabins where smoke rises from the chimney. The little rectangular windows glow against the dark wood. “He was jealous,” I say.

  “Huh.”

  “Yep.”

  “Wow.” She lets this sink in for a few more steps, long enough to reach where the path narrows, running beneath the overstretched branches of two apple trees. Fallen leaves are pressed into the ground beneath our feet, and crickets start to chirp from the fields across from us. “What did you say?”

  “I don’t even remember what I said. I was yelling and then he was yelling and then we were at the truck he rented and—”

  She stops. “A truck?”

  In hindsight, I’m not sure how to explain how it happened. The decision was more sensation than thought, a bubble of longing that expanded in my chest until I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think of anything but the feeling of his hands on me again.

  Charlie looks away, down the trail toward the apple orchard. I don’t need to ask what she’s thinking—it’s written all over her face.

  Turning back, she searches my expression. Her cherry-red mouth—usually open in laughter or a cutting remark—is pulled into a firm line, her eyes tight with worry. “I just want you to be happy.” Her features soften. “This makes me worry.”

  “I know.” I take a breath, attempting to form words around the feeling that’s been building inside my chest. “Despite everything that’s happened, whatever was there… it hasn’t changed. It was like being back in that garden, being eighteen again.”

  “You know I’m always on your side. If you think this is a good idea and will make you happy… I’ll work on it.” She shakes her head. “I can’t believe you had sex in a parking lot.”

  Footsteps sound on the trail and we glance over as Dad comes into view, hands tucked in the pockets of his jacket.

  “Hey, kiddo,” he says, leaning to place a kiss against my forehead. “You two headed into the party?”

  With a thumb over her shoulder, Charlie motions toward the muffled sound of Top 40 behind us. “As a matter of fact, I was just heading in. Need to find Trey and make a game plan for when we get home.” She turns to me. “Tater, we’re not done talking about that thing.”

  Dad frowns. “ ‘Thing?’ ”

  “Nothing—” I say, just as Charlie says, “A truck. Tate’s thinking about buying a truck. Took it out for a test drive last night and everything. Said the stick shift stuck a little but the ride was goo—”

  “Right,” I cut in. “Thanks a lot, Charlie. Your advice was very helpful. Have fun inside.”

  Charlie waves over her shoulder and walks away with a little bounce in her step. I decide to unscrew all her foundation bottles later.

  When she’s gone, I turn back to Dad. “Were you going to the party?”

  “I was.”

  “Okay, well.” I motion for him to lead the way back down the small hill, and fall into step behind him. “Is Marissa coming?”

  “She left last night, actually. Couldn’t miss any more class.”

  “I liked her. She seems smart.”

  “She’s lovely.”

  “When are you leaving?”

  “Friday.”

  Awkward awkward awkward. “Yeah,” I say. “Me too.”

  “How’s your mom doing?” he asks. “I haven’t talked to her in a few months.”

  “She’s good. You know Mom. She’d be good anywhere.”

  He smiles. “That’s true. I remember shooting this western when you were little, and you both came on set. It was awful. This tiny little ghost town in the middle of nowhere. Nothing for you guys to do. But I’d come back at the end of the day and your mom had found this old trough or something, had cleaned it up and made you a swimming pool.”

  “How old was I?”

  “I don’t know, three, maybe? It looked ridiculous, but you two were having the time of your life.”

  “I don’t think she ever told me about that.” But it sounds exactly like something Mom would do. Turning a trough into a swimming pool. Making an old playhouse into a chicken coop, complete with a tiny beaded chandelier. Taking something forgotten and making it new again.

  “Probably doesn’t remember,” he says. “It was a long time ago.”

  We walk a little ways, the silence between us growing louder with each step. “The shoot went by so fast,” I say.

  “It did. I’m glad we decided to do this together. You did good, kid. I’m proud of you.”

  “I… ” A hundred words collide in my head, and I can’t seem to put any of them together. It’s not that Dad hasn’t complimented me before, it’s that it’s usually followed by something cutting, or there’s somebody else there, an audience to witness his show of fatherly encouragement. I resist looking to see if there’s someone up ahead or trailing behind; I know we’re alone. “Thanks.”

  I can hear the music up ahead and it occurs to me I don’t know when we’ll see each other again. “Where are you off to next?”

  “Home for a while,” he says. “Not sure after that. I’ve been waiting to hear back on a few things.”

  “Maybe… ” I start, my inner cynic holding me back, the hopeful daughter urging me forward. “Maybe we could do Christmas this year? Or Thanksgiving?”

  He looks almost as surprised by my question as I am. “Oh, that sounds nice, Tate. Let me check with Althea and I’ll let you know, okay?”

  “Of course.” I’m out of my depth and don’t want to push. “I’ll be home for a few weeks, so give me a call. Or a text, or—whatever.”

  We round a corner in the trail and the Community House comes into view, light from the wide porch spilling out onto the ground below.

  “I wanted to talk to Gwen before I left, did you—?” he starts, motioning toward the party.

  “No,” I insist. “Go ahead. I need to find Nick anyway.”

  He smiles and ruffles my hair before heading toward the house. Not ready to go inside just yet, I follow a trail of stone pavers set into the ground, moving from each one until I reach a greenhouse near the back.

  I’m just about to look inside when I hear voices around the corner.

  “Was it surreal seeing all of this? Hearing actors say lines you wrote?” someone says, and I recognize one of the boom operators and a few others from the crew, and Sam.

  “Yeah,” Sam says, and then pauses. “I never thought we’d get this far, so I’ve just tried to enjoy every second. The casting was perfect.”

  “But didn’t I hear you had a problem with Tate at first?”

  I step closer, still in the shadows but able to see them now illuminated in a small con
e of yellow light.

  Sam waves him away, his movements a little exaggerated, and I wonder how many of those pink cocktails he’s had. “No. She was perfect. I wrote it with her in mind.”

  I stop, feeling my pulse drop in my throat. He what?

  “I’ve got a couple of films with her in mind,” one of the crew jokes.

  Someone adds, “Date with Tate,” and everyone but Sam laughs knowingly.

  I see Sam stand to his full height, chest forward as if he’s going to address this with fists. I step fully out of the shadows, clearing my throat.

  They all startle, straightening and tucking their beers behind their backs as if I’m their mom and just walked in on them watching porn.

  “Hey,” I say quickly, looking up at Sam, trying to communicate for him to Be cool. After a few mumbled words of greeting—and it’s awkward because it’s very clear I’ve overheard what they were saying—they quickly make excuses and head back toward the party.

  When it’s just the two of us, I pull Sam into the greenhouse. It’s quiet inside, and the air is damp and scented with soil. The open panels let in just enough light for me to make out his expression. He’s trimmed his beard, but even with it still there, I can see how tight his jaw is. I stand across from him in one of the narrow aisles.

  “Hey you. Everything okay?”

  “I think you stopped me from punching Kevin.”

  I laugh. “I think I did.”

  He bends, wiping a hand over his face. “Holy shit. That would have been bad.”

  “You can’t do that,” I say quietly. “If you want to do this with me, you can’t get riled up about stupid shit like that.”

  He steps forward, crowding me against one of the metal tables. “I do. I won’t.”

  I start to say more but he cups my face in his hand and bends, not kissing me yet, just breathing, sharing the same air. He smells like the cherries from his drink, warm and sweet, lips stained slightly pink. When he presses forward, he tastes like cherries, too. His hand goes around the back of my neck as he opens his mouth, soft and sucking.

  There’s no place to go, and he lifts me, setting me on the table and stepping between my open legs. I’m surrounded by flowers; the air is sweet and bordering on too warm, a contrast to the bite of cold coming in through the open door. He kisses me again, harder now with tongue and teeth, dragging over my lip and pulling me deeper.