Flying Gold

by Vanessa North

  “We don’t have this location tomorrow.” I respect him—or his reputation anyway; this is the first day we’ve worked together—but he seems unfocused and fickle, two traits I loathe in a director.

  “I know.” He digs the heels of his hands into his eyes. “I know. But the problem isn’t the actors, or the lighting, or your work. It’s the scene. It’s the writing. I don’t like it. I’m not going to waste time shooting something that’s going to end up cut. We’ll rewrite it.”

  “Fine.” I turn my back to him and gesture a cutting motion at Elspeth. She nods and gets to work breaking down our equipment, barking orders at the lighting crew.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Jeremy’s hand on my shoulder spins me around.

  “Nothing. You’re the boss.”

  “Yeah, but we’re a team, right?” He bites at his thumbnail.

  “Sure. A team. A crew. Whatever. It’s fine. We’re good, Jeremy.”

  “Are we? Do you think we should shoot it again?”

  “Why do you care what I think? You’re the director. All this is up to you.” I gesture at the set. “You tell me what you want from my crew, and I’ll make that happen. I can make my cameras do anything you want, but I can’t figure out what you want for you.”

  “Right.” He crosses his arms over his chest. “Sometimes I don’t know what I want until I see it. Sometimes I think what I want will work and then it doesn’t.”

  “That’s fair.” I turn off the camera. “You got some really great footage today. Maybe you’ll feel better about this scene when you can put it in context.”

  “Sure. Or maybe I’ll still hate it.” He shrugs.

  “Maybe.” I fake a brightness and turn my back to him again. It’s going to be a long year.

  Two hours later, I open the door to my temporary home, a nondescript beige apartment, the smell of paint and new carpet still fresh in the air, and I sink down into the bland gray sofa.

  I’m restless—itching to call American Heavy Metal and find out what’s going on with the car. Even more, I’m itching to drive it, to really drive it, pedal to the floor, all that power in my hands. If I can get the engine tuned in time, I can even enter the CAM racing series. The idea of it was just a whimsy a couple weeks ago, but now it seems like the perfect fucking relief from dealing with an indecisive director.

  But a glance at my phone tells me American Heavy Metal is closed for the day, and whatever I’m hoping to hear will have to wait until tomorrow.

  I text Trent. Keeping my place clean?

  His reply comes almost instantly. At an audition. I’ll call you later.

  Right, because it’s only three in the afternoon there. I know eventually I’ll settle into a rhythm here in Atlanta, but with the exception of Elspeth, I don’t know my crew or any of the actors yet. I’m alone, in a city that doesn’t feel like home. Unable to distract myself, I let my thoughts race back to the call with Tegan Ellis this morning.

  “My father passed away last summer.”

  Tiffani worshipped her dad. I remember him as a mix of stern and affable, a tall man with grease-stained hands and a Tom Selleck mustache, quick to laugh but unwilling to take any bullshit from anyone. He seemed invincible when I was in high school, and for him to be gone—it can’t be real.

  I open Facebook on my phone, and I type in Tiffani Ellis’s name. Nothing comes up. Maybe she’s not on Facebook. I’m not naive enough to think everyone is on Facebook, but I’d hoped.

  I try Instagram. Same.

  I bounce back to Facebook, starting to feel like a creep. I try Tegan’s name instead, and up pops her profile. Single, interested in women, attended Royal High School, family members... Tanner, Tyler... Tiffani isn’t listed. So she’s not on Facebook. Still, I scroll through Tegan’s photos, looking for any glimpse of the girl I remember, the girl I loved.

  The photo I finally find is from last summer, but it steals my breath and makes me grin.

  She’s standing in the bed of a truck, a microphone in one hand and a checkered flag in the other, both held up in the air. Cut-off denim shorts, so short the bottom corner of the pockets are visible, do nothing to hide tanned, muscular legs before they disappear into cowboy boots. A grease-stained tank top is also cropped short, baring a toned midriff and powerful arms. Strong and curvy, freckled and grinning, with her black hair curling every which way around her shoulders, she is stunning—a goddess.

  And I’m a creeper stalking her on Facebook. My face flushes with embarrassment, and I turn off my phone and toss it aside.

  But I can’t stop wondering—had the photo been taken before her father passed away? And the flag—had she won the race? Was that smile a grin of victory? Tegan’s caption hadn’t given away any secrets.

  I resist the urge to pick up my phone and dig deeper. I won’t get any answers on social media, and none of this is any of my business, anyway. One thing life has taught me well: boredom and curiosity are a terrible combination.

  Chapter Three

  Tiffani

  The first time I saw Matt Adams I was in tenth grade. I’d heard of him. The new kid. New kids weren’t so unusual at Royal High—usually they were kids from town whose parents had homeschooled them through the middle grades and then relented and let them go to school for the rest. They’d still been around for science fairs and club sports games.

  Matt was different. He was a kid from town, but he’d gone away to school, like something out of a movie. Rumor had it his family had fuck-you money but something bad had happened and he was forced to enroll in Royal High. No one knew what the “something bad” was. Stock market crashing? Messy divorce? Death in the family leaving them shocked and destitute?

  Everyone in school was obsessed.

  Of course I wasn’t. Or I pretended I wasn’t.

  I walked into third period English, and he was sitting in the front row, the seat closest to the door. He looked up as I entered the room, and he smiled. It was a big, excited smile, the kind you give your best friend when you haven’t seen them all summer. It lit him up from the inside like he had one of those football stadium lights in his brain and it was all pouring out his eyes.

  Naturally, I looked over my shoulder to see who he was grinning at.

  Nobody.

  I looked back at him and the smile had widened, and he looked so nice. His hair was dark and sort of floppy, and he wore wire-framed glasses. When I realized the smile was for me, my face got hot and my stomach got squirmy and the ground seemed to fall away.

  There’s no floor under me now as I make my way from the shop to the office.

  I wish like hell Duke were here and I could hide. But I’m the only tech here—besides Tyler, and what I’m not gonna do is send my baby brother out to face my ex—and someone has to tell the asshole that his car ain’t broken.

  Tanner looks up at me when I walk in, and she gestures with her head. “Matt went out front to take a phone call.”

  “How’s Duke?”

  She looks down at the desk and her face crumples. “He’s going to be fine.”

  “I didn’t ask how he’s going to be.”

  “He’s pissing blood, his eye’s swollen shut, he’s doped up on painkillers and he’s sexually harassing the poor guy who has to check his pee for blood.”

  I snort. “So, about like expected then.”

  She laughs. “Yeah. He asked me to marry him.”

  Finally. He asked for my blessing weeks ago, then went and fucked everything up. Or maybe she fucked it up. I look at her finger—no ring. “You better say yes.”

  She grins. “I did. We’re done pretending we’re too tough to care.”

  “Thank goodness.” I grin back. “I’m really glad. You two don’t make any sense, but you work.”

  Her smile falls and all the air seems to have been sucked out of the room. I turn.
/>
  There’s Matt Adams, in the flesh. His shoulders are wider than I remember, a T-shirt stretching taut across his chest. His face is sharpened with maturity. Where dark curls once flopped over his forehead, his hair’s been cut short and smoothed back into a pompadour, one of those dapper old-school barbershop cuts. Even though he’s only twenty-seven, it’s shot through with silver, and dark-rimmed glasses perch on his nose. And he’s smiling—like the sun itself is pouring out of his eyes.

  That smile is a kick in the gut, because even after everything, I remember all the times I tried to kiss it off his face. I look over my shoulder at Tanner, to see how she reacts to it, but then he laughs and I look back at him, a decade of hurt turning my stomach.

  “You still look over your shoulder when someone smiles at you, like you can’t believe it’s for you.” There’s so much nostalgia, so much fondness in his voice, I want to kick him. How dare he?

  “There’s nothing wrong with your fucking car.” I toss his keys at his chest, wiping the grin from his face. “It’s running fine.”

  “Tiffani.” Tanner’s voice is shocked—disapproving even.

  Matt’s brow furrows and he catches that full bottom lip between his teeth, something he used to do when he was concentrating, and I push back against the memories of that concentration—that focus—on me, on my face, my body.

  When he speaks, his voice is slow and controlled, like he’s explaining something to a small child. “It left me stranded on 285.”

  “I drove it all over Royal. It runs fine. You probably stalled it.”

  “Even I can’t stall an automatic.” He still does that excited thing when he talks, big gestures with his hands, like we’re sharing some exciting plan. “Besides, if I stalled it, why wouldn’t it start, right?”

  “Could. Not. Replicate. The. Problem.” I fold my arms over my chest. “Bye.”

  “Did you even try?”

  “Jesus, Tiffani, just take him for a drive,” Tanner interrupts, then glares at Matt. “Excuse us, please.”

  He nods, his full lips thinned into a frown, and steps outside the office, shutting the door behind him.

  “I’m going to excuse your lack of professionalism because I understand you two have history. But we’ve got too much going on right now to tiptoe around hurt feelings. See if you can replicate the problem. See if he can. Be a fucking grownup.”

  Ouch. Sometimes I forget Tanner isn’t just my nerdy older sister, but also the big boss. And a hard-ass businesswoman. And I hate being caught out acting like a petulant kid at work.

  “Okay.” I stare down at my feet, embarrassed and hurt.

  “Hey.” Tanner’s voice softens and I look up. “Have you taken a look at our books? We can’t turn away business. I would do it if I could. Or send Duke. But he’s not well enough, and I haven’t got the skills.”

  “I know.”

  “I’m sorry you have to deal with this.”

  That’s something at least. “Thanks.”

  I push open her office door and Matt’s standing outside. This time no grin, but I almost wish he would, because he’s staring at me like I kicked his puppy, and really, how dare he?

  “Tiffani—”

  “Let’s go.” I walk past him, out the door of the shop, into a too-warm-for-February afternoon. I stop, turning my face into the sun, and I ask whatever powers may be up there for the strength not to give a fuck.

  Matt

  I’ve spent the last five years looking through cameras at some of the most famously beautiful faces on the planet, but none of them hold a candle to the first girl I ever loved, and nothing could have prepared me for the heart-wrenching realization that the angry woman in the driver’s seat isn’t the girl I remember. And that’s my fault. I’m the stupidest motherfucker to ever live.

  Tiffani Ellis isn’t just the first person I ever kissed or the person I lost my virginity with, though those kinds of firsts stay with a man. I never felt more alive than when we were together, and over the years I told myself it was nostalgia, the sweetness of youth, fond memories. But sitting in her presence—it knocks the breath out of me. Sweet Jesus, she’s riveting.

  Her skin is translucent and glowing, a sheen of sweat over freckles. She smells like motor oil and strawberries, a heady combination that takes me back in time. We’re flying down the old state road in my new old car with the windows down, and it would be exactly like high school again except for one thing: I’m completely miserable.

  “I’m sorry,” I tell her, knowing it won’t make anything better. But it might make me feel less guilty.

  She speeds up, a terrifying gleam in her eye, but she doesn’t say anything.

  “About your dad. I’m sorry,” I try again.

  She barely slows down as she enters a corner, and I find myself gripping the edges of my seat. I reach back into the memories from high school, pulling up the one where she hated her name so I called her—

  “Ani, you’re scaring the shit out of me, can you please slow down?”

  “You never used to be scared.” She speeds up. “You used to like it when I drove fast. You’d laugh and sing that Coldplay song you loved.”

  “That’s not really—Jesus.” I close my eyes as another car hurtles past us in the opposite direction. “Tiffani.”

  She slows back to something closer to the speed limit, but she doesn’t look at me. “No one ever called me Ani. It’s not my name.”

  A part of me is glad, because that was something that was just ours, something she never shared with anyone else. But I called her that.

  “Sorry.”

  “You keep saying that.” Her lips flattening into a line. “What are you sorry for?”

  “I’m sorry I brought back bad memories. I’m sorry your dad is gone. I’m just sorry.”

  She sneers, pulling up to a stop sign and putting the car in Neutral. “You sure are. What kind of man pretends his car is broken so he can harass the woman he cheated on in high school?”

  “I’m not pretending anything. I’m not here to harass you—I didn’t even know you were still in Royal. And I don’t think there’s anything you can say that will make me feel worse about what happened at that graduation party than I already do.”

  “You can’t even say it. What happened is you fucked Ashley Whitmire.”

  I close my eyes. I can’t deny it—and I never would. It was bad enough I broke her heart. I wouldn’t lie about it.

  “I did. I fucked Ashley Whitmire. I was young, drunk, and stupid. And I am still sorry, ten years later. But that has nothing to do with why I’m here.”

  “I don’t believe you,” she whispers. And then two things happen at the exact same time—we both open our mouths to speak, and the car shudders and dies.

  Vindicated.

  “I told you! I fucking told you.” I’m grinning from ear to ear, and she’s furious, but I can’t help it. “You fucking believe me now!”

  “I hate you.” She turns the key, but the car doesn’t start. “I really fucking hate you. Get out and help me push.”

  For the second time this week, I’m pushing my car off to the side of the road, which is a weird thing to gloat about, but then Tiffani has the phone pressed to her ear and is shooting daggers out her gorgeous hazel eyes.

  “Teegs? Can you call Jamie and tell him I need a tow out at the intersection of the old state road and Holly Way? Yeah. Do we have any ignition coils for a ’70 Chevelle? No? Order one just in case.”

  “I told you I didn’t stall it,” I say as soon as she hangs up.

  “I was wrong, you were right. Gloating looks douchey on you.” She rolls her eyes and starts unbraiding her hair, detangling it with her fingers as she goes. The smell of strawberries carries over to where I’m still basking in my victory, douchey though it may be.

  “Ignition coil, eh? How much will that
cost?”

  “Google it, double it, and add $150 for my labor. And that’s if it’s your ignition coil. It could be any number of things.”

  “Double it? What’s that, a douchebag tax? You’re charging me a douchebag tax?”

  She actually smiles at that. “It’s standard markup.” Her smile turns wicked. “But I’d charge you a douchebag tax if I could. I bet you still listen to navel-gazing music.”

  “Guilty.” I step closer to her, careful to give her space, but eager to close some of the distance between us now that she’s thawing a little bit.

  She eyes me from the side like a skittish horse and starts braiding her hair again. In high school, she’d always worn it down.

  “Why don’t you leave it down?”

  “Can’t. It could get caught in stuff at the shop.”

  “And the braid can’t?”

  “I tuck it into the back of my coveralls while I’m in my bay.”

  “Oh.” I fall silent, watching her wrap the elastic around the end of the braid. We wait in silence for several minutes, her with her arms folded across her chest, me trying not to stare at her and make her nervous.

  Finally, I come out and ask, “Why did you stay? Here in Royal?”

  Her eyes meet mine, holding my gaze for a long moment before glancing away. “I like the cars. And Dad paid me like any other tech, so I was making good money.”

  “I thought you were going to SCAD.” Oh, I tried to convince her to come away to New York with me once I got the scholarship to Columbia, but she wouldn’t leave her dad.

  “I went for a semester.”

  “Just one?”

  “Art school wasn’t for me.” Her chin trembles, and I’m dying to ask her more about it, but the tow truck pulls up and she shakes her head and gets back to work. When my car is up on the truck bed, she turns back to me. “How are you getting back to Atlanta?”

  “I borrowed my PA, Luis’s, car. It’s back at your shop.”

  She grimaces, then climbs into the cab of the tow truck and scoots up next to the driver. There’s no backseat. I climb up next to her.