Close Up

by Elise Faber

  I gasped. “No.”

  “Yup.”

  “Apparently my dad had scared her that morning before work, jumping out from behind her car and making her spill her coffee. She hadn’t had time for a replacement because she’d spent an hour before work unsticking my ass from the toilet seat because of my sisters—”

  “And circling back to you and your devious use of bleach.”

  A flash of white. “I think my mom was the devious one, and her deviousness existed in the form of salt.”

  I laughed. “Were they really that bad?”

  He shuddered. “They were horrible.” Snagging his beer, he lifted it to his lips and drank deeply. “I swear, just thinking about that story and I can taste them all over again.” He mimed scraping off his tongue. “It’s an awful cross to bear.”

  My laughter bubbled up in me, filling my lungs, escaping my lips, and Damon joined in, both of us giggling like loons for several minutes before we managed to get under control.

  I wiped a finger under each eye. “I think I’m glad I didn’t have siblings,” I said. “Being an only child is the way to go.”

  He shook his head. “They weren't so bad.”

  “Superglue? Eyebrows?”

  “Okay,” he admitted. “They were bad.” A beat. “But so was I.”

  “True.”

  “And plus, the salt cookies taught us a lesson.”

  I lifted a brow. “Yeah? What could that possibly be?”

  “To only pull pranks that wouldn’t bother my mom.”

  I snorted. “So, the cookies didn’t reform you so much as teach you to be smarter?”

  He considered that then nodded. “Yes, I guess that’s exactly right. We didn’t stop with the pranks, only did them where she—and her coffee—wouldn’t be affected.”

  “Smart.”

  “Learned survivalists more like.”

  I tugged the script from his hands. “So, is that where you learned to do all the voices? From pranking your sisters?”

  Damon plunked his bottle on the table. “I gave you salt cookies, and you’re still demanding more?”

  “Salt cookies isn’t voice actor training,” I pointed out.

  He wrinkled his nose.

  “Come on, Damon,” I coaxed. “I have a box of cookies in the pantry and they have the proper amount of salt-to-sugar ratio.”

  A put-upon sigh.

  “Okay, fine. I was in a few plays.”

  I waited for more of an explanation and when none came, I lifted a brow.

  “Okay, okay,” he muttered. “Those plays were more like family productions. As in, every Christmas, my parents picked a play that we’d put on for the family. There were lots of different ones—A Christmas Carol, Annie, and the like. I’m the youngest, and so I played the younger roles.”

  Nodding, I said, “That makes sense.”

  “Well, I was really into it and the year I played Annie, I insisted on having my hair permed, not wearing a wig.”

  “Okaay . . .”

  He sighed. “Do I really have to—?”

  “Yes.”

  “I thought it was cool growing up. It was fun to hang with my sisters and do something productive. We even did it through middle school.”

  “Why am I sensing a but here?”

  “Probably because my sisters decided to screen our production of Annie for my entire middle school, complete with me in a dress and perm and singing my little heart out about tomorrow.”

  “I’m not getting why that was bad?”

  His expression was dark. “Because it was middle school and kids are assholes in any school, but they’re most especially assholes in middle school.”

  “You were teased?”

  He shrugged. “Of course, I was. But the worst part was whoever printed out a still from that video and pasted my permed-up-hairband-wearing head all over school.”

  “That does sound pretty awful.”

  “It was worse than the eyebrows.”

  I pressed my lips flat to smother my smile.

  He saw anyway. “I see how it is. You laugh at my pain?”

  I shook my head. “No, of course not.” But my chest was rattling with suppressed laughter.

  “See if I bring you pizza again,” he muttered.

  I stopped. “No, I’m n-not l-laughing,” I stammered. “It w-was a horrible thing t-to do—”

  “Eden.”

  “Uh-huh?”

  He held up the script. “Let’s get back to work.”

  I didn’t think at that point. I just let the laughter rip and threw my arms around his shoulders, hugging him tight. “I’m not laughing at you,” I said.

  “Uh-huh, sure,” he replied, but his body was shaking with mirth, too. “See if next time I put my acting skills at your disposal.”

  “No,” I demanded, pulling back. “Don’t do that. You’re too good—”

  “Nope, flattery will do you no good right about now.”

  I pouted. “I’ll be good. I promise.”

  He shook his head. “Just be you, Ed. That’s all I want.”

  His words curled around my heart, stroking gently, hugging lightly. Such a wonderful man.

  So much not for me.

  “Fine,” I said, deliberately ignoring that last thought. We were moving on. That was the only way. Done. End of story. No more angst about the decision. “Then I at least promise not to pay someone to Photoshop a curly wig on your head and paste it in front of an Annie poster then put it on my Instagram.”

  “Why pay someone when I could do that for free?” he deadpanned.

  We stared at each other. His lips hitched up. Mine curved in response.

  Then we were both laughing.

  And it was like the old Eden and Damon again.

  I was glad.

  Really, I was.

  Seven

  Damon

  I abided by my promise to leave Eden’s house early and then followed through on my promise to lie in bed for the next twenty-four hours and catch up on bad TV and sleep.

  Turned out I wasn’t so good at tolerating the bad television part, but I did a damned good job at sleeping.

  Hadn’t had much of that over the last months.

  I’d been booked solid, traveling the world and shooting everyone from the latest Oscar winner’s pregnancy shoot—and Artie Miller had been absolutely radiant, so beautiful, in fact, that she’d agreed to sell the image as a cover for a fancy fashion magazine—to images for men’s health publications.

  Speaking of that fancy magazine Artie had just graced the cover of, I’d been busy working for them, too. I’d begun six months back at their studios in New York then moved on to Aruba—which I’d paired with another couple of shoots, one for a sports spread in an athlete-driven magazine and another for a series of photographs of a certain reality TV star who was going to use them for a new line of swimsuits and loungewear. After that, I’d been in London, Copenhagen, Iceland, and Australia, until I’d finally come to L.A. to photograph Artie, just over a month before.

  She’d been reticent at first, thinking that pregnancy shoots were showy and self-indulgent, but her husband, Pierce, had coaxed her into celebrating the moment. I was glad he’d stepped in.

  There was something special about a woman with child—that radiant glow, the life growing within her somehow making her bloom into something even more multifaceted. It was beautiful and Artie even more so, especially because she was so confident in her body. She had been game for everything.

  Naked? Sure.

  Draped in flowers. Why not?

  A strategically placed strip of diaphanous material? Great. Done.

  It had been easy and fun and filled with laughter, one of the best shoots I’d done all year and the perfect way to wrap up my long-ass run.

  Now I’d cleared my schedule for a couple of months, would enjoy the break, explore southern and central California, and then take some time to visit my family up near the Oregon border.

 
There were sure to be some interesting characters in the town more famous for pot and naked communes. I’d be able to get some unique portraits in.

  So there, I’d been in L.A. for less than a week, I had no work demands on my schedule, and I had a plan moving forward. Good. Done.

  Maybe I’d start with Joshua Tree. I’d grown up in California, home being a small town just east of San Francisco, but I’d never been to the national park in the desert, never seen the strange-looking Yucca trees. It’d be good to tick off some of those quintessential California things—or quintessential because I’d grown up here and I wasn’t counting the touristy spots of Disneyland, Yosemite, the Golden Gate, and the like.

  I wanted to drive up Highway 1. I wanted to stop in Solvang and get some butter cookies, compare them with their truly Danish counterparts I’d eaten in Copenhagen. I wanted to hike through Lassen. I wanted to take some time and just wander.

  But also . . . Eden.

  I wanted to be close to Eden.

  Except, she had a life and she was going to be busy with her own career and . . . she wanted to be just friends.

  I could be friends from a distance. We’d managed that for years.

  Maybe I wanted more, maybe I’d seen my chance and leaped . . . and that hadn’t worked out. So, now I should step back. I should focus on friendship and my plan-that-wasn’t-a-plan to bum around California for six months.

  I should go back to weekly phone calls and leave Eden to keep wearing her armor.

  It wasn’t for show.

  It was functional.

  She needed it. I got that. Really, I did. I understood that with every brain cell in my sometimes-malfunctioning male brain.

  I grinned at her teasing words from the night before.

  Eden was funny. Fuck, she could make me laugh like no other. She was smart and gorgeous and strong and . . .

  I didn’t want to leave L.A.

  Or rather, I didn’t want to leave an L.A. with Eden in it.

  I wanted to be here. To be with her.

  Except . . . she didn’t want to be with me.

  Not in the way I wanted. I needed to accept that. I needed to be what was good for her and—

  I jumped out of bed and stalked to the bathroom.

  Fuck that shit.

  What? Was I going to be a coward and just step aside and not even try? Was I going to throw away the connection, the friendship, the feelings that had grown so deep? No. I couldn’t do that.

  I was here. She was here.

  We’d taken a step.

  It had backfired, yes, but no relationship was smooth sailing. If I was smart and patient and could just play my cards right, then maybe I could have a chance at something more than just friendship. Bottom line, she had to feel something for me or she wouldn’t have been so emotionally invested, wouldn’t have texted to make things right or had me over at her house last night. Our friendship, our relationship was important to her.

  That was something.

  That wasn’t me being a one-night fuck who she’d thrust out the front door the next morning.

  I meant more to her than that.

  I needed to remember that, to hold it close and keep my mind clear. I needed to be smart and patient and . . .

  I needed to not give up.

  Well, I was just a small-town kid from a middle-class family. I wasn’t special or unique or exceptionally talented. Oh, I wasn’t falsely modest. I was realistic. I did my job and did it well. No drama. No ego. No taking the easy way out.

  That was how I’d made my way from small town to big city, from county fair exhibitions to big-time Hollywood contracts.

  I put my head down and got shit done.

  So yeah, not giving up was kind of my life’s motto.

  Eight

  Eden

  “She’s beautiful,” I whispered, smiling at Artie while cradling their newborn baby against my chest. I ran a finger across her cheek, feeling the silky skin and my insides twinging with an old pain.

  An old pain that would never be soothed.

  Because I was . . . empty.

  Except, maybe, I didn’t have to be.

  Wrong. It wasn’t empty. It was safer.

  But why did safer not feel better? It used to be so comfortable and easy and empowering, in a way. Now, it felt constricting, weak . . . especially with the snoozing newborn in my arms, so vulnerable, the people who loved her the most trusting me with the precious bundle.

  Little Daphne—because Artie was actually Artemis and she and Pierce had decided to stick with the Greek names—stirred in my arms, a soft mewl emerging from pink rosebud lips.

  “Yes, she is beautiful,” Pierce said, scooping her out of my arms and doing some cradling of his own. “Just like her mama.”

  Artie smiled, leaning over to tuck the blanket around little Daphne, not because it seemed at threat of unraveling, but because she couldn’t help herself from touching and caring for and protecting her baby . . . even if that was from a tiny perceived dip in temperature.

  Unlike my parents.

  Be quiet. Don’t run, for fuck’s sake! Don’t make a fuss or question. Be respectful.

  Be a lady.

  Well, I hadn’t made a fuss, had I?

  I hadn’t stopped Tim from doing what he wanted. I hadn’t run. I hadn’t been loud. I’d let him respectfully take what he wanted.

  And perhaps it wasn’t precisely ladylike, but I’d also been starving for attention since I hadn't received any from my parents. Tim had been there. He’d given me that attention, made me feel special, and for my selfishness, my needing that attention, I’d paid a very heavy price.

  The memories were oppressive, sitting on my lungs, making my throat burn. I popped to my feet. I wasn’t going to have a meltdown in front of the people who’d done so much for me. Breathe. I sucked in some air, steadied myself. “I should go,” I said, “let you both get some rest.”

  “You don’t have to—”

  “I have some lines to go over,” I said, and it wasn’t exactly a lie. All I knew was that I had to get out of there before I did something, before I ruined—

  Enough.

  Forcing a smile, I hugged Artie, kissed Pierce on the cheek, and brushed my fingers across Daphne’s cheek.

  “Eden.”

  “I hope you get some sleep.”

  Artie snorted. “With this little one? Not likely.”

  A complaint, but one filled with teasing love.

  I picked up my purse, heart aching, but forced lightness in my tone. “Meh. I’ve seen how little sleep you guys run on. You’ll both be fine.”

  Pierce cupped Artie’s cheek and smiled down at his wife. The love in that glance took my breath away, seized my lungs, absolutely made my heart hurt.

  I wanted that.

  The yearning was a lightning rod.

  I wanted someone to look at me like Pierce did to Artie, love shining in his eyes, affection written across his face, expression so soft and—

  I could have that.

  With Damon.

  But no, I couldn’t. I couldn’t risk going down that road. Damon was a good person, and wanting something between us would only end in heartbreak.

  Yet I still wanted it.

  I was desperate for something that would only destroy me.

  Artie glanced over at me, concern overtaking her expression, and I knew my face must have shown my longing, my fear, my desire, all mingled together. “Eden?”

  Thankfully, I was close to the front door. “See you guys soon!” I called and high-tailed it out of there.

  But not fast enough.

  Artie knocked on my driver’s side window before I could pull out of the driveway, and I felt a pang of guilt for making a woman who’d recently given birth chase after me.

  Still sighed before I rolled down the window though.

  She stared at my face for a long moment. “Don’t do this to yourself, honey,” she murmured.

  “I’m fine,” I said. “I
promise.”

  I was fine. I was always fine. I always found a way to get through.

  “I know you’re fine,” she said, hand resting on top of mine on the steering wheel for a brief moment. “I was fine, too.” A squeeze. “But consider that you could be great, Eden. That you deserve to be great.”

  She stepped back and waved as I opened my mouth to protest, to agree, to spill my guts, who knew?

  Either way, I didn’t get a chance to express any of that.

  Artie waved one more time then disappeared into the house.

  And I sat in her driveway for long moments before gathering myself and driving away.

  But I couldn’t deny that something inside of me had shifted.

  A week since I’d seen baby Daphne and I was feeling . . . unsettled.

  I was dreaming of Tim, of that time when I’d been so young and vulnerable, excited and hopeful for a happy ending, to find someone who would love me and—

  It wasn’t to be.

  I relied on myself, lived my life by myself.

  That was better.

  Except . . . I wasn’t really by myself, was I?

  I had Artie and Pierce. I had Damon. I had my agent, my publicist, Maggie. I had loads of people . . . all of whom I paid or who’d been responsible for my paycheck.

  With the exception of Damon.

  No connection aside from . . . a connection.

  We’d done Pizza Night the previous evening and it had been light, almost impersonal. He’d shown me some pictures he’d taken at Joshua Tree National Park and for as much as he liked to tell me that he wasn’t a good nature photographer, his shots of the harsh landscape and alien-esque trees were stark but beautiful.

  But he hadn’t stayed long, just for carbs, photos, and one episode of a documentary called McMillion$—it followed the McDonald’s Monopoly scandal and was as crazy as it was interesting. But Damon and I were still tentative after our night together, after the scene in my bedroom.

  He hadn’t worn long sleeves, and the Band-Aids on his arm were a blatant reminder of what had happened between us.

  It made me quiet.

  And sad.

  And . . . the persistent ping in the back of my mind telling me that I was missing out, that I could have more if I only just—