Close Up

by Elise Faber

  “You’re seeing someone?” Maggie exclaimed. “As in, you, Eden Larsen, perpetual bachelorette and prime catch of the Hollywood elite has a boyfriend?”

  I sighed and rolled my eyes, both at myself for not being able to find the words and for her, because she was as bad as me. “I have been seen with men before.”

  “And never more than once.”

  She had me there. “Maggie—”

  “No judgment here,” Maggie said. “It has certainly given me much less drama to deal with.”

  “Except for all of those articles accusing me of being a whore,” I muttered.

  “Pish. People have always had a problem with female sexuality.” Maggie sighed. “That unfortunately doesn’t seem to change. Too much sex and she’s a whore. Too little and a prude. Too many boyfriends, not enough of them, too sexy of clothes, not sexy enough. I could go on and on, but it wouldn’t make any difference. We’re always going to be judged on what we do and don’t do, but I don’t want that stopping you from living your life.”

  “Even if it makes a shitstorm for you to clean up?”

  Maggie snorted. “Are you planning on making a shitstorm for me to clean up?”

  “Not planning on it.”

  “Good.” A beat. “Now, who are you seeing?”

  “Damon Garcia.”

  “The photographer?”

  “One and the same.”

  “Honey and a silver bikini,” she said with a cackle that had me chuckling. “So, that’s the secret to getting a good man?”

  “At least one that makes me smile and brings me pizza.”

  “Damn, girl, you did good.”

  I laughed outright. “I know I did.”

  “And . . . you’re happy?”

  Nodding, though she couldn’t see me, I said, “I am.”

  “Good.” A beat. “You know, if I was there right now, I’d hug you.”

  I grinned. “If you were here, I’d let you.” A giggle. “Well, only if you could find a way to corral Grant’s ego.”

  “I think that’s impossible, Eden.”

  We both laughed. I said, “I think that’s impossible, too,” which set us both off again.

  “Eden?” she asked when we’d eventually gotten ourselves under control.

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m happy that you’re happy.”

  “I—”

  “Sorry, I know I’m overstepping,” Maggie said softly. “But I am truly happy for you, Ed. You work so hard and deserve to have someone in your life who appreciates you.”

  Friend.

  I’d opened myself up, shed some armor, and . . . now I had Damon, and a friend—a real one, not just an acquaintance I was friendly with and not just an employee—in Maggie.

  “Thanks,” I murmured. “And feel free to overstep anytime. It’s nice to have a friend.”

  Quiet then. “I agree. I’ve been in short supply of good ones of late.”

  Which is when I remembered her ex Ben. “Shit, I’m sorry,” I said. “Here I’ve been going on and on about Damon and you and Ben—”

  “First, you haven’t been going on and on. You shared. You’re happy. You deserve it and don’t have to apologize,” Maggie said firmly. “And also, just because my ex was an ass, doesn’t mean that the people around me don’t deserve their slice of happy.”

  “I—”

  “And last, if I had a man like Damon Garcia interested in me, you’d better believe I’d give up my freedom and lock that shit down.”

  I giggled. “Are you saying I should put a ring on it?”

  “Um. Yes. Absolutely, that.”

  I snorted. She giggled . . . then we both busted out laughing again. After a while, we managed to regain control and finished running through the final details of the publicity she’d scheduled me to do, then chatted about nothing for a few minutes more, before hanging up.

  My cell had just hit the table when the knock on my trailer door came, the voice telling me they needed me back on set.

  I sighed and sat up.

  Back to the Ego. Joy of joys.

  Still, at the end of the day I’d get to talk to Damon, and I found with that happy thought in the back of my mind, perhaps Grant didn’t seem so terrible after all.

  A lie.

  But at least I had something to look forward to while I did my job.

  That definitely made it less terrible.

  “I—” Tally grunted as she struggled with the zipper on the back of my costume. “I just . . . there! I’ve got it!”

  I patted my makeup artist’s hand. “Thanks for the assist. That zipper is a bear.”

  “They’ve certainly got you poured in there. Can you even breathe?”

  I sucked in a tentative breath. “Sort of?”

  “Aw.” Tally grinned. “The price of fashion and film.”

  “At least it’s a fabulous dress if I’m suffering for both.”

  Tally laughed. “True.” She turned to grab a brush and compact from the table. “Now, just one more touch up and you’ll be ready to hit the New Mexico sun.”

  “And they said L.A. was hot.”

  A few strokes of the brush across my nose, my cheeks. “We are in the desert.”

  “Be logical, why don’t you?” I muttered, smoothing my hands down my front. “Good thing this is the last scene for this dress. Any more and I’ll be bursting out.”

  “You look beautiful.”

  “I look boobalicious.”

  A snort. “I wished that if my dress got too tight, it would only be in my chest region.” The petite brunette patted her hips. “This is where I always gain when I’ve had too many chocolates.”

  “Oh, believe me,” I told her. “I’ve gained there, too. I’m just bloated, and I’ve indulged in far too many Pizza Nights of late.” My smile was instant at the mention of pizza because it conjured up Damon. Damon, who’d spent the rest of the weekend at my house until I’d flown out on Sunday, who’d made me perfectly crispy bacon to go with my perfectly fluffy pancakes.

  Who’d stayed even though I’d told him everything.

  Who hadn’t changed.

  Who could order a mean DoorDash when it became clear that both of our cooking skills were limited to breakfast foods . . . or rather, one type of breakfast food for me (no, I still did not consider guacamole acceptable breakfast food), and two if you counted cinnamon-sugar toast and frying bacon for Damon.

  And I’d run out of bacon.

  I snorted.

  “I’m loving that smile on your face right now.”

  My eyes drifted up, met Tally’s mahogany ones. “I’m happy,” I said simply.

  “I’m glad,” she said then grumbled. “One of us should be. I’ve got to go to Grant’s trailer next. Sheila is sick—which basically means that she’s had enough of his bullshit and so all of the rest of us are going to have to take a turn shouldering our fair share.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You’ve worked with him more than me.”

  “Except, he semi-behaves because I’m the co-star.”

  Tally snorted. “Sure, he does.”

  “Okay, he doesn’t,” I agreed. “But we’re in the home stretch.”

  “Well”—she began gathering up her things—“I hope the man that made you smile like that keeps working his magic.”

  My lips tipped up at the mention of Damon and just that quickly, my mind drifted away from Grant and movie sets and tight dresses to how Damon had held me and slept in my bed, though we’d fallen asleep without making love both nights. Me, because I knew he was different, that we were different together and I didn’t want to rush back into something and, him, well, I couldn’t read his mind, but my guess was that he was being as patient as ever, waiting for me to show or tell him implicitly that I was ready.

  But he had said goodbye early the previous morning with a kiss that had turned my bones to jelly or maybe cooked spaghetti or—

  Lord, I was losing my mind.

  “
Yeah,” Tally said, squeezing my shoulder. “Just like that.” And then she slipped from the trailer.

  I spent a few more minutes thinking about spaghetti legs and Jell-O before I followed Tally.

  Though, I made a wide bypass of Grant’s trailer on the way to set.

  Despite that, I could still hear him complaining loud and clear.

  Thank God I had Damon.

  I was thinking the exact same thought later that week when I entered my trailer and discovered the pizza box on my table, the smell of cheese and tomato sauce filling the small space.

  Thursday. Pizza Night.

  God, I missed Damon.

  Especially when I saw the pizza was heart-shaped.

  Kicking my shoes off and grabbing my cell from my dresser, I called him. He picked up on the first ring, his soft, “Hey, baby,” the best sound I’d heard all day.

  “Hey,” I murmured back. “Someone’s setting high standards in the romance department.”

  He scoffed. “I just sent pizza.”

  “A heart-shaped pizza is in a whole other realm.”

  “Well, if you think that’s impressive,” he said, tone light. “You should see how I do flowers.”

  The image of a pizza shaped bouquet made me smile.

  Hell, who was I kidding? I was already smiling. But thus was the power of Damon.

  “How was the Ego today?”

  I sighed and sank down onto the couch, thankful that Tally had caught me on the way back to the trailer and undid my zipper enough that I could actually breathe.

  “That good, huh?”

  “Mmm-hmm.” My lips twitched as I leaned back against the cushions, letting my head tilt up toward the ceiling. I propped my feet onto the table and hit the speaker button. “Just one more day until I’m done with Grant.”

  “You’ve been amazingly patient.”

  “Unlike some persistent male who won’t leave me alone.”

  “Unlike some persistent male who sends you pizza and a brownie.”

  I leaned forward, noticing the brown paper bag next to the pizza box for the first time. “Okay, I think I like the persistent male who sends me pizza and chocolate.”

  He laughed lightly. “Hit FaceTime, baby.”

  “Why?”

  “I want to see your face.”

  “Ugh. No, that can’t happen. I’ve been out in the sun all day. I’ve got sand in places you don’t want to think about, and I think I’m sunburned . . . despite the fact that a crew member’s job today was to hold an umbrella over my head anytime we weren’t filming.”

  “It’s the reflection off the sand,” he murmured.

  “Huh?”

  “FaceTime, honey. I need to see that face.”

  I sighed but hit the button so video would connect us. It rang once and then his face was there, smiling gently out at me. I sniffed. “You have absolutely no right to look this handsome when I look like . . . this.” I waved a hand down my dirty clothes.

  “Why are you half-dressed?”

  I moaned, reached for the brownie, and shoved a piece in my mouth. “Because I can’t get out of this dress on my own. It’s too tight.” I ate another bite. “I need to get a Bowflex, or a Peloton or . . . to stop eating pizza.” My laughter was almost delirious, but that was what four straight days of filming with Grant would do. “No, I can’t do that. No matter how fat I get.”

  Something crossed Damon’s face, an expression that I almost missed. But I couldn’t pinpoint what it was—discomfort, fatigue, concern? “Well, I promise I’ll like you whatever size you are,” he said. “Now, what’s this about a sunburn? How come they didn’t give you sunscreen?”

  Me trying to ferret out the expression faded as I giggled. “I don’t think you noticed, bub, but I’m a redhead. My skin is so white it’s almost translucent—”

  “I like to think of it as white as vanilla ice cream.” He did a chef’s kiss. “My favorite.”

  I sat up, not because the description was inaccurate—it decidedly was—but because—

  “Vanilla ice cream is your favorite?”

  He shrugged, shifting positions for a moment before coming back with a slice of pizza. I was sticking with the brownie. I needed sweet carbs to self-medicate with after my day with Grant.

  “Vanilla ice cream is delicious.”

  “On its own?” I finished off the brownie. “Like in a cup or on a cone?”

  His lips tilted up. “Yes, Ed.”

  “Th-that’s—”

  “Vanilla is a perfectly acceptable choice for a flavor of ice cream.”

  “Yes,” I agreed. “If it’s melting over a brownie or piece of apple pie, or dolled up with chocolate sauce and sprinkles and whipped cream on a sundae. But on its own? Th-that’s insanity.”

  I opened my eyes when he didn’t reply, and saw that he was staring at me with a huge grin on his face. “I love that we always get onto the most random topics.”

  “There are hundreds of more interesting ice cream flavors than vanilla—mint chocolate chip, for example,” I said. “Or cookie dough. Or double fudge brownie. Neapolitan, if you’re really stuck on having vanilla, because at least then it’s sandwiched by strawberry and chocolate.”

  “All great choices if you like chocolate.” A beat. “Which I don’t.”

  I sat up on a gasp. “You cannot be serious.”

  “Deadly.”

  “How did I not know this?” I asked, tapping my chin. “You think you know a man for years, and then he drops a bomb like this on you.” I shook my head. “I don’t know, Dam. I—this might be a deal-breaker.”

  He snorted. “You think you’re so funny.”

  I grabbed a slice of pizza. “I know I’m funny. I’m the star of a rom-com, remember?”

  Another snort. “And well on your way to Ego level.”

  My gasp was punctuated first by my giggle and second by me shoving pizza into my mouth. I’d been teasing about Pizza Night and eating till the cows came home, but in reality, I’d been sticking with vegetables, fruit, and low carb meals since I’d wrestled with my dress the previous morning.

  Not starving, but throwing in a few healthy meals until I bounced back.

  But I wasn’t giving up my Pizza Nights with Damon . . . or my favorite clothes because I’d gotten too big to wear them.

  And as a former model, I’d been given a few gems.

  I wanted to be able to wear them again.

  “Such a hypocrite,” I murmured.

  “Come again?” Damon asked, looking confused. Rightfully, too, since I’d been listening to him talk about his travels up to San Francisco. Apparently, he’d met up with a photographer friend, Tanner, and they’d gone out to dinner.

  So, 'hypocrite' was way out in left field.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I was woolgathering. Not that I wasn’t enjoying your story. I’m glad you caught up with your friend. It’s me who was being a jerk and drifted off.”

  His eyes went warm. “What made you drift off?”

  I waffled for a few seconds before deciding that I’d been truthful about this and so might as well be truthful about everything else. “Well, I say I’m not willing to sacrifice my happiness to be a certain size, and meanwhile, I don’t want to get so fat that I can’t wear my clothes.”

  There.

  Right there.

  That thing on his face again.

  “Damon, what’s going on? You’ve made a weird face twice tonight and—” Horror dawned and I dropped the pizza back into the box, appetite fading. “Is it about what I told you? About my ex? My family. I mean, I know it’s a lot—”

  “Eden.”

  “I know I’m messed up and—”

  “Baby.”

  “I—”

  “Eden.”

  Sharp. Unusual. Enough to snap me out of the spiral.

  It should have reminded me of Tim, of my past, made me retreat, but even when Damon was sharp, he was still soft, if that made sense. Of course, like the rest of my mind t
his evening, it also didn’t.

  I . . . guess I just knew that Damon would do anything in his power to not hurt me.

  And Tim hadn’t cared.

  “Yes?” I said, pulling myself out of my head.

  “Nothing that happened to you in your first marriage was your fault,” he said, fiercely. “None. Of. It.”

  “I know that.”

  “Do you?”

  “I—” My rebuttal stopped. “I do,” I whispered. “Or . . . part of me does, anyway.”

  “Yes, baby,” he said. “It's the rest of you that keeps tugging you under.”

  “I hate that I can’t forget.”

  “Maybe you need to stop worrying about forgetting and start seeing that your past has made you the strong, incredible, wonderful woman you’ve become today.”

  “I—”

  I don’t know what I was going to say because those words touched me so closely, so deeply that there wasn’t any armor. Damon meant them—the sincerity was in every syllable.

  “You make me think that’s possible.”

  “Baby.”

  “I really like you,” I whispered.

  “Eden.”

  “You make me want more.”

  He sucked in a breath. “I think that’s the best thing anyone has ever said to me.”

  “I’m going to try really hard not to screw us up.”

  A shake of his head. “We’re both going to screw up, you know that, right?”

  “If you say so,” I murmured. “Because up to now, you’ve been pretty much perfect.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  His eyes danced with amusement. “Only pretty much?”

  “Learn how to make French toast, and you’ll be all the way there.”

  “Come up to San Francisco when you wrap,” he said. “You can drive up with me to visit my folks. My mom makes the best French toast. But she’s never given me the recipe. I bet if I bring you along, she’ll cave and teach it to both of us.”

  “I—”

  “No answer required right now.”

  “Damon—”

  “It’s okay,” he said, sitting up. “I shouldn’t push.”

  “Damon!”

  He stopped talking.

  “I was going to say that I’d love to go with you.”

  I was?