by Jayne Denker
He cleared a spot on the bed next to me and plopped down, studying my face as I turned the page of the script I was reading. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me, bud. You wrote ’em. I just call ’em as I see ’em.”
Mason sat beside me in silence as I blew through the rest of the script. I closed it and put it aside, then turned to fix him with what I hoped was a penetrating glare.
“Now tell me why you turned down the job on my show.”
He got fidgety again. “I told you, it lost its appeal.”
“Yeah, yeah, that means nothing. I want the real reason.”
“It is the real reason. The job lost its appeal when I found out you were off the show. I didn’t want to just write for Modern Women. I wanted to write for you. If you weren’t there, I didn’t want to be there. That’s why.”
Now it was my turn to blush. “Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
“Jaya said you were a fan.”
“Too true.”
“I never sleep with fans, just in case they turn out to be psycho stalkers.”
“Too late for that, I’m afraid.”
“Several sessions too late. So . . . areyou a psycho stalker?”
He smiled. “You asked me that before, in the studio parking lot. My answer is the same now as it was then: No.”
“That’s what psycho stalkers always say.” I chewed on my thumbnail, thinking. Then, “Are we . . . here . . . I mean, did you . . . do you like me just in a fan kind of way? Did I just fulfill some weird fantasy of yours or something?”
“I have been a fan of yours for a long time, that’s true. That means I have admired your workfor a long time. But . . .” He paused. “I’m trying to find the right words, here.”
“So I don’t run screaming when you turn into a psycho stalker?”
“I just figure I’ve got one shot at explaining this the right way.”
“Or I’ll run screaming?”
“Faith!”
“Sorry! Go on.”
“I thought of you only in terms of your work. But . . . when I met you . . . when I got to know you . . .” He let out a whuf of amazement. “I was a goner. So you don’t have to be Faith Freakin’ Sinclair for me to be crazy about you. You could be, I don’t know, a Porta-Potty cleaner, and I’d still feel the same way.”
“You say the sweetest things.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Yeah, I do,” I said quietly, then kissed him. “So that means you’re going to support my dream of being a Porta-Potty cleaner?”
“Whatever makes you happy.”
I gave him an evil laugh. “Oh, never say that. You know what that’ll get you.”
“Why, yes, I do.”
And with a couple of inelegant, frantic shoves, we cleared the papers off the bed.
* * *
Our Sunday evening was spent collecting my things from the dorm and my Cayenne from the parking lot, then devouring a huge Italian dinner before we retired for the night. Both of us in his bed. And it wasn’t awkward in the least. Not that I ever really thought he was a psycho stalker, but I was surprised at how comfortable we were with each other, so quickly. It was like we’d always been together. Or maybe were meant to be together. Not that I was getting ahead of myself or anything. Ahem.
We just . . . played well together. Not even the morning routine, before heading to campus, was clumsy. Mason was thrilled that there was finally a way to get me to class on time (he could—and did—hustle me out the door), and I had a good laugh at the number of tweed jackets with patches on the elbows that he actually did have squirreled away in his bedroom closet, despite his denials.
Naturally we always behaved professionally in front of the students, but some of them seemed a little suspicious at how we smiled at each other for an extended beat or had the same idea at the same time. Still, nobody was rude enough to question us outright, for which I was eternally grateful. Not that I cared what they thought; I just didn’t want to be confronted with questions about my private life. Especially now that I had one.
Of course, it was probably a dead giveaway that something was different between us when Mason finally acknowledged me as a guest lecturer, instead of just a piece of furniture ordered to “observe for now.” Near the end of class, he said, “For next time . . . the syllabus says to read Chapter Four in the text, but I’m going to give you some additional work.” Amid groans, he went on, “I want you to watch TV.” That perked them up. “Specifically, I want you to watch an episode of Modern Women with the plan to discuss its structure in depth with the person who wrote and directed it. If you’re all right with that, Ms. Sinclair?”
“I am more than all right with that, Professor Mitchell.”
“So what I want you to do is go to the EWW site and watch Modern Women’s sixth episode from season two. I believe it’s called ‘Raine Over Me’—is that correct?” he asked me, and I nodded. “It’s considered one of the best examples of the form in the past decade. I believe it was nominated for an Emmy . . . ?”
“Don’t remind me, Professor. It didn’t win.”
He smiled warmly at me. “You were robbed.” To the class, he said, “And next time, you can pick Ms. Sinclair’s brain. About the episode in question, Brandon,” Mason added hastily. “No showbiz gossip.”
Taylor pouted. “Aw, why can’t we watch the episode with the Hershey’s Kisses? That was the best. I could watch that one a hundred times.”
“That was a good episode as well,” Mason agreed. “But I think you’ll get a lot more out of the one I’ve assigned, once we’ve examined its intricate structure and superior dialogue.”
“Hot love scene in the Hershey’s Kisses one, though,” Trina said.
Mason snuck a glance at me that burned right through my clothes. “Ms. Sinclair is very talented.”
Yee haw.
* * *
Mason said something about going to a meeting after class, so I hung out in his office and made some phone calls. My bank accounts were reopened, albeit with almost nothing in them. My charge accounts were cleared, and the companies were ready to send me new cards with new account numbers. I had to specify that they not be sent to my house, in case Jamie was still there and took it upon himself to open my mail, and it gave me a silly thrill to tell them to FedEx the cards to Mason’s address instead.
I got another thrill thinking I’d see Mason again soon, as I was planning on sitting in on his acting class this afternoon—only this time notfor Alex.
Good grief, I was in hip deep, wasn’t I?
As if on cue, my phone rang in my hand. Jaya. Just the person I wanted to talk to—who else but a best friend was perfect for gushing about a new boyfriend? I let her take some time to apologize for being out of town when I needed her (oh—had she been out of town? had I been in distress?) and to share the news and gossip from the set, but the minute she asked the floodgate-opening “How are you doing?” I launched into an account of the weekend adventures and didn’t stop till I had covered every sordid detail.
Jaya laughed long and loud at the turn of events. “I told you! You just needed to get laid!”
I didn’t answer.
“Faith? It is a good thing, right?”
“It . . .” I sat very quietly, licked my lips, and then said, “It’s . . . more than just getting laid. Way more.”
“Baby, please. That’s the good-sex downpour after a mighty long drought talking. Nothing more. Don’t make it more.”
“It already is.”
“Honey. Be careful.”
It occurred to me that Jaya was giving me the same advice that I had given Kaylie regarding Alex. And now I understood why the younger girl had gotten defensive. Jaya just didn’t get it, probably the same way that I didn’t get it about Kaylie and Alex. I vowed to keep my opinions about them to myself from now on.
“So . . . does this mean Alex is out of the picture? For your love life, I mean.”
�
��Alex who?”
“Very funny.”
“Yes, Alex is out. In fact, he was never really in, was he? I don’t know what I was thinking—what I thought I felt about him, it was . . . nothing. Not like this.”
“Wow. You really mean it.”
“I do.”
“Well then,” Jaya went on, in a fake demanding tone, “just when do I get to re-meet this guy? As your bestie, I feel it’s my duty to do a little cross-examination—just to protect you, you understand.”
“You already said you liked him.”
“I was talking of him in terms of his joining the staff!”
“Oh, and what part of—what was it? ‘he was really cute’?—matches the job description?”
She laughed again. “Who said the eye candy all has to be in front of the camera?”
“There are laws against hiring on that basis, you know.”
“And speaking of eye candy, what’s the deal with Alex, show-wise? I know you’re all googly-eyed in lust or whatever it is, and I’m really happy for you, but don’t forget why you’re there. Alex.”
“I know. Alex. Back on show. I get.”
“Oh my God, you’ve lost it.”
“Most soundly.”
* * *
Trouble was, when I was sitting in the auditorium during the advanced acting class, I wasn’t focusing on Alex. I was staring at Mason and trying not to drool. Why hadn’t I noticed before how self-possessed he was in front of the class? How clever and smart he was, how he just owned the space when he was teaching? Well, I had noticed, but I had pretended not to. Now, however, I could ogle him openly. And I did. I enjoyed the little wiggly feeling in my stomach as I watched his every move, laughed at his jokes along with the class, and thought about what I was going to do to him when we got back to his house tonight.
When I noticed Alex was waving hello to me during a break, I barely waved back and didn’t even approach him. Instead, I went back to watching Mason talk with some of the students at the side of the stage.
And then, a minute later, I jumped a mile when Alex plopped into the seat next to me and put his feet up on the row in front.
“Hey, Faith. How’s it going?”
“Good, Alex.”
“You still coming by to watch me act, huh?”
I smiled patiently. “I’m observing the class.” My attention drifted back to Mason, and I started undressing him with my eyes.
“Hey, Faith?”
“Mm?”
“Uh . . . you’re . . . nothere to see me?”
I tore my gaze away from Mason and forced myself to look at Alex. I was glad I did. He was as handsome as ever, still tanned, still with the same dramatic sweep of glossy hair and chiseled jaw. But now he didn’t incite any lustful feelings or excited nervousness. It was like all that crushing I had done on him had happened to someone else—or like I had written it into one of my Modern Women scripts. Instead of feeling it myself, I was one step removed from it.
I also felt more detached, more placid, about the plan to get him back on the show. When I talked with Jaya earlier, I just hadn’t felt the urgency that she had. Not anymore. Sure, maybe it was because I was all googly-eyed over Mason, like she said, but I just couldn’t seem to muster up the same level of concern I once felt. The way I saw things now, if I could convince Alex to rejoin Modern Women, great. If that saved the show’s ratings, also great. If not, life would go on somehow. Jaya could work extra-hard to get the audience back. I could get another job. My priority at the moment was to find out how Mason felt about office nooky.
“Sure, I’m here to see you, Alex,” I said mildly. “But I already told you why. I asked you to come back on the show, and you said no. Seems pretty clear where you stand.”
It occurred to me that my relaxed detachment was bothering him—a lot—and I knew why. He wasn’t all that hard to figure out: Alex’s Achilles’ heel was his burning desire to be, well, desired. Professionally, personally, romantically, what have you. My not making a fuss over him just ate at him. Therefore, I reasoned, if I wanted to get my way, my smartest move would be . . .
“Excuse me, Alex. I need to talk to Mas—Professor Mitchell. I’ll see you around.”
And I got up and glided down the aisle to chat with my favorite person in the world, leaving Alex agape behind me. (I snuck a peek to make sure my mad manipulation skillz were still working. Apparently they were.) When I came up to Mason, he gave me a bright, delighted smile that thrilled me to the tips of my toes.
“Doing well, Professor,” I murmured.
“Aw, I kind of miss my other names.”
“The ones I call you in public, or the ones I call you when we’re—” And the next thing I knew, there were hands on me—from behind.
“Faith, I forgot . . .”
Goddamn. Alex again. “Yeah, Alex. What can I do for you?” I looked at Mason. He was staring at Alex’s hands, which were now massaging my shoulders.
“I was going to ask you—do you want to hang out tonight? Maybe talk more about this whole David thing?”
While a part of me pinged to attention at Alex wanting to discuss the possibility of returning to the show, mostly I was horrified that he was coming on to me. What a twisted stinker, that he’d get all flirty just because I wasn’t falling all over him anymore. And right in front of Mason, even though Alex didn’t know that mattered.
I ducked out from under his hands and turned around to face him, which put me next to Mason. “Can’t, Alex, sorry. I have plans.”
His pretty face arranged itself into a confused frown. I’d bet I was the first woman to turn down one of his invitations. Ever. “Oh . . . okay. Sure.”
“Sorry,” I said again, and stood quietly until he figured out that my silence was his cue to leave. After he’d wandered off, I turned to Mason, getting as close as I dared with a class full of students milling around. “Er, we do have plans, don’t we?”
He gazed at me warmly. “Now that you mention it . . .”
“Will it involve props?”
“Actually, no.”
“Well, darn.”
“It occurred to me that we haven’t been out on a real date yet, so I was thinking we could go out to dinner tonight.”
“Well, you did buy me coffee and a muffin last week. And you bought me dinner in absentia. Which you then saw proof of when it made its grand reappearance on your shoes.”
“As enchanting and memorable as that was, I would like the opportunity to court you properly, Ms. Sinclair.”
“Why? You’ve already got me.”
His eyes flicked over to Alex. “You sure about that?”
If we were alone, I would have turned him back to me and kissed the stuffing out of him. As it was, however, I had to keep my hands—and my lips—to myself. “One hundred percent.”
Chapter 20
“Here, do your homework.” Mason slipped into bed beside me and handed me his laptop, browser cued up to the episode of Modern Women the scriptwriting class was going to discuss tomorrow.
“Do you think we spend an inordinate amount of time in bed?”
“No such thing. Of course, if we find ourselves holding class by Skype from here, then . . .”
“I’m sure the kids would find your lectures much more interesting.”
“I’m going to ignore your implication that my lectures are boring. You’re stalling. Watch the episode, refresh your memory.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Ooh, I like that. Will you call me that some more if I ask you to?”
His hand crept under the covers and up my shirt. Although I really wanted him to continue, I decided to toss the responsibility thing back at him. “Hey. Homework. You said.”
Reluctantly he pulled his hand away, kissed my temple. “Right. You and me both.” He sat up and pulled some fat folders onto his lap as my video started to play.
I glanced over. “What’re those?”
“Administrative stuff. Department budget, enr
ollment trends. I’ve got a meeting with the trustees tomorrow.”
“Another one?” He’d just had one today; he’d been gone well into the evening, which had left me a lot of time to brainstorm different story lines for reintroducing David, but I couldn’t deny I had been mighty distracted, watching the minutes tick by until he walked through the door.
“Yeah,” was all Mason answered, as he shuffled through the papers.
That was weird; he usually wasn’t that curt with me. “What’s going on?”
“Well . . .”
Then I had a thought about the next day’s class. “Hey, do you think the students are going to notice how important the sequence of these opening shots is?”
Mason paused, then said, “They might. If they don’t ask, you should tell them.”
“Okay. Oh, sorry—what were you saying?”
“Nothing. Do your homework.”
I turned back to the laptop. Alex wasn’t in this episode a whole lot, but I found myself distracted by the scenes he was in. Not like when I had a crush on him; instead, I started to wonder if bringing him back was the smartest thing to do. I thought back to his last couple of months on the show before we let him out of his contract. By the time he’d gotten ready to fly the coop, he was causing a whole lot of trouble—aimed at me, but of course it had an effect on the whole production. Would he be different now? Would his time as a student have humbled him? Would he be grateful to have his old job back, or would he think he was doing us—or, worse, me—a favor, and try to take advantage of that? There were so many ways this could go bad.
The video kept playing, but I wasn’t really paying attention, even though I kept my eyes in the general vicinity of the screen. Then Mason shifted beside me, resting his chin on my shoulder, and watched a few minutes of the episode. “Alex sure spends a lot of time shirtless.”
“Just giving the fans what they wanted. Did you know there are dozens of Web sites that are nothing more than collections of screen shots of David without a shirt on?”
“And that was painless for the females in the cast and crew as well, I suppose.”