by Lark O'Neal
“Wear something that has some power to it,” she says.
“I have no idea what that means. Or why I would do that?”
She stands. “Where are your clothes? Go shower and I’ll find you something.”
For a minute, I hesitate.
“I know,” She says, nudging my shoulder as she continues to scroll through her messages. “I’m bossy, but I also know that a bunch of old dicks aren’t going to take a wispy little blonde seriously.”
“Wispy?”
She looks up and grins. “Not when I get done with you.”
* * *
She’s good on her promise. By the time we head out the door, I’m dressed in my own clothes, but in combinations I would never have thought of—the sundress I wore with Tyler paired with a jean jacket and a big loop of red scarf. “It would be better if you had some good boots,” she said. “We’ll, “we’ll go shopping, but for this morning, this is good.” She stands back. “This is great.”
“Kind of cold.” My legs are bare.
“We won’t be going anywhere until later. You can change before we go out.” She meets my eyes in the mirror, twisting my hair into a loose knot at the nape of my neck, slicking back the front with some gel she took out of her purse. I watch her change my appearance in subtle ways, making me look tougher but still me.
Like Jules, maybe.
“They’re going to cut your hair today, you know.”
“Really? Today?”
Her mouth is sympathetic. “Is it going to totally kill you?”
Up until that very moment, I was thinking it might, that I’m wrapped up in my hair, all my identity, all my self-esteem. But it dawns on me that I want a change. “My mom wore hers long. Maybe I’ve been keeping it as a sort of tribute to her or something.”
“You should give the hair to those places that make wigs for kids.”
“That’s a great idea.”
She doesn’t do a lot to my face—“I don’t think a lot of makeup does anybody favors in natural light”—but she does put some clear berry lipstick on my mouth, and it makes it look full and soft and kissable. I blow a kiss to the mirror, blotting my lips. “Okay,” she says. “Let’s go meet the boys.”
“Let’s do it.” On the way out, I stop at Kaleb’s door and knock, but he seems to have gone down without me, something that gives me a little ping in my gut. Without Mercedes, I’d have to go down on my own, and he knows how shy I am. It seems kind of mean.
Whatever.
One thing I know is that I’m not going to spend my morning going around in circles about guys. It’s a big day for all of us—the cast is getting together after breakfast for the first meeting, and later Mercedes and I will go out. And I’ll cut my hair.
Breakfast is set up in a private dining room guarded by a squat woman with credentials hanging around her neck. Mercedes shows her a badge, and says, “This is Jess Donovan, the star. She doesn’t have her badge yet, but you can ask inside.”
“No, that’s all right. The guy just came down, too.”
“Kaleb.”
She pulls open the door and we head inside. There’s a soft buzz of conversation coming from what looks like informal groups of people, some look like stylists and camera men, and some—
I touch my gut as the butterflies go insane. “Oh, my God. How do I act normal with these big stars?”
“What I do,” Mercedes says in a low voice, “is imagine them on the toilet taking a shit.”
It makes me laugh outright, and she slides closer. “Over there is my man,” she says. “In the red shirt.”
“Alejandro Mascarenas is your man?” I widen my eyes and look back at her. He’s the father of Rome in the movie, a famous Spanish actor who is always showing up on the sexiest men in the world lists. He also can’t be under 40. Maybe 45. “Isn’t he—”
“Married. Mmm-hmm. Easier for me to get away when I’m finished with them.”
I look at her, unsure if she’s teasing, but she meets my gaze unapologetically. “I told you I’m a lot to take. Are you done with me now?”
“No. Way.” I laugh again, feeling such relief over her company that it almost feels like champagne in my blood. “No, no way.”
“Jess!” Kaleb joins us, a plate in his hand, some kind of pastry on it. “Have you ever tasted this?”
He has to lower the plate for me to see it, and points with a kind of delirium to the sloppy frosted thing on his plate. “A cinnamon roll?”
“God, is that what it is?” He takes another bite, shaking his head. “I’ve had two already. Taste it.” He cuts a bit off and offers it to me and I can’t help but open my mouth, remembering when I tried the ginger beer on the beach the first time. As I’m chewing he says with reverence, “Isn’t that the best thing you’ve ever tasted?”
I laugh, looking up at him. “They don’t have cinnamon rolls in New Zealand? How did I never notice that?”
“I don’t know.” He shakes his head, takes another bite. “I woke up ready to eat a farm, so I’m going to get some more. The bacon is kind of fatty, but pretty good. I’m over there if you want to come sit down.”
I grab his arm. “Hey, hey. Who are you and what did you do to Kaleb?”
“What?”
I narrow my eyes. “You’re so—bubbly.”
Mercedes says drolly, “Three Cinnabons will do that.”
“Drink a lot of water,” I say. “The altitude might be getting to you.”
“Doesn’t that make you feel sick or something?”
“Yeah, well, humor me.”
He salutes me and veers away, headed for the buffet tables. I frown. “I don’t know who that crazy guy is.”
“I got sick as a dog when I got here, for three days. Are you feeling okay?”
“Dude, I lived here for most of my life. Not here, here, but in Colorado. I’ll be fine.” I point to the spread of food. “What I do need is food. I’m starving.”
* * *
After breakfast, the cast is loaded into various vans and cars. Kaleb and I get into the car with our driver, Mercedes says she’ll meet us there, and it’s about a four-minute drive through the sparkling, holiday-decorated town, and then into thick forest. We disembark at a towering house made of stone and wood and big windows, a modern castle complete with a turret. I squeeze Kaleb’s arm and give a little squeal. “It’s just like the book.”
“This must be the Montague house, right?”
“That’s what I think.”
He stands still for a minute, looking up. The winter sunlight catches sparkles of ice floating in the air above his head and he looks like something that fell from heaven. I imagine him as Rome, as Jules will see him, and it’s not a big struggle. He glances down at me, and his familiar grin spreads over his face. “This rocks, right?”
I laugh, filled with excitement. “It totally does.”
Inside, the cast is gathering around a big table in a formal dining room. The director who called me, Peter Barlow, hurries over to shake our hands. “Kaleb, Jess. So good to see you again. Make yourselves comfortable.”
Mercedes is already there, and pats a seat next to her. I sit and Kaleb sits beside me, and it feels good to be flanked by my friends, especially when across the table is an actor who has been in the top tier since I was a small child. Under my breath, I whisper to Kaleb, “I used to think I would grow up and marry Grant Christiansen.”
“I guess you get your wish.”
“I guess so.”
It eases my in-creeping shyness. Mercedes is texting, texting, texting, under the table, her phone blinking on, then again. The others gather and settle and rustle the packets in front of them. Then Peter stands up and gives a little introduction and orientation. This house is the main set, and there are rooms set aside for each of us in the basement. The two big stars—not me and Kaleb—have their own trailers. Most of the rest of the cast blurs for now, the character of Ty, for Tybalt—how ironic—is a dark-haired guy with smoldering go
od looks who keeps himself aloof from everyone else. I think I recognize him from a war movie a couple of years ago, or maybe he was a sidekick in a superhero flick.
And the character of Nurse is taken by a bodyguard in this one, played by a powerful looking African American man with a bald head who has kind eyes as he nods toward me.
The meeting doesn’t last that long. “We’re going to get started tomorrow, 7 am call for the party scene. If you want to check out the sets, I have everything blocked out in your packet. Jess and Kaleb, you might want to see the balcony, and Jules’ room. The party is on this level, spilling onto the decks. Oh, and Bob will show you each where your rooms are. You’ll live in a couple of condos we rented, but nothing was free until the end of the holiday, so you’re in the hotel for a few more days. Okay?”
“Sure,” Kaleb says, rubbing his temple.
As we get up to follow Bob, I ask, “Are you okay?”
He lifts a hand, waves me away. “Fine. Let’s check out the balcony.”
First, Bob shows us down a flight of stairs that circle around a waterfall that seems to pour from somewhere far, far overhead, enough water to make a soft swishing sound as it cascades over the wall that’s lit at random intervals with small blue lights. The lower level is hardly a basement—we come into an enormous common room with a giant television on one wall, many couches and chairs and small tables, and a wet bar and fridge in one corner. Glass doors open on to a patio that must be heated because there’s no snow, furnished with tables and a hot tub.
“Makeup and wardrobe are at that end,” Bob says, pointing down a hallway to what would be a large bedroom suite, now converted. “You two are this way.”
He takes us to two medium-size rooms, both with plenty of natural light and each with its own bathroom. Each one has a bed and a desk and a small fridge, a television, and a big window that looks into the forest at ground level. Mine is a feminine space in white and turquoise and splashes of red to keep it from looking like it belongs to a pretty, pretty little princess. Looking at the bed, I yawn, and have to cover my mouth. “Sorry,” I say. “Jet lag.”
“Let me know if you think of anything you need. Particular drinks on hand, or whatever.”
“Thanks.” Kaleb’s is down the hall, in a room decorated with more masculine appointments—hunter green and brown. He rubs his temple again, and his expression is not very cheerful, but I’m not going to ask again.
We trek back up the stairs, around and around, past the main floor where stage crews are putting things together, hanging wires and lights, talking and shouting at each other, past a floor that seems devoted to bedrooms, to a floor one step higher. The waterfall goes with us, and I want to run my fingers through it, delighted by the sparkle and the ingenuity of it. “Kaleb, this is crazy, right?”
I look over my shoulder and he’s almost a full flight of stairs behind me, climbing with determination. I don’t say anything, but I wait for him to catch up. His upper lip is beaded with sweat. “I feel like I have the worst hangover on the planet.”
“We should get you back to the hotel.”
“We can go in a second. Let’s take a look at the set, now that we’re here.”
“Okay.”
The top of the tower has views in all directions, mountains covered in snow, and more mountains, and trees and the slopes. It’s astonishing in the bright winter morning. At intervals are doors that lead to a walkway that also goes all the way around. I’m a little prone to vertigo, and it’s quite high, so when we step out I feel that weird little sway that says you’re going to fall over the edge any second, that some force is going to suck you over. I reach for Kaleb’s elbow and steady myself and he doesn’t pull away.
“How does he get up here?” I ask. In the book, he scales a tree, but there’s no tree tall enough here.
“It’s a movie,” Bob says, smiling to take the sting of the words out. “We’ll film him climbing a tree and then he’ll be on your balcony.”
“Magic,” Kaleb says, and snaps his fingers.
I laugh.
We walk around the balcony. It’s solid and about six feet wide, the walls made of the same stone as the house. Daring myself to let go of Kaleb’s arm, I walk with nervous knees over to the wall and look over. The cars we rode in are far below, and it makes me sway. Wind scoots up my skirt and I shiver.
“Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair,” Kaleb says.
Grinning, I pull my braid over my shoulder and fling it over the wall. It dangles in the air and the sight makes me very dizzy. I touch the spot between my eyebrows where I feel it.
“Cool,” Kaleb says.
“They’re cutting it today,” I say.
He looks at me. “That’s fast.”
“We start filming tomorrow.”
“Right.” He tugs my braid up and wraps it around his wrist, runs his fingers over the ridges. “I’ll think about it,” he says in a quiet voice, his eyes sultry, “the way it would make a curtain around us.”
My entire body reacts to that as I remember a night in Milford Sound.
“When the witch cut Rapunzel’s hair,” I say, taking the length of it back from him and winding it around my own arm, “she was cast out into the wilderness to fend for herself. And the prince was blinded and wandered around lost for years.”
He takes the braid from my hands, brushes the end over my cheek. “I don’t remember that part. I thought she turned into Sleeping Beauty.”
I laugh. “Fractured fairy tales.”
The amber eyes take on a gold hue in the sunlight. “You don’t need rescuing, though, do you?”
“No,” I say, realizing it’s true.
“It’s safe to cut your hair.”
“I know.”
The wind starts to blow and it’s not only sharp, but makes my vertigo worse. “Let’s go inside.”
As he holds the door open for me, he asks, “What happened to them in the end? Rapunzel and the prince?”
“He found her in the forest and was drawn to her voice. When she realized it was him, her tears restored his eyesight.”
“And everybody lived happily ever after.”
He closes the door behind him and we look at the bed together. I’ve read the script so many times the stage directions are seared into my head.
Jules is nude, waiting for Rome on a bed covered with a red velvet spread. He, too, is nude, and he admires her for a moment before he slides in beside her.
Jules: Wait! I want to look at you.
Rome, falling backward to give her full view of his body. She touches him by the light of a candle, very slowly tracing his shoulders and kissing his neck—
It looms before us, already covered in a red velvet spread.
Kaleb says, “You need to help me get back. My headache is killing me.”
“You probably need to let the doctor take a look at you,” I say as we head back downstairs. He looks slightly pale, and his breathing is a little too fast.
“Let me just get some sleep and I’ll be fine.”
We’re ahead of the others back to the hotel, and I take his arm and we make our way to the elevators. Once the doors close, he falls on me, burying his face in my neck. “I think I might die.”
Rubbing his back, I try to avoid laughing. “It’s altitude sickness. You’ll be okay in a day or so.”
“No.”
I put my hand on his cheek, feeling the clamminess. “You have to drink a ton of water. That’s the main thing. Tons and tons and tons. You need to pee every hour.”
“I don’t want to get up ever again.”
The elevator door slides open and I help him out, and I can see that he’s really sick, but this is that guy thing. So dramatic. He unlocks his door and I help him to the bedroom. He falls on his belly, arms spread out, and groans. “I really feel like shit.”
“I couldn’t see that.” From the kitchen, I bring a big bottle of water and a glass. “Drink.”
He rolls over on his back and
for one second all I can think is how hot he is, those long legs and broad shoulders. I want to undress him and bathe his hot skin and then make him feel better the old-fashioned way. He sits up, takes the glass and drinks it down, then groans and falls back down.
Men are such babies.
But then I remember a time when one of Henry’s friends came from Alabama or somewhere and they went to the mountains to fish. His friend got so sick he had to go to the emergency room and nearly died. “Where’s your phone, Kaleb?”
He pulls it out of his back jeans pocket and hands it over. I turn it on, make sure my number is still there, and that he can actually use it. “I have to meet Mercedes to go get my hair cut, but I want you to call me if you feel any worse, okay?”
“You’re getting it cut now?”
I hold up a hand. “I really can’t talk about it or I’ll get freaked out.” Giving him back the phone, I add, “Get undressed and get into bed and drink so much water you think you’ll burst. I’ll be back to check on you in a couple of hours.”
He starts to undress, putting his hand on his belt buckle, but I can’t really watch him pull off his jeans. “Wait until I’m gone.”
“Why, Jess?” He ignores me and pulls the jeans off and there are his naked thighs with the black scatters of hair and that tattoo that makes me so crazy, that tattoo I’ve traced with my tongue and lips and hands. Before I’ve absorbed his thighs, he’s yanked off his shirt, too, revealing his smooth brown torso. I catch his eye and see that he’s doing it deliberately, a challenge in his eyes. “Too tempting?”
“Are you even sick?”
A spasm or something hits him and he rolls over. “Yes. Go.”
“Water, Kaleb.”
He pulls the pillow over his head. “Go.”
As I’m heading out of the room, he calls, “Thank you.”
Outside the room, I lean on the door for a second, alone in the hallway, thinking of those solid dark thighs, and the—
No. No guys.
I have work to do.
Chapter TWELVE
“We should do a before and after,” Mercedes says as we head into the stylist’s booth. She pulls out her phone and we do a selfie together, and she tags me. I pull out my phone and ask her to shoot my loose hair from the back. I tag her back, and then the stylist says, “I’ll make it quick.”