One More Time(14)

“Quiet on the set.” Polly commands. “Aanndd action.”

Jenna rushes into the frame as I’m rushing out. We stop, just past each other, and angle back to stare at each other for a beat. We hit our marks, and it’s just the right amount of time. The hum in the air says we all feel it, the actor’s sixth sense that the scene is working.

“You’re leaving,” Jenna says. There’s the right amount of excitement in her voice as she blurts her line as though it’s completely spontaneous. Her eyes scan my face as though looking for answers.

“To find you,” I reply, even though her character already knows.

“Well...here I am,” she says. She adds a little catch in her voice after the well that I wasn’t expecting. It makes her sound like she wasn’t sure she would come. It makes her sound vulnerable, which is a smart acting choice. Then she reaches out and runs her finger along my shirt collar. “Look at you.”

In that moment I don’t feel like Bobby. I feel like myself.

And I feel like Jenna is seeing me as herself, not as Grace.

Even if that isn’t true, and I’m projecting, I can tell it’s exactly the right way to play this scene. The words may have been scripted in an over-air-conditioned room somewhere in Burbank, but the feelings behind them, the actions, are purely our own.

“Why would anyone look at me with you in the room?” I reply, and then without a thought as to where to place my hands on her face, or how quickly to make the move, I pull her in. My eyes search hers for a moment of doubt and don’t find it. Once I’m certain, I tilt her chin up to me and as my lips land on hers, I come home.

I forget about the movie, though in my mind, we’re whirling as though we’re in one. Her mouth parts for me, but only the barest amount, and my tongue finds the softest match in hers, tasting of sparkling water and that honeyed flavor I always associate with Jenna.

No one is watching. Everyone is watching. It doesn’t matter anymore.

Jenna and I have kissed all the ways, in all the places, and we’ve been damn good at it every single time. This one is no different. I stroke my thumb over her cheek, and her mouth opens even more, our tongues tangling as her breasts press against my body. Her familiar orange-blossom scent invades my nostrils. I’ve waited so long for this, but it’s even better than I’d anticipated, and I press just a little more into her, to satisfy the growing hardness in my jeans...

“Go ahead and cut,” Polly says.

...And with that I remember where I am. If I were the blushing sort, I’d be red right now.

“So much better. I honestly think we’ve got it, but let’s do some more to catch some other angles.”

I’m silent, and staring at my co-star, waiting for a sign, but Jenna has reverted back to her professional actress mode. She’s pulled out her phone, and is texting after a quick nod to Polly.

Was she really just acting the entire time? She’s good. Better than I knew she’d be. I’m ready to award her an Oscar.

Me, on the other hand...I don’t know what I am right now. But whatever it is, I have to rewind, recall my feelings, and experience this all over again so the cameras can get another shot.

We run the scene from the top. Jenna nails every moment, possibly even better this time. I touch her face just as perfectly and meet her lips just as naturally this second time and it transports me all over.

I wonder if the whole set can feel the connection we have, the chemistry that sparks and smokes and explodes like a mad scientist’s kit every time we touch.

“Cut!” Polly yells again. “Wrapped. Nice work, everyone. See you bright and early, and hopefully in the sunlight.” She hops down from her canvas chair to converse with the cinematographer.

Meanwhile, I turn to Jenna, ready to talk this out. But all the sweetness is gone from her face again.

“Thanks for the pep talk. See ya tomorrow,” she says, already texting furiously as she starts to walk away. My entire life is starting to feel like a montage of scenes where I look after her as she walks away.

I’m so stupid.

Even if she can recall the feelings from the past for inspiration in a kissing scene, she’ll also remember the other feelings. By reminding her of the good, I automatically remind her of the bad.

And besides—she’s an actress. Better than I am. She’s always been. I’m an idiot for believing the scene meant things would be different between us.

I change clothes at Wardrobe and start toward my trailer to collect tomorrow’s call sheet and lines to take home. After briefly considering grabbing some beer on my way, I decide that won’t do a thing but fuzz the edges of my already tenuous control.

I have to talk to Jenna.

It’s the only way I’ll get the answers I need to sleep tonight.

I walk up to her trailer door, but it’s shut. I stand outside trying to decide if knocking is rude or fine or if she’s even there at all. But before I can make a decision, I hear her voice through the window. She’s talking to someone, maybe on the phone? I can’t make out any silhouettes through the curtains, and I definitely don’t want to get any closer in case she can see out.

“I’m going to get through this, Walter,” I hear her say. “But doing this movie might just be the worst mistake I’ve ever made.”

Then she pauses, I assume to hear whatever Walter is saying back. The worst mistake she’s ever made? That hits me hard in the gut. Am I really making her that miserable?