Ship It(94)

“Okay, Forest, I think that’s enough,” Jamie says. Oh, look, he lives! After basically sleeping and scowling through this entire panel, and indeed, every single media event so far, Jamie Davies is showing a little life.

“Sorry?” I say, then I put the microphone down on the edge of the stage so I can slip into the Smokey jacket.

“You don’t get to dictate what should or should not happen. It’s not your show,” Jamie says.

I pick up the mic again. God, this jacket fits well. And it smells a bit like perfume, which is kind of nice. I’ll have to tell that girl later when I give it back that her jacket smells great. “Yo, Jamie, due respect, but it’s not your show, either. Once we make it and put it out there, it’s not ours to say how people see it.”

“Fine, but none of you get to decide what happens next. I do. And my writers. That’s how this whole thing works.”

Here’s where Claire butts in. “You get to decide what’s canon, but you know what? Canon can be wrong.”

I climb back onto the stage. Rico’s smiling at me like a maniac. I feel like I’m finally being someone he can be proud of. I feel like I’m finally listening to myself instead of reacting out of fear.

It feels good.

“This is ridiculous,” Jamie says. And then he straight-up walks offstage. That’s okay, I’m not doing this for him. In fact, he’d rather kill my character off than see this happen, so I don’t have a lot of sympathy at the moment.

I turn back out to the crowd. The cheering is growing steadily, as people start to anticipate what’s coming. The energy right now is incredible.

“I didn’t get that at first, Claire, but you helped me get there.”

Claire’s watching me intensely, her hands gripping the sides of the podium.

“Get what?” she asks.

“That you as a viewer get to pick what your own personal canon is. That yours doesn’t have to be the same as mine, or Jamie’s, or anyone else’s.”

“Yeah, I think that’s true.”

“But sometimes, I get the sense that you’re disappointed that your specific canon might not ever make it to the screen.”

“Definitely,” she says. Her face freezes in this stunned half smile, like she’s trying to figure out what I’m up to. Just wait.

“Okay, well, maybe just in case, some people might want to film this?”

There are already about fifty phones pointed at us, but I see a dozen more fly into the air. My heart is in my throat. I can feel every single eye in the room on us.

“Okay?” I whisper to Rico, and he turns to face me with a nod.

“Okay,” he says.

I watch him do a little shoulder shrug, neck stretch that I recognize from the moments on set just before action. He’s getting into character. I close my eyes and find the part of my brain that always knows how Smokey will react next.

It takes a moment, because my heart is racing and my adrenaline is pumping, but I take a few long breaths, and slowly, the crowd fades away.

As Smokey, I open my eyes and look at Heart.

How long have Heart and I been fighting? Thinking that because of our nature, we had to be enemies, when all along we wanted the same things: peace, justice, freedom from hell. I spent so much time thinking he was my enemy that I never considered that that tightness I felt in my chest at the sight of him wasn’t fear or anger. My obsession with him, the way I couldn’t take my eyes off him when he was in the room, the way his name made my stomach curl up and my knees loosen—I had never known what it was before because I’d never felt it with anyone else.

It’s simple, really. I just never let myself think about it.

I’m in love with Heart.

I tell him this with my eyes, and I feel it coming right back, his lips pulling up into a smile, his face wide open and welcoming. The warmth of knowing washes over me. Heart loves me, too. What happens next isn’t even a risk anymore, because I know exactly what he’ll do.

Standing on the edge of that stage with him, I’ve never felt so connected before. I raise the microphone to my mouth so everyone can feel what I’m feeling.

“Heart.” I pause to wait for the cheers to die down. “I’m with you…”

I hand the microphone to him. Without breaking eye contact, he speaks directly to me. “’Til the dirt hits my chest.”

I’m aware, then, of another cheer. Happy for the familiarity of the line, exhilarated about what might come next, just like me.

He puts the mic on the table and the cheer dies down. We’re enveloped in utter silence as I hold his gaze for…

An…

Eternity.

Then I step forward, and he steps forward, and my breath and every other breath in the room catches in our throats.

And I allow myself to admire the sharp corners of his jaw, the smooth brown of his skin, the lines in his face from years of experience and living and laughing, and his deep warm eyes, which are looking at me like I’m the only person in the room.

And then I drop my gaze to his lips, which are curling upward in anticipation, and I know he’s waiting for me to move first.

So I lean in, and I close my eyes, and his mouth meets mine.

And we kiss.

My hands move up to cup his cheeks, and I can feel him slipping an arm around my back and pulling me a little closer.