The Decoy Girlfriend(54)
After the requisite niceties with the makeup artists, he’d spent his time scrolling social media so fast that Freya highly doubts he was actually able to read anything. Now, his attention seems caught on one post in particular, but at this angle, she can’t see what it is. A transparent avoidance tactic, and not one that she’s going to let him get away with. Before, he stayed in the present instead of clinging to his phone, and she misses having his attention. She misses him, period.
Freya sets her jaw. “Are you being avoidy because you don’t trust me to follow your rules?”
The answer is obvious. What’s even more so is how bad he is at it.
But he surprises her. “No,” Taft says after a long pause. “I don’t trust me.”
The confession hangs in the air long after he ducks his head, returning to whatever on his phone is oh so fascinating. He doesn’t get to just say that and pull away again. Their makeup chairs are only a couple of feet apart, but the distance between them is even more vast. She can’t take his remote expressions and this-is-for-the-best demeanor anymore. Not when she knows that it’s all bullshit.
Ava’s right. No one goes to this much trouble if they aren’t into you a ridiculous amount.
She rephrases. “Then please stop avoiding me. I hate it. If you think any of this is making me think about you less, you’re wrong. It’s not. It makes me think about you more.”
His eyes soften infinitesimally.
Freya takes his lowered defenses as an opportunity to snatch his phone. Maybe it’s childish, but she has to meet him where he lives. “You’re not getting this back until you talk to me.”
And then her eyes land on the Instagram post staring up at her. It’s a picture of the Once Bitten cast, and when she swipes, she sees that it’s a photo dump of several selfies. Everyone is laughing and smiling—with one noticeable exception.
Taft is nowhere in these pictures. Not even once.
Love my OB fam!!! reads the caption, posted by Bowen Brennan, Taft’s former on-screen love interest. She’s tagged it with a hashtag, too. When Freya clicks it, she’s taken to hundreds of #OBReunion photos going back years. Premieres, meet-ups, someone’s housewarming out in the desert . . .
Freya clicks one at random. It’s Bowen and Connor Kingdom at Venice Beach, Bowen playfully mussing his hair while Connor’s arm is outstretched to take the selfie. Below, a fan has commented, How come you and Taft don’t hang out?
Bowen’s response is accompanied by a kiss-blowing emoji. HAHAHA omg what are you talking about!!!! I love Taft! He’s such a good dude! We hang out all the time! We just don’t always post about it!
The lady doth exclaim too much, Freya thinks sourly. “Taft, this is such bullshit.”
He shifts in his seat, face unreadable. “Can I have my phone back?”
“No.”
“No?”
He gives her a blink that can only be described as disbelieving. “But . . . it’s my phone.”
She pushes the Power button, sending the screen black, then lets it land in her purse next to her own iPhone. “If I do, you’re only going to punish yourself further. I’ve been living with you for how long now? There hasn’t been a single time that you’ve spoken to one of them unless you reached out first.”
“I don’t keep track,” he says stiffly.
She scoffs.
Taft looks like he wants to argue, and Freya’s eyes dare him to so she can tell him what should be blatantly obvious, just how special he really is and why can’t he see that, but the makeup artists return for the last finishing touches. Freya ignores the knowing smirks that seem to insinuate something quite a bit steamier than the argument that just happened.
The tension between her and Taft crackles when they’re shepherded to the luxe living room of the restored Victorian house that they’re using for the Banshee of the Baskervilles promo images. The windows are draped in swathes of opulent purple-and-gold brocade that puddle on the herringbone wood floors. Gold light spills from the true-to-the-period brass floor lamps, casting the room in an inviting, buttery glow.
Freya and Taft are instructed to stand in front of the roaring inglenook fireplace, hair and makeup artists fussing over touch-ups, and at some point someone thrusts a glass of Scotch-that’s-really-iced-tea into Taft’s hands. Between the heat from the fire and the crowd of set designers, prop managers, and photography assistants who all look terrifyingly competent, Freya’s sure that she’s sweating, but thankfully the setting powder on her face is truly a holy grail product.
Why do people always advise you to think of the audience in their underwear? It’s terrible! It doesn’t work! And it leads to an overactive writer’s imagination thinking about how devastatingly handsome Taft would look in various stages of undress . . . Stop it, Freya!
She doesn’t have long to fret, because August, their photographer, breezes over and introduces themselves with they/them pronouns and a disarming grin that immediately sets Freya at ease.
“I’m thrilled to be working with you,” says August, giving Freya a firm handshake. “I’m a huge fan of Banshee. I can’t believe the fourth season ended on that cliffhanger! I mean, your scream is the harbinger for his death. Literal shivers down my spine, Mandi. I can’t wait to see how the movie ends.”
“You and me both,” jokes Freya, because she has no idea, either. She catches the way Taft’s face tightens and telepathically sends him back some calming vibes. “The director wanted it to be a surprise, so we filmed several different endings,” she explains.