The Reunion by Kayla Olson(80)
In the shadows just off to the side of the brightly lit set, we wait for Bryan to finish up a conversation with the director of photography.
“Have you seen any of the headlines this morning?” Ransom asks, his voice quiet.
I can only imagine what they’re saying about us today, especially after Gemma’s viral video—I can’t afford to think about it or else I’ll never get through our scenes. “I’ve done my best to avoid them.”
“Excuse me, sorry,” someone says, as they squeeze past us to adjust one of the lights. Ransom shifts to make way, his hand brushing mine in the process—a spark in the darkness. Stop it, I tell my traitorous body.
“Did Bryan talk to you?” Ransom asks, after another moment of silence.
“Yep.” My p pops more than I mean it to, like a slammed door. “I told him we were professionals,” I add, to take a little of the sting out. “We’ve done this before, we can get through it again.”
He’s quiet beside me, hands shoved in his pockets now, probably to avoid any more accidental brushes. Bryan calls us out onto the set a few minutes later, finally done working through plans with the camera and lighting crews.
The set is beautiful: both scenes take place in Duke’s beachside bungalow, in his bed. The plush white linen duvet is minimalistic but luxe, and the bedroom windows are lit with a perpetually breaking dawn, sunbeams so convincing I forget they’ve been manufactured just out of frame.
My heartbeat picks up as I untie the thin robe Wardrobe provided with my costume for today—a matching set of silk pajamas in a soothing shade of lavender. The camisole’s gorgeous, with barely there straps and a perfectly draping neckline. I strip out of the robe, the heat of the lights warm on my skin.
My eyes dart automatically to Ransom, who I catch looking at the hemline on my shorts, an unguarded expression on his face that says he is undeniably, without a doubt attracted to what he sees. His cheeks turn pink as he looks away.
This is Honor’s reality, not yours, I remind myself, when I’m tempted to stare back—more than tempted, if I’m honest. Actively staring, actively attempting not to. He’s down to his boxer briefs now, every glorious inch of his muscular stomach on full display.
I slide under the covers as gracefully as possible, narrowly avoiding hitting my temple on the headboard’s sharp, angular edge. Ransom follows my lead. I’m sure you know by now how long he’d had a crush on you, Ford’s words race through my mind, and Gemma’s: The way he looked at her… I could always tell it was real. I flash back to every other time we’ve climbed into a bed like this, lights bright and cameras ready. The first time, late in our fourth season—I assured my mom I felt comfortable before we arrived on set for the scene, even though comfortable wasn’t quite as accurate as so excited I can’t even eat mixed with nervous, because obviously. There’s a reason our intimate scenes always “sparked electric with teen love,” as some writer once put it: those scenes never required any acting, at least not for me. It blows my mind to think Ransom might have felt the same way all that time—how maybe the only acting those scenes ever required from either of us was off-screen, pretending we only saw each other as friends.
Now, his bare leg brushes against mine under the covers, and that spark is most definitely still there. I’m going to have to do a flawless job of hiding all the contradictory things I feel: the sting of hurt and regret mixed with the persistent undercurrent of affection, despite all our complicated history.
I love him, I always have. It would make things so much easier if I didn’t. Being thisclose to him now is like cotton fused to a raw wound, comforting so long as it isn’t ripped away. No matter what, I can’t let myself forget: when the lights go dark, when the cameras are off, when all is said and done—at the end of the day, what happens in this bed is all, and only, fiction.
“Ransom, Liv—get closer, please!” Bryan yells, back to his usual self. “People will wonder if one of you ate a pile of garlic in the middle of the night if you stay that far away from each other!”
I should have known Bryan’s sensitive persona from earlier would have no place in the director’s chair. My chance to protest was back in my trailer, and now it’s up to me to be the professional I promised I’d be. I rest my cheek on the pillow, turning my entire body to face Ransom. He does the same, mirroring me.
We’re not touching, but it’s about as intimate as we can be—his eyes are so, so close, gorgeous as ever. The heat of his breath carries fresh mint, about as far from garlic as a girl could hope for.
Focus, Liv.
“Hi,” he breathes, so quietly the microphones probably don’t even catch it.
Tears well in my eyes—I can’t look at him for too long or else I’m going to lose it, apparently. I don’t know how I’m going to do this.
His hand finds mine under the covers, and he gives it a single firm squeeze. It’s familiar and comforting the same way it used to be, back in our first season when we were both brand-new at being on camera and I used to freak out. We were so young—the full force of my crush was still a couple of years off, but even then, he was the very best friend I could ever have wanted.
“Better, better,” Bryan says. “Now, Liv, if you could turn so you’re flat on your back, staring at the ceiling—yes, perfect!”