Charlie has been peeling the bark from a stick she found in the grass, but at these words, she aggressively tosses it into the bushes. “Motherfucker.”
“Can you believe it?” I ask, slurring and cutting out about two syllables. “I’m here, single, lonely, with all kinds of baggage, and he’s fucking married. With daughters.”
She groans and passes the current bottle of wine down the row. We’ve given up on the pretense of glasses. I take a swig and hand it to Trey, who partakes, even though he’s barely awake.
“Who’s married?” Nick asks. His words are slow, voice deep and hypnotic.
I stare at his mouth for a few seconds too long and it curves up into a smile. “Sam Brandis,” I say.
He nods drunkenly, the momentum keeping the nodding going for a few beats. “Your first love.”
“Why do you think he’s my first love?”
“Because I saw you react to him,” he reminds me. “You freaked the fuck out.”
“No, I was just surprised.”
He waves a heavy hand. “No, no, also you get that look.” He points to his own face and puts on a shocked expression that in no way demonstrates what a good actor he really is. He gives it up pretty quickly, too drunk to bother. “The one where it’s like you’re just trying to keep breathing around him. I think he’s your first and only.”
“I don’t want to talk about it anymore,” I say. I feel spinny, like I’ve had one drink too many. I have had one drink too many. “I don’t want to talk about Sam ever again.”
“I need to get this one to bed.” Charlie stands, pulling Trey up. “I’ll see you at five,” she tells me, and I groan.
I pull back Nick’s sleeve on his sweater to look at his watch. It’s after midnight, and most everyone has been smart enough to go to bed early. Only a small group, some of the camera crew and sound techs, remains at a table inside the dining hall. Devon reminded us of our call time and gave us both lingering Be good looks before disappearing to his own cabin. We probably should have taken his nonverbal advice, but drinking wine was so much more appealing; I needed something to put out the fire in my blood after hearing Sam on the phone to what was very clearly a wife.
Kids. How does he get to be a dad? How does he get to have his shit together?
I’m sure whenever he thinks about my life, Sam thinks everything turned out okay. I’m famous. I have my dad back. Everything is great. Except my personal life is a total mess, and it’s his fault. He’s the one who taught me what love looked like and felt like and then taught me it’s a lie. I have never been able to come back from that.
“No shit,” Nick says. “That sucks.”
I groan, swinging my head to look at him. “Did I say all that out loud?”
“You did,” he says, nodding.
“What parts?”
“About how he taught you what love looked like and that it’s a lie.” He grins. “You also said how you wanted to make out with me under this tree.”
I gasp. “I said that, too?”
He laughs. “No, but now I know it’s true.”
“You’re trouble,” I tell him.
“Not really.” His words are so gentle, they’re almost self-deprecating. It feels like he’s admitting he’s a mess, too, that distraction is good for everyone. If I were less tipsy, I would press into this a little, turn the attention away from my heartache and toward his.
But I am tipsy.
We come together like we’re falling forward, mouths meeting in a sweet, messy press of breath, and tongue, and teeth. It stirs me, waking that heat in my belly for the first time in so long. I haven’t loved since Sam, but I’m not dead inside, either.
Even so, it doesn’t feel right. It only lasts the span of a few kisses before I’m turning my face away. Nick kisses my neck, my jaw, my ear. It’s so sloppy, so loose; I have the sense that we’re leaning sideways and then we are, toppling over.
Nick laughs into my neck. “What are we doing?”
“God, we are too drunk for this.”
He helps me stand, and I brush off my jeans, struggling to remain steady.
“You kissed me,” I say.
“I think you kissed me.” Nick grins at me, asking again, “What are we doing?”
“Getting into the role?”
“Did I tell you I’m nervous about the sex scenes?” he drunkenly stage-whispers.