Wildest Dreams

16. Pierre

PIERRE

T his is the longest week of my life. All I want to do is get through this shoot so I can have Saturday afternoon off and see Kendall. At the same time, each day that passes is one day closer to me leaving Magnolia Row, possibly never seeing Kendall again.

I text Kendall throughout the day every day, then call her each night before bed. The days are exhausting. Belladonna is a great director, but she’s meticulous and insists on shooting each scene in every way possible. I’m drained, especially with Marina right up under me at all times. She keeps trying to find excuses to be with me off camera, wanting to rehearse lines, block scenes, and presumably be seen together enough that we can spark those dating rumors the studio’s publicist keeps insisting on.

The worst part about it is that, in the movie, my character is the one pining for hers and trying to win her back. This is the performance of my life.

At least the kid who plays my son is sweet. I try to spend my downtime between takes hanging out with him. Besides being good for our on-screen dynamic, it gets me away from Marina.

* * *

F inally, Friday night arrives. I walk out onto the back deck of the house. Bertha has figured out my schedule and is there waiting for me, so I retrieve a chicken from the fridge and hurl it into the yard. She slinks back into the muddy water as I take out my cell to call Kendall.

“Hello, beautiful,” I say when she answers.

“Hey.” I can hear the smile in her voice and it owns me.

“So, are we still on for tomorrow evening?” I ask.

“Sure. Where do you want to go? I’m afraid our options are limited unless we want to drive to Montgomery or Auburn.”

“How about I meet you at your place, we have dinner at that steakhouse downtown, then maybe go to Cattywampus afterwards to make your ex jealous.”

She laughs. “Sounds like a plan.”

“I’ll text you when I’m done with the morning shoot. Should be shortly after lunch.”

“Perfect.”

* * *

T he next day, I’m fidgety all during filming and constantly look at my watch. I send Kendall a few pictures from the set, which she responds to immediately. I love that she doesn’t play games. I always know where I stand with her.

After work, I go back to the rental house, shower and wash off the makeup from shooting, then put on some clean clothes.

I drum my hand on the steering wheel of the SUV during the entire drive to Kendall’s office/apartment. As I’m about to park, she texts that the door is unlocked.

I walk upstairs and she’s standing at the landing, waiting for me. She looks stunning—hair curled, pink floral dress touching the floor, lip gloss perfectly matching her outfit. I grab her, lifting her and pulling her lips to mine. Time stops. Right now, it’s just me and her.

When I finally put her down, she wipes lip gloss off my face.

“Hungry?” she asks.

“I was. Now I want to stay here.”

She rolls her eyes with a smirk, grabs her bag, and we head downstairs into the hot June sun. Southern Star Steakhouse is at the end of Main Street. I put my hand on the small of Kendall’s back and, for the first time, she doesn’t tense or move away. There are a few people out and about, and though I feel eyes on us, I don’t acknowledge them. Kendall notices, and I can tell she’s uncomfortable as she tucks her hair behind her ears, clutches her purse, and never looks up from the sidewalk.

The restaurant is packed, half with locals and half with film crew. I say hi to a few people I recognize from the set, and even see my on-screen son with his real-life parents in a side booth. I introduce them to Kendall, who bends down to talk to my faux son about his Star Wars shirt. It’s adorable to see them interacting and I can’t help but imagine her with her own kid one day.

No, I need to stop. This is a short-term relationship. She’s made that very clear. I do not need to think about her with kids or, worse, my kids.

Apparently, Kendall had called ahead and reserved a table in the back corner for us, perfect for privacy.

“I do their taxes,” she says, scooting into the plush leather seat swallows her whole. “They don’t normally take reservations, but for me they made an exception.”

“Local VIP! And you think I’m the celebrity around here.”

We waste no time looking over the menu and order wine—merlot for me and Riesling for her—and two filet mignons before I tell her about my day.

“Has Marina gotten any better?” she asks.

“Absolutely not.”

“What’s her deal, anyway? Can’t she have any guy on the planet? She could be a model.”

“She was, actually. Before acting.”

“Of course she was.” She rolls her eyes.

“To your point, I think that’s the problem. She’s not used to rejection. She can get almost any guy and usually does. Don’t get me wrong—we have great chemistry on-screen, but off-screen I know her type. She’s all about how the relationship would further her career, and I cannot stand that artificial b.s. I have no doubt she would tip off photographers and slip pictures to TMZ. Then, once the tabloid stories dry up, she’d drop me like a piece of garbage. So, yeah. Not only did I not pursue her but, when she pursued me, I turned her down. Now she sees me as a challenge. It’s unbelievably frustrating.”

She sits back, purses her brows, and shakes her head. “That’s sad.”

“For her, yes,” I respond.

She goes quiet for a moment. “Pierre, can I ask you a question?” Her entire energy shifts and her serious tone gives me a mini surge of panic.

“Anything.”

“Why do you like me?” she asks, shaking her head slightly.

“What are you talking about?”

“I get that you don’t want Marina specifically, but you could have anyone else. Why me?”

“You’re the opposite of everything Marina and those shallow Hollywood starlets are about. You’re pretty in a way that’s unaware and effortless. You’re stable and grounded. You’re independent. I can be myself with you without fearing that you have ulterior motives or will sell me out at the first chance. Don’t get me wrong. Not everyone in Hollywood is awful, but everyone, no matter how good their heart is, is all about the industry. The industry is a machine. You’re so… normal, and I mean that in the best way possible. I don’t know anyone like you.”

She gives me a melancholic look.

“Is something wrong?” I ask.

“No, not really.”

“What is it? Your whole mood changed.” I lean forward and reach across to hold her hand.

“It’s just…I’ve never met anyone like you either. This whole week, I thought about you and how excited I was for tonight.”

“That’s a bad thing?”

“Well, yeah.”

“I’m not following.”

“It makes me dread you leaving. This whole thing is…” She pauses. “It’s weird. I’m not sure how to define it. I thought I was above getting attached and worrying about definitions, but apparently, I’m not. Ugh. I’m so old-fashioned. I hate this.”

My stomach drops. “What are you saying?”

“I don’t know. I’m sorry I even brought it up.”

“I’m trying to live by your rules here.”

“I know,” she said, squeezing my hand. “I appreciate it. You’re the nicest guy I’ve ever met.”

“Are you saying you want this to end?”

“I thought about it. At the same time, these past two weeks have been good for me. I guess I’m scared. Not just of getting hurt, but of not having anything to look forward to anymore. For years, I’ve been existing in a void with no horizon in the distance. You changed that in a startlingly short amount of time. I’m freaking out is all. It’s a me problem.”

I nod my head as she speaks and rub my thumb across her knuckles. She takes a deep, palpable breath.

“Can we talk about something else?” she asks, releasing my hand and pushing her hair back over her shoulders. “Tell me about your favorite places to travel.”

I breathe a sigh of relief as the tension lifts. I’m glad she was honest with me, but I also don’t really know where to go from here, so I go along with her change in subject. I tell her about hiking at Mt. Rainier in Washington state, flying over the Alaskan glaciers in a helicopter, taking my mom for a walk along the Champs-Elysées at night, and seeing the northern lights in Iceland.

She listens, enraptured, one elbow on the table and chin resting in her palm. As I’m talking, I catch myself almost saying things like “I’ll have to take you there” or “I can’t wait to show you this.” I know she doesn’t want to talk about the future, but all I want is to sweep her out of here and watch her face light up all over the world.