Wildest Dreams

23. Kendall

KENDALL

W hen I wake up the next morning, bright sunlight is peeping around the edges of the windows overlooking Main Street. I pull the sheets up to cover myself and look at Pierre lying beside me, sleeping as sound as an angel.

He’s perfect. Positively, insanely perfect. I cannot believe this is my life.

I look at my clock. It’s nine in the morning, which is late for me. The music speaker died during the night and I can hear sounds from the street. There is a lot of chatter, vehicles going by, and a random, loud beeping noise, which is strange because none of the businesses on Main Street open this early on Saturday. I run to the bathroom to grab my robe, then tiptoe to peep out the window.

People are everywhere. It looks like half the town turned up for whatever is going on. I see cameras set up in the median, cars decorated for what looks like a parade, and in the middle of the road I see Belladonna. I recognize her from watching the Oscars with Patsy. She’s waving her hands around, looking livid. Marina is close by, arms crossed and shaking one leg.

Apparently, they’re shooting today. Only, there’s someone missing.

That someone is snoring in my bed.

“Um, Pierre?”

He doesn’t move. I sit beside him and gently shake his shoulder, then lean down and whisper his name in his ear. He rouses, then rolls over and grins at me.

“Pierre, are you supposed to work today?”

“We have a shoot tomorrow morning. Why?” He’s so groggy he doesn’t even realize it’s daylight.

“It is tomorrow morning.”

“What?” Now he’s awake. His eyes fly open, wild, and he runs his hands through his hair.

“They’re out there now.”

He jumps out of the bed, not bothering to cover himself, then pulls the curtain back enough to see his director losing her mind.

“Shit. Shit. Shit.”

I stand there, not sure what to do, as he pulls on his clothes in a hurry, shirt inside out, and checks his phone.

“Fifty missed calls. I forgot I’d put it on silent.”

“I’m so?—”

“Don’t apologize. This is one hundred percent my fault.” He sprints across the room and kisses me goodbye. “Last night was wonderful. I’ll call you later.”

I nod and he’s gone before I have a chance to process what happened. I look back out the window and see him run out the front door, straight to Belladonna. Though I can’t hear what she says, her expression is clear. She’s pissed, drawing attention not only to herself but to the fact that he just emerged from the little accountant girl’s office. Everyone within earshot turns to look at him, then up at me.

I throw the curtain closed and turn my back to the window, reality sinking in. By this afternoon, everyone in town will know that Pierre Chatham was late to set because he spent the night with me.

* * *

A s expected, my phone is blowing up before I even eat lunch. First Patsy, who wanted all the details. I respond that I’ll fill her in on Monday. My friends Micah and Sistine also text, and I simply tell them that I can’t get into it.

Then, of course, my mother calls.

“Is it true that Pierre Chatham spent the night with you?” She sounds more excited than Patsy on her giddiest day.

“Mom, I don’t want to talk about it.”

“So it’s true! You know, everyone in town saw him leaving your loft this morning.”

“I know.”

“I’m happy for you, sugar! Just one thing: he’s not a scientologist, is he? Because you know how those California people— Wait. Hang on?—”

I roll my eyes and hear my dad’s muffled voice in the background.

“Sweetheart, your dad wants to make sure you’re using protection.”

“Goodbye, Mother.”

“Kendall—”

I hang up. I cannot talk to them about my dating life, if dating is what this is. I have no idea what I’m doing. I had no intention of Pierre spending the night, but he was looking at me with such intensity when we were taking those pictures, and in the moonlight, he looked like a god. I got carried away.

Now I really don’t know what this means to me or to him. I was apprehensive before, but now I’m a mess. I don’t know what I want. Part of me is ready for this whole movie business to go away and for things to get back to normal, but that also means I’ll never see him again, and the thought of it breaks my heart.

I’m in way too far over my head.

* * *

F or the rest of the afternoon, I watch murder shows and eat junk food while trying to ignore the noise outside. Part of me wants to go downstairs and do some work, but I don’t even want to be seen through the window on the short walk from the stairs to my back office.

What a nightmare.

Finally, that afternoon, after drinking the rest of the wine from last night, I take the camera off the table and pull out the memory card. I upload the photos onto my computer and go through them one by one.

They’re perfect.

Even in my wedding photos with Tucker, I hated the way I looked. Here, I look radiant. No touch-ups, no filters. Just me. I never thought it was possible, but I do love seeing myself through his eyes. I’m so happy I let him take these pictures, and I’m grateful he let me turn the camera on him. He isn’t a movie star in these photos; he’s vulnerable and tender. He’s the Pierre he only shows me.

Right on time, my phone dings with a text from Pierre. They’re still outside shooting, but he wants me to know he’s thinking about me.

I melt. I truly melt.

I dig a blank memory card out of my camera bag and duplicate all the photos onto it so Pierre can have his own copies. Once he’s gone, I want him to remember me.