Between Octobers Bk 1, Savor The Days Series (34 page)

I shook my head, declining. I read it once
before he started filming. The original script had no love
scene.

Meanwhile, the last few crew members had
been dismissed and the bedroom scene was underway. And it was
strange—not at all like watching my husband with someone else. The
atmosphere was too professional. They started and stopped several
times. I began to wonder if something was wrong, but Sheri assured
me this was the way things worked. The director, who had a very
strict vision of the way things should look, kept shouting
instructions. Every command appeared to be followed to the last
letter. Then they stopped, adjusted lighting, touched up makeup and
hair, and started again.

Sheri rolled her eyes. I gave a
questioning look. She wrote on the back of the script,
Gretchen’s being difficult
. Then,
scribbled it out.

Several hours passed before someone called a
break. Evan sat up and looked for me. I waved from my cave across
the room, giving him two thumbs up. He smiled back. Once Gretchen’s
robe was in place, people started filing through the room
again.

Evan introduced me to everyone passing
through, embarrassing me. They nodded their heads, and gave kind
responses that made me blush. “Congratulations!” said one. “You’re
a lucky guy, Rhys!” remarked another. “Does she have a sister?” An
older man asked with a wink in my direction.

“Yes, and we’re keeping her away from you!”
The last one was Romy.

Gretchen made several attempts to
communicate between touch-ups. But Evan was noticeably irritated
and trying to politely ignore her. I was just glad she kept herself
covered.

Sheri and I huddled into our corner as they
called everyone back. A tall man in a headset shouted instructions
for anyone not needed for this particular scene to leave the area.
Behind him, Gretchen and Evan were talking.

“Roll sound,” a voice called out.

“Oh this is good,” Sheri added. “Listen,”
she handed me a small earpiece, almost like a Bluetooth.

I tucked it into my ear and we could hear
them talking. “No,” Evan said, frustrated, “and it’s not
working.”

The monitor in front of us turned on as
someone else joined our little group. The three of us watched
Gretchen on the screen as they adjusted lighting once more. She
gestured with her chin towards Evan’s waistline. He looked at her
with flat eyes. The sound of movement made the words fuzzy for a
second, but I followed along, intrigued.

“Look, I’m sorry if I do, and sorry if I
don’t.” Evan’s face turned several shades of pink as there were a
few laughs from around the house.

Everyone knew what he was talking about. He
was referring to his, well every man’s issue when it came to that
sort of thing. Biology wouldn’t allow a man to hide a reaction the
way a woman could, which made for some very awkward moments between
co-workers. The way Evan got around the gauche subject was by
making a blanket statement of the fact that he had no control over
the way his body may or may not respond, therefore no offense
should be taken either way. Gretchen was clearly offended by his
lack of enthusiasm. And I could not deny that it made me feel
good.

The hardest part to
watch came after lunch. When we all got back to the room,
they had to run dialogue. Most of it was boring, but I wanted to
watch Evan.

One of the first things I noticed
about him—aside from the obscene good looks—was the way he used his
hands when he talked. He was quirky, animated, and prone to
laughter. The second was his charming, deprecating humor. But when
the director yelled
action
,
Evan changed. His posture was different. He spoke in a different
cadence, with subtle intonations so that you would never know he
wasn’t an American from New York. His mannerisms changed, too. He
was no longer the animated, good-humored man I knew. He was a
phenomenal performer, though he’d been convinced his talent was no
more than mediocre.

I couldn’t fathom how he was able to
seamlessly slip into someone else’s skin. I didn’t see the
transition—it was instantaneous. I’d never seen anything like it
and had nothing to compare it to. If Evan’s gift came in another
medium, like painting, I might’ve said he was like Dali—stunning
and creative. If he were a sculpture, he might have been on par
with Rodin—distinguished and complex. He was able to transmit a
character—a work of fiction—from the words he read into a living,
breathing being, and make me believe it.

That was why the second part of the
scene was so hard to watch. In the bedroom portion of the scene he
was upset, but played his part to the best of his ability. In this
part, they had dialogue and that was fine, because it wasn’t the
words that bothered me. I had to watch them film the whole
sequence, several pages of dialogue from beginning to end, before
the director called
cut
and
they started over.

It was the way he looked at her that
was killing me. Watching him touch her so tenderly, it broke my
heart. She held him so close, touching him in places that belonged
to me. I knew he was only playing a part and, when they
called
cut
, things would go
back to normal. I knew, but still . . .

The first time I saw him work, I was amazed
that he hadn’t forced me to watch him sooner, but right then, I
almost wished I’d stayed home.

Evan had just left for the airport after
being home for three days while the films’ location changed. Now,
he was on his way to San Francisco, where they’d be filming driving
sequences. It was a short flight, but he had to get right to work
once he got there. He promised to call when he got a chance.

I had neglected plenty of work over the last
few days—enough to keep me busy the rest of the day for sure. First
thing, I walked Arnold on the treadmill. There were too many faces
out front to get in a good run. Once he was happy and panting, I
set him outside with fresh food and water. Then it was my turn. I
started going at the highest incline, though it wasn’t enough to
mimic my hill.

After a shower, it was time for laundry—what
I needed to do the most and the one thing I wanted to put off. But
it was piling up and I had to wash some of Evan’s things to take to
him at the end of the week.

I turned on the machine, threw in the soap
and fabric softener ball, and then started grabbing jeans. I worked
up a sizeable pile of dark denim and loaded it into the machine.
About halfway through, I had to stop. Something was floating in the
water. My fingers shook as I gathered the buoyant packages and
started searching pockets. Elbow-deep in darkening water, I found
the source pocket.

I wanted to feel relief that Evan’s pants
weren’t the source, and I did, in a way. But how could I really,
knowing my son was carrying condoms?

I had talked to Evan about Noah over the
weekend. I confided in him over my worries that Noahs’ newfound
dating freedom, combined with the media attention was a dangerous
combination. His cell phone was constantly ringing, his Facebook
page was overrun with new female interest. Noah seemed to be taking
it in stride, but what the heck did I really know about what went
on with him outside the house, other than what he chose to share
with me? Evan volunteered to talk to him and reported back that
Noah was fine. He wasn’t doing anything he shouldn’t be at his
age.

When Noah came home from school, I was
waiting in the kitchen. The shiny prophylactics setting on the
counter in front of me made his eyes bulge.

“Explain,” I demanded.

He was silent. I waited patiently, casually
leaning against the counter. I had all the time in the world to
watch him squirm.

“I want to know where they came from.”

“You make me feel like I’m doing something
wrong.” His eyes were glued to the countertop.

“Are you?” I cocked my head, waiting for the
answer.

He raised his head, pointedly looking me in
the eye. “No.”

“Then why?” I poked the pile on the counter.
“Why do you need these?”

He flushed a little.

“I want you to know, I wasn’t snooping. I
found them in the washing machine.”

He nodded, “Yeah, I forgot about ‘em.”

If they were so easily forgotten . . .
either he wasn’t sexually active, or he was and was being
irresponsible about it.

“Did you buy these or did someone give them
to you?”

“Given.”

“Who?”

I had three possibilities on my short list.
Friend, school nurse, or—I didn’t want to think it. The second
seemed an unlikely source, being that schools don’t dispense
name-brand condoms.

He fidgeted. “I don’t want to tell you.”

My stomach tightened. But I reminded myself
that he wasn’t lying and that gave me hope, but his reasoning
worried me. “Why don’t you want to tell me?”

“You’ll get mad.”

“I’d like you to tell me anyways. I like to
think that we can talk about these things together.”

“But it makes me uncomfortable.” He knotted
his fingers together as he fidgeted.

“Life is full of uncomfortable things, Noah.
This very conversation, for one, but we’re still having it.”

He sat on the stool by the counter, eyeing
the bowl of fruit before taking an orange and peeling it. “It might
cause problems.”

“Evan.” I knew it.
Crap
.

He kept his eyes on the fruit. “Don’t tell
him I told you.”

“Did he ask you not to tell me?”

“No, but I don’t want to look like a
snitch.”

“If he asks I’m not going to lie, but I will
try to leave you out of it.”

“If you mention it, he’ll know.” His face
became nervous again. “Please, Mom.”

“I have to talk to him.”

“He just wants me to be safe, like you
do.”

“I know.” I had no doubt about Evan’s desire
to help. It seemed to me that the problem with that was, we had two
very different ways—completely opposite opinions—in the matter and
I wanted him to butt the heck out.

“This is between Evan and me.”

“I don’t want you to fight about me.” His
brow furrowed. “I like him.”

“Who’s fighting?”

Noah knew I was upset, though I did my best
not to be angry. I had to get Evan’s side of things first. There
was always the possibility that he did not understand the damage he
was doing. No, it was not going to be a fight. I would tell him he
was wrong and he would concede that it was none of his
business.

Noah slowly looked in my direction. “Can I
go to my room?” I consented and he wasted no time in
retreating.

I thought for sure
I would’ve heard from Evan right away, but it had been hours
since his plane landed and he still hadn’t called. I waited until
after dinner before trying. There was no answer, so I left a
message. Another hour passed with no response, so I texted
him.

When I was so irritated I could hardly stand
it, I called one more time. His phone went straight to voicemail.
The time was well past ten and I was starting to worry.

I told myself,
if something was wrong, Sheri would call. He’s probably
working
.

So, I gave up and went to bed.

Early in the morning, the phone rang. The
blaring sound coming from the kitchen woke me and I knew it had to
be him. “Hello?” I answered, breathless.

“I’m sorry I missed your calls. I ran into
an old friend yesterday and lost track of time.”

“Oh,” I tried to concentrate, clearing the
sleep from my head with a little water on my face.

“So, what’s up?” He asked, unusually
cheerful.

“Well, I was worried. You said you’d call
when you could. I waited because I knew you were busy, but you
didn’t call me at all. You’ve never done that before.”

“I ran into Stevie again.”

“The guy whose number I destroyed?” It was
the reason behind our first argument. I’d washed a pair of jeans
without checking the pockets.

“The very same. He’s looking for work, so
I’m going to see if I can help him out.”

“Oh,” I mumbled, relieved and irritated.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,”

“
Grace, I’m hundreds of miles away.
Would you just tell me what I did so I can apologize?”

His willingness was pleasing, but still.
“Don’t you have to be on set soon?”

“Talk,” he commanded.

“Fine. Well . . . I was washing clothes
yesterday after you left. Stuff from Noah’s room and some things
from ours. I found condoms. Noah said they were yours—”

“He said what?” His tone was sharp. I
realized my poor choice of words.

“No, I mean, he said that you gave them to
him. Is that true?”

“Yes, it is,” he replied, confidently.

Okay, now I was mad.

“Why would you encourage him like that? You
know how I feel about this. You said you would tell me if Noah was
up to something he shouldn’t be.”

He took a deep breath. “Here’s what I don’t
understand: most people would see it as a good thing that their son
is being open and responsible. You see it as an accident waiting to
happen. You know, you’re an awful prude when it comes to things
like this.”

“I’m teaching him abstinence and you’re
giving him condoms behind my back!”

“Gracie,” he spoke softly, “he hasn’t done
anything. But you can’t have such ridiculous expectations for him.
He’s sixteen years old, a walking hard-on. It’s going to happen
sooner or later, and the stakes are too high for him to be left
unprepared. Would you rather he learned the hard way, like me, or
you?”