Sleeping Beauty (14 page)

We do a whole lot of kissing, mostly in my trailer on the set between takes, but I can’t get things to go any further. The one time I let my hand stray, he pulled away from me and said, “That’s off-limits.”

I had laughed, figuring he didn’t want to take the chance that some grip or assistant director would barge in on us while we were
in flagrante delicto
to announce that Andy Gordon was ready to roll with the next scene. But really, after an hour of doing nothing but making out and rubbing my face on his stubble, what could be more obvious than me emerging from my trailer with every millimeter of skin between my nose and my chin as red as a baboon’s ass? Alex would bitch about the makeup touchups for the rest of the day, and the next morning my skin would be peeling like I’d had a bad experience with microdermabrasion.

“We are falling seriously behind,” I say to myself in the mirror, something I plan to remedy after breakfast. I only have one day off from filming this week, and I’m not wasting it on any more small talk.

*****

“I think we should talk about laying down some ground rules,” he says.

We’ve had breakfast, strolled a pirate’s exhibit at the local museum, and seen a movie. Now we’re heading back to my place to fix dinner (and hopefully to play catch-up).

I wrinkle my forehead, confused. “Ground rules? For what?”

“For our relationship. Going forward,” he adds.

“What kind of rules?”

He clears his throat. “I think we should take things slow.”

“What’s the matter? You don’t like me as much the second time around?” I try to keep my tone light, but I’m actually starting to get nervous.
What is this?
I think.

He looks like he’s glad he has to watch the road. “Of course I do. It’s just that this time I think it’s better to wait.”

“For…what?”

“I don’t know. I guess we’ll know when we know.” He glances over at me. “You know?”

I haven’t the foggiest idea what he’s talking about. “What kind of rules?”

He shrugs. “Something challenging.”

“Like…we have to do a triatholon first?”

“No, like we keep our clothes on for the time being.”

I’m sure he’s pulling my leg. So sure, in fact, that I start cackling wildly. “Why does that sound like something in my movie contract?” I say. “‘You may show the swelling of the artist’s breasts, but neither nipple.’”

“I don’t think we have to write up a whole contract, but yeah, that’s the gist of it. Just until you get to know me again.”

I want to tell him how much I already know about him from reading his kinky emails, but I don’t. “Where’s all this coming from? I mean, what’s the matter–you afraid that you’re going to walk in the door one day, and I won’t recognize you again?”

His grin is sheepish. “Sort of.”

“That’s not really how Sleeping Beauty Syndrome works. A neurologist who specializes in sleep disorders told me that once. Wait!” I say in an excited voice, like I just remembered something amazing. “I think
you’re
the one who diagnosed me with this!”

He taps the steering wheel with his finger. “Let’s just say that I don’t want to make any mistakes.”

“What mistakes did you make the first time? Better for me to be prepared so I can, you know, call you out when I see ‘em.” When he doesn’t answer, I sigh. “What are the other rules?”

“That’s it. One rule.”

I sit back and look at the road again. “Those are the rules? No full frontal nudity?”

“Full rear nudity should probably be off-limits too. What do you think?”

I think it sounds like pointless torture
, I say to myself. Instead I say, “Can we at least stop somewhere and get matching purity rings then?”

He smiles. “I knew you were going to be difficult.”

“I’m not being difficult. I’m being easy.”
Trying to anyway,
I add in my head. I point to a car ahead of us. “Turn where that guy did.” In my mind, I’m already thinking about ways to bend the rules until they break. Starting immediately.

He parks in front of the grocery store and turns off the engine, our conversation temporarily halted by our hunt for food.

Once we’re back at my place, Brendan heads for the grill on the balcony. “I’ll grill, you make the pasta salad?” he says.

“Deal.”

While he’s lighting the grill, I boil water for the pasta and plot my next move.

*****

“Where’s your brother?” he asks me later as we’re clearing the dishes off the table.

I ponder this for a second. “I think he’s in Seattle tonight.”

“How do he and Wib weather these kinds of separations?”

I frown. “I’m not sure they are.”

“What do you mean?”

“Something’s going on with them. Davin never comes around here anymore. He rarely returns my calls or text messages. Sometimes I think West is deliberately staying on the road so he doesn’t have to come home to face whatever’s happening with them. I’ve tried to talk to both of them about it, but no one’s talking.”

“I thought you and Wib were close friends? Why would his relationship with your brother have anything to do with him hanging out with you?”

“Oh, well…”

“He doesn’t like me very much, does he?”

“Why do you think that?” I say, trying to be as evasive as possible.

He shrugs. “I don’t know. He was never very friendly to me, starting that day on the beach.”

“Davin’s like my other, older brother. He’s a little over-protective.”

“Did he act like this around your other boyfriends?”

“Well, I haven’t exactly had a revolving door of men through here in the last few years.”

He presses me. “Did he like them, whoever they were?”

“I guess so. He never gave me feedback one way or the other.”

“But he gave you feedback about me.”

“He did? When?”

“You don’t remember it. It was during your episode.”

“What did he say?”

Brendan leans back against the kitchen counter and folds his arms. “He told you that he thought you should wait until you were in the clear before we started getting serious.”

I laugh. “C’mon, Brendan. That doesn’t sound like something Davin would say.”

“I heard him say it. I was in the living room, you guys were in your bedroom.”

“What was his concern? I mean, specifically? Or did he just not think you were good enough for me?”

“He was worried you wouldn’t remember anything once you snapped out it. In fact, he was absolutely
sure
of it.” He shoots me a wry grin. “Good advice as it turns out.”

I pry the top off a beer and hand it to him. “Overprotective,” I say, snatching another bottle out of the fridge. “I told you.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t think so. It felt more like active dislike to me.”

I point at his beer. “Chug.”

He smiles. “Is that our big plan for the night? To stand here and get hammered?”

“You were in a fraternity at some point, right?”

“Sigma Phi Epsilon.”

“Then standing around getting hammered for no good reason should bring back good memories. Humor me.”

And he does, throwing it down like it’s hooked up to a hose. He slides the empty across the counter and smacks his lips. “Happy?”

“Almost.” Twelve years partying with surfers has given me some mad drinking skills too. He probably downed his faster, but not by much. My bottle skims the countertop and clanks against his.

“Is there some sort of prize for this?” he says, putting his hands on my waist and pulling me towards him. “Because I’ve always been really competitive.”

“Sort of,” I say, smiling mischievously as I hand him another bottle. “One more. At the same time.”
Then we’ll see how much we’ve lowered your inhibitions
, I think.

He lets go of me and sighs. “I can’t believe we’re doing this.”

“One, two…” I get my bottle to my lips and hold up three fingers.

Each of us watch the angle of the other’s bottle as we guzzle. I don’t know how silly I look, but if it’s anything like what
he
looks like, it’s pretty bad. Finally I can’t take it–I feel myself starting to laugh. Before I blow beer all over him, I push him out of the way and spit it into the sink.

Behind me I hear his bottle clinking against the other two. “Amateur,” he says.

I hold the back of my hand against my lips until all of the foam breaks apart. “Hey, I’m man enough to admit defeat.” I open a drawer by the stove and pull out a long kitchen towel. Before he can protest, I loop it over his eyes and tie it in the back.

“Hey! What are you doing?”

I grab his hand and pull him down the hallway. “Come here.”

“What are we doing?”

“Fraternity hazing.”

“Where?”

“My bathroom.”

“Your bathroom? Are we going to brush each other’s hair or something?”

I roll my eyes. Once I get him to my bedroom I stop and tap his calf with my toes. “Take your shoes off.”

He looks uncomfortable. “Claire…”

“What, are feet considered nudity now? Take your shoes off!”

He sighs before sliding his feet out of his flip-flops. I get behind him and shove him in the direction of the bathroom, then I shut the door behind us so he can’t make a quick escape.

“The bathroom,” he says, cracking a smile. “Another great place for a date.”

“Hey, you said you like places that have a definitive beginning and end.”

I stand on my tip-toes, the only way I can reach his lips unless he tilts his head down to me. The good thing about making out for hours at a stretch is that we’ve gotten really good at it. He responds immediately, getting plenty worked up in the process. I slowly stretch my arm out behind me. Moving as quietly as possible, I slide the glass shower door to one side.

“What are you doing?” he mumbles through our mashed lips.

I pull my head away, mostly so I can reach the handle. “What am
I
doing? Or what are
we
doing?”

“Since you’re running the show, I’m guessing one answer will do for both, right?”

Even though he can’t see it, I smile. “We’re going to shower together,” I announce. I give the handle a good twist, automatically turning it to the spot that will provide the warmest water without boiling us alive. “With our clothes on, of course.”

He freezes, his face growing as pale as one of Madam Toussaint’s waxworks. He pulls the blindfold away from his eyes and stares at me. Red pinpoints appear on his pale cheeks, expanding until his entire complexion is a mottled red. In a few short seconds, the crimson drains back into the apples of his cheeks before disappearing altogether, like water down a bathtub drain.

I pick apart my comment in my mind, wondering why flirty talk of a shower is so profoundly offensive to him. I’m so stunned at his reaction, I can’t even think straight. I stand there as steam rolls out of the shower, struggling to come up with one thing,
anything
he’s ever mentioned that would cause this kind of distress, but the ol’ memory tank is empty as usual. “I–did I–I mean–” I stammer.

“Nothing’s the matter,” he says, answering a question I never even asked. He drops the hand towel on the floor, opens the door, and stalks out.

I follow him into the hallway, equally embarrassed and furious. “Look, I’m sorry if I don’t want to keep making out in my trailer like two middle-schoolers playing Spin the Bottle, okay?”

He turns around quickly, making me stop short so I don’t slam into him. “If you’re not comfortable with it, we don’t have to do that anymore!”

I throw my hands up, exasperated. “What, are we going to go back to holding hands? You think I can’t read text messages? Or our four weeks of emails? You think I can’t fill in the blanks?”

He looks astonished, like it never occurred to him that I would research our previous relationship like doctoral dissertation.

“So pardon me,” I say, “if I just don’t understand why you want to have all these ridiculous rules of engagement!”

“You want me to tell you why?”

“Yeah, I do!” I cross my arms and lean into one hip, waiting.

He doesn’t say anything right away, just stands there and watches me with a look of such intensity that I think he must be trying to communicate telepathically. Then he gets close to me, so close that I have to crank my head back. His eyes are shining with such raw sincerity that whatever cold hostility I had inside melts.

“We spent four weeks together the first time around,” he says. “In four weeks you became the most important person in my life. We shared one night together, and it was incredible in every way because I knew you felt that way about me too. I don’t know what I need to do to get you back to where I am now, but I’ll tell you right now that I’m going to do whatever it takes.”

I’m utterly bewitched, my jaw slack. I feel my arms drop like deadweights to my sides, glad to get any barrier out of the way in the off-chance that he might want to get even closer to me. Slowly and tentatively, like he’s unsure what my reaction will be, he puts his hands around my waist. My heart goes on a coffee break for a few beats, then returns to tackle its job with overzealous fervor.

“If I could have a second night with you like that, I’d be the luckiest person alive,” he says. He brushes my lips with his once, barely making contact. “But since you can’t remember, I’m going to make damn sure you have at least
one
night worth remembering.” He bends over, snatches the kitchen towel from the floor, and walks out. “Let’s go finish our drinking game,” he calls over his shoulder. “There’s no way I’m letting you forfeit now.”

I turn the shower to full-cold and briefly consider jumping in for a cool-down. I go so far as to put my hand in the stream of water. For no particular reason, a five-second burst of sensory information explodes in my head–sight, pressure, sounds, and even flavors that make no collective sense: cold water, screaming, the metallic taste of blood, shivering, exhaustion. My own voice provides a finale in the form of six words:
“I want to do bad things.”

“What the…” I stare dumbly at the streaming water that’s soaked half of my skirt. I turn the water off, dry myself off as well as I can, and head for the kitchen.