(Graham is staring into my eyes, and I have trouble remembering my lines.)
LIZBETH
(slinging soapy water into the sink)
This is crazy. I’m not getting married to anyone, certainly not to you.
“Cut,” Richter says, and I can tell he’s less than happy. He eyes Graham and me, his hand over his mouth, as though he wants to make sure not to say anything until he knows exactly what he means to say. “Everyone but Emma and Graham take five.” Crap. “On second thought, make it ten.” Oh, crap.
Our accomplished director leans a hip on the table and crosses his arms over his chest, regarding the two of us. I imagine this is what it feels like to be called to the principal’s office for fighting or talking in class. Graham and I both look anywhere but at Richter or each other.
“So. Graham,” Richter begins. “You realize your guy is a silly, shallow character?”
Graham nods, crossing his arms over his chest, too. Defensive response, as any actor knows.
“So what’s with the brooding stares? You’ve been spot on playing this guy as clueless and superficial. And now, he’s staring at Lizbeth as though he’s deciding whether to kick a chair across the room or throw her over his shoulder and retreat to his cave.”
I’m blushing again—throw her over his shoulder—and Graham is silent for a full minute. “I know. I’m sorry,” he answers, arms loosening, one hand gripping the countertop while he almost runs the other through his hair, stopping when he realizes it’s gelled back. “If I could have a few minutes, I’ll get into character. I’m a little off today.”
“All right. Take ten minutes. Be ready to reshoot, but let me know if you need longer.”
Graham nods and leaves the room without looking at me.
“Everything okay between you two?” Richter asks when Graham is gone.
“Yeah.” What else can I say?
“Well. I think you were responding to Graham’s lead in that last take. Remember that Lizbeth isn’t angry. She’s shocked and incredulous.”
“I know. I’ll get it right next take. I’m sorry.”
“Take a few minutes and we’ll hit take two.”
We film the scene again, and Graham has pulled himself completely into character. We do several partial scenes and a few minor retakes. Richter wasn’t far off, though I should have been professional enough to stay in character, and I can’t blame Graham completely. “Perfect,” Richter says. “Let’s take a break, and we’ll come back and do the next bit with the Bennet family.” Graham walks out the front door dialing his cell.
The last scene before lunch, which doesn’t include Graham, goes well. When we’re done, I turn and he’s leaning against a door jamb, watching me. We lock eyes briefly before the PA claims his attention. I don’t know if that kiss meant anything to him, or if it was a regretted impulse. I don’t know if I’m interrupting something between Graham and Brooke that has nothing to do with me. He’s seen the photos of Reid and me, or at least knows about them, and I hate that he’s angry, or hurt, or disgusted. I hate that we aren’t talking.
Taking a turkey sandwich, a Diet Coke, and this afternoon’s sides, I go out back to the covered patio. The weather is hot, but in the shade it’s passably warm. When the door opens behind me, I hope it isn’t someone from makeup, since they’ll have to touch up anything that gets shiny, which is inevitable now that I’m hiding out in the heat.
“Hey, Emma,” Graham says, walking around the cushioned bench where I sit and taking the seat opposite me. He sets a bottle of water on the low table and reaches into his pocket for his pack and lighter.
“Hi.”
“I’m starting the patches tomorrow, as soon as we’re done filming,” he says, tapping a cigarette out of the nearly empty package, lighting the end. Taking a drag, he stores the pack and lighter away, leans back, exhales above our heads. “That way I start when I’m not filming.”
“You bought the patches, then?” Hearing his voice makes me happy. Just knowing he doesn’t hate me is a relief.
“Yeah. When I was in New York.” He doesn’t elaborate, taking another drag on the cigarette and looking out over the parched yard.
“Is everything okay… with your trip to New York? Someone said you had a family emergency.”
“Oh. Yeah, everything’s fine,” he says, falling silent again.
“Okay. Well. Good.” I look back down at the sheet in my hand, not sure what to say now that he’s here. I’ve forgotten how Graham is with silences, though. He’s comfortable in them, never determined to fill them unless he has something to say.
He finishes his cigarette and starts another before he speaks. “Sorry for earlier, getting you bitched out with me. I was just really off today, for some reason.” His eyes are sincere, the earlier judgment in them dissolved, gone.
“It’s okay. I was off, too.”
“Well. I wanted to apologize. Actors tend to play off of each other in a scene, and I really screwed up the first time around.” He starts to run a hand through his hair again and stops abruptly, yanking his hand down and taking a last long drag, like his nicotine cravings know that he and cigarettes are about to go their separate ways, and they want to stock up.
I can’t help smiling at him. “That stuff in your hair is driving you crazy, isn’t it.”