Page 133 of Score
Livvie smiles a little too brightly and leans forward so her breast presses into my arm. “It’s truly a fantastic script,” she says.
“Thank you.”
Verity’s husky voice travels across the ballroom from where she stands at the entrance. Her hair is tamed into two braids that rest on her slim shoulders, and behind her black-rimmed glasses, her eyes fix on the place where Livvie and I touch. She looks up, and there is some mix of anger andaccusation and hurt in her eyes that she has no right to after what I saw last night.
“You know,” I say, “there was a song that was perfect for that scene when Dessi realizes Tilda was unfaithful. That she cheated and couldn’t be trusted.”
I look Verity in the eye and coax a few solemn notes from the piano.
“It’s called ‘Don’t Explain,’” I continue, my eyes still locked with Verity’s. “Billie Holiday wrote it when she discovered her husband’s infidelity. When she found out he wasn’t who she thought he was. Or maybe he was exactly who she thought he was, and she had lied to herself. Either way, he was a cheat.”
Verity and I don’t look away from each other for long seconds, even when throats start to clear and people shuffle from foot to foot in their growing discomfort. They’re innocent bystanders, caught in the net of tension stretched across the room between Verity and me. Her lips tighten and I know her too well not to see that she is pissed.
And hurt.
“That would have been musically anachronistic, though, since this scene took place in 1939 and Billie didn’t release the song until 1946,” I say, playing a dark extended note. “So too late.”
I slam the piano lid hard, and Livvie jumps on the bench beside me.
“I came to tell you guys dinner is ready and down on the beach tonight,” Verity says, looking pointedly away from me. “They’re doing a bonfire.”
The crew disperses, their laughter and chatter coming fast at the end of a hard day.
“A bonfire!” Livvie says, gathering her bag and script. “You coming, Monk?”
My eyes slide to the empty door where Verity stood moments ago.
“In a little bit. You guys go on ahead.”
Her face falls, but she melts into the small group leaving the room and making their way down to the beach.
“You sound amazing,” I tell Neevah, standing from the piano and walking with her toward the ballroom exit.
“Gosh, it feels like it took all day to get it right.”
“You weren’t that far off anyway,” I say, scanning the walkway for any sign of Verity. “I’m just hard to satisfy.”
“Between you and Canon, I don’t know how any of us survive.”
“So, you and our esteemed director, huh?” I ask, slanting a teasing smile down at her. She and I haven’t discussed her relationship with Canon being exposed.
“Guess everyone knows now,” she says, but to her credit, doesn’t look ashamed.
I hold her elbow as we negotiate a steep set of steps leading down to the beach where the cast and crew have already started forming a line at an outdoor buffet. “I already knew. He’s never been like this about anyone else.”
“Thanks, Monk.” She smiles up at me, and it’s obvious she’s tired, but her happiness is just as evident.
She walks over to Takira, her best friend and on-set hairdresser, leaving me to stand on the shore, scanning the group for Verity. I’m reluctant to join them because I’ll be bad company. I always am when I know I’ve been an asshole.
And with a little distance and a few minutes, I know I was definitely an asshole to Verity.
In front of everyone.
Whatever she did with Chris last night, she didn’t break our agreement. My reaction was unreasonable and unfair. I had no right, but I can’t clear the image of Chris kissing her, his hands low on her hips. He tasted her, touched her, and the realization that she did nothing wrong when it feels like a violation sits rank at the bottom of my stomach like rotting meat. I’m right where she left me twelve years ago.
Jealous. Rejected. Angry.
Only this time Ichoseit. I played myself.
