Page 125 of Let’s Make a Scene

“Why don’t you take a shower and I’ll grab your bag out of the car,” I say, slipping out of bed, ready to hunt out some clothes.

Cynthie gives me a long look from under her lashes. “Why don’t we just start the tour with the bathroom?”

I am powerless to resist, and why would I want to? “The shower can be tricky.”

Her mouth curves. “Maybe you can show me how it works.”

So I do.

IT’S ANOTHER HOUR BEFORE WE’RE sitting downstairs in the kitchen. Cynthie’s hair is damp, and because I haven’t yet got as far as going out to the car, she’s wearing one of my T-shirts while she sits at the table watching me fix her scrambled eggs.

“This house is gorgeous,” she says, looking around the sleek, modern kitchen with interest. She had me show her around every room, picking up objects as she went, turning them over in her hands like they were precious: a framed picture of me and Nico from when we were about fifteen, a packet of playing cards, an old theater program from my drama school days, a worn copy of Middlemarch. She was quiet and thoughtful as she absorbed all the small details. This is where I live the majority of the time, the place I really consider home, and it feels right to have her here. Every time she goes into a room it’s as if she was the single thing that had been missing all along.

“I like it,” I agree now, adding the eggs to the pan where they sizzle. “I love being in New York, but London definitely feels like home.” Fortunately, Scott has arranged with the cleaning company I use to leave some essentials in the kitchen so we don’t have to go anywhere. Most importantly, there’s an entire cupboard full of coffee beans, and my expensive machine—the other love of my life—hums contentedly in the corner.

“So this is where you’re based when you’re not filming?” she asks. “Do you see much of your parents when you’re here?”

“Not really,” I say, gently moving the eggs in the pan. “I know that it’s close to their place, but we don’t exactly move in the same circles. To tell you the truth, I avoid seeing them as much as possible.”

Cynthie sighs. “They really are always like that, then?”

“Now you know why I didn’t want you anywhere near them thirteen years ago,” I say. “They’re toxic.”

I watch her absorb this, her eyes widening as she rearranges the memory.

“Honestly?” I continue. “That was pretty good behavior for them. That’s why Nico turned up… to play peacekeeper. He’s been doing it since we were kids, and he must have known I’d be on edge bringing you there. I only mentioned it to him in passing, but I think he drove straight over from the airport. I noticed he still had his bags in the backseat of the car.”

Cynthie’s expression softens at that. “That’s kind of him. I liked him a lot.”

“He’s my Hannah, I guess,” I say, turning the heat off on the stove. “We’ve been through a lot together. We don’t get to see much of each other now—my schedule is bad enough, but his is absolutely wild. If he’s not climbing mountains in Nepal or rappelling into glaciers in the Arctic, he’s photographing lions in Botswana.” I shrug. “We stay in touch as much as possible, but it’s hard to imagine him being in one place for too long.”

“You miss him,” Cynthie says.

“I do. We used to live in each other’s pockets as kids, but things change. He’s doing what he loves and I’m proud of him.”

“I figured those were his photographs on the wall in the living room,” she says. “He’s really talented.”

“He is,” I agree as the toast pops up and I serve our breakfast. I put the plate in front of Cynthie, along with her coffee, and lean down to place a quick kiss on her temple.

“My own personal barista.” She hums with pleasure.

“Scott says at least I’ve always got a backup career.”

We dig into the food, making easy conversation. Under the table, our feet twine together. It’s the sort of Sunday morning I can imagine us having all the time.

We’re interrupted by my phone ringing, and I look down at the screen. “It’s my agent,” I say. “Do you mind if I take it?”

She makes a go-ahead gesture with her fork.

“Hi, Mike,” I pick up the call.

“Jack!” Mike booms. “I’ve got great news!”

“Oh?” I raise my eyebrows at Cynthie, who can hear every word Mike is saying, because the only volume he has is eleven.

“Our plan’s worked wonders, and the producers have come back with a very healthy offer for season six, a full order of twenty-two episodes. Looks like Caleb lives to fight another day!”

“Yes!” I bring my hand down hard on the table. “That is fucking great.”