Page 130 of Let’s Make a Scene

“Yes,” I answer shortly.

“Would you like to talk about that?” she asks blandly.

My eyes meet hers, and there’s something new there now, something that might be sympathy. “Not at this time,” I say, finally.

“Fair enough.” Her smile is bright and she backs off at once. She asks me another couple of questions and then I get up to leave, unclipping the microphone and handing it back to Kara.

“Thanks for doing that,” Brooke says, walking me to the door to the trailer. She reaches out her hand and lays it tentatively on my arm. “If there’s ever anything you want to talk about… on or off the record. Just let me know.” The words feel heavy, loaded.

I think about her face when she asked me about Rufus. I wonder why she didn’t ask about my near panic attack during filming. I have more than a passing suspicion that what she wants to ask me about is Shawn Hardy.

Interesting.

“I’ll think about it.”

My brain is going about a million miles an hour as I walk away, turning over Brooke’s questions in my head. When I get back to my trailer, Hannah’s not there. I reach in my pocket for my phone and feel the crinkle of the envelope that I’d forgotten about.

Pulling it free, I tear it open, and when I see what’s inside I sit down, right where I am on the floor of the trailer.

Dear Cynthie,

Not so long ago, you and I had a conversation about love letters. You said it meant something to have them, to be able to pull them out and see a love story committed to paper. I want us to have that. I like to imagine you in the future, taking out this letter and remembering how it felt when we were like this—something new and real.

Of course, I haven’t written a letter in… god, I actually don’t know when I last wrote anything except my own name. My handwriting leaves a lot to be desired, and I had to send Scott on a mission for stationery. Do not ask me why he understood this to mean that I needed a professional letterhead, but an hour later I was in receipt of a thousand sheets of tasteful, linen-blend, personalized stationery with Jack Turner-Jones, (PGA) emblazoned across the top. I’m just sorry that your first love letter looks like something I might send to my accountant.

I am writing with a fountain pen, though. It’s a gold one that my dad gave me on our first day of filming, thirteen years ago. I don’t know if you remember, but I’m pretty sure this pen was the cause of the first of many black marks against me. Truthfully, I used to hate it too. When he gave it to me, it didn’t feel like a gift to commemorate the occasion—it felt like a physical reminder of the weight of his expectations. Maybe that’s on me; maybe he was genuinely trying to do something nice and I couldn’t see it because I was so scared of disappointing him. Now it doesn’t feel so heavy in my hand. Now it just feels like a pen. Time can change a lot, can’t it?

I’ve been thinking about you and me, and time. Last night you slept in my arms, and I found myself wondering… if I’d done things differently; if we both had, would we have spent the last thirteen years together? It’s hard to realize that you’ve been in love with someone for over a decade, that the way they fit into your life, your home, your heart, is perfect, and that possibly through your own stupidity you’ve spent so much time apart.

After a bit of manly brooding on the subject I realized that thinking like that wasn’t just unhelpful, it was wrong. In my heart of hearts I know that the versions of us that existed then couldn’t have made a relationship work, but now? Now, when I look at you, I see forever. I think I might need to bring you around on this (you did call me a dickhead yesterday, after all), but I’m pretty confident. I have it on good authority that I’m extremely charming.

You told me yesterday that you’re a mess, that you have shit to work out, and I understand that, but I hope you know that if you have growing to do, that you can grow with me. I don’t think any of us are ever done changing—I certainly hope I’m not. I’m excited about the us we’ll be in ten years, in twenty, in fifty. I can’t wait to know every single version of you, if you’ll let me.

Remember when I stayed at your place and I was reading Persuasion? That book was a real kick in the teeth for a man who was going through it, let me tell you. Jane Austen knew her shit. It’s hard work, writing a letter to the person you love when you know nothing will ever compare to “you pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope.” Captain Wentworth and I have a lot in common.

I’m going to stop writing now, because I’m sitting in my trailer and Scott is going to come in and rush me over to wardrobe and he’ll probably be horrified by the ink stains on my fingers, even if I tell him it adds authenticity.

I love you. (God, what a relief to say it!)

Jack

I’m still on the floor when Hannah finds me a few minutes later. All thoughts of Brooke and our conversation have fled.

“What are you doing down there?” she asks.

“I couldn’t stand up anymore,” I say, which is the honest truth. Jack Turner-Jones took me out at the knees. A love letter. I suppose I should have expected it—he did tell me he had some ideas about what should happen next.

“I think I need to talk to you about something,” I tell Hannah, tapping the envelope against my hand, as she placidly ignores the fact I’m sprawled across the carpet, and gathers the stuff she left in here earlier.

Her head snaps up. “I knew something was going on. You’ve been so cagey since I got back this morning.”

I take a deep breath and look up at her. “I slept with Jack.”

“Fucking hell, Cyn!” Hannah plops down onto the sofa. “Give a girl a warning before you drop a bombshell like that.”

“Yes, it’s actually not the first time it’s happened,” I continue apologetically.

Her brow furrows. “When did you sleep with him the first time?”