Page 89 of Let’s Make a Scene

THEN THIRTEEN YEARS EARLIER

Chapter 28 JACK

By the time the film’s official premiere in London rolls around, the world is fully convinced that Cynthie and I are a couple. Lorna was right: all we’ve had to do is not directly comment on the matter and everyone was happy to draw their own conclusions—the narrative really did spin itself.

“I can’t believe this is real,” Cynthie says now from her seat beside me in the back of the limo.

We’re making our way through London toward the cinema where the premiere is taking place, and it was decided that we should arrive together—like a real couple would. Cynthie is wearing a long, strapless blue dress, made out of a fabric that shimmers like iridescent scales when the light hits her. She spent the afternoon closeted with Liam and Patty, and the result is that she looks more beautiful than ever. Not that I could tell her that. Being forced to be with her all the time is like the sort of torture that could only be thought up by a bunch of sadists. Or Hollywood producers, I guess.

It’s not only Cynthie’s presence that has my heart racing, though. All day I’ve felt the familiar keen edge of a panic attack in my chest. I guess it’s because the premiere makes it real. The film will finally be out there, and everyone will have their say. My future rests on this moment, and my anxiety has—unsurprisingly—shot through the roof. The collar of my shirt is too tight; my breath comes choppily. To distract myself, I look at Cynthie.

She’s leaning against the soft leather seat, her eyes shut as we continue to crawl through the central London traffic toward Mayfair. She looks pale. I watch her the way you might watch a spider in the corner of your bedroom: we’ll all be fine as long as there are no sudden moves and everyone stays exactly where they are.

“Stop staring at me, you creep,” she says without opening her eyes.

“I’m not staring,” I say, keeping my voice level. “You’ve gone all pasty. I’m making sure you don’t pass out.”

“I’m not going to faint.”

“You’ve got form,” I remind her.

She scowls. “Well, as I’m not hungover, dehydrated, and being forced to stand under a glorified garden hose pumping out ice water, I think we’ll be fine.”

“Just didn’t want the sight of me in a tuxedo to have you swooning away,” I say lightly, adjusting my cuffs. Bickering with her has a weirdly calming effect, the tension easing from my shoulders.

She forces one eye open and glares at me, though when she first saw me earlier I had the satisfying experience of seeing her rendered briefly speechless. I can’t blame her… I know I look good.

“Can we just…” She sighs, eyes fluttering closed again. “Can we just call a truce for one minute? We’re in a limousine on the way to the premiere of our film,” she continues, and her voice is small. “I just want to be able to… take it all in. I want to be in this moment. I can’t… focus when we’re like this.”

It’s an unexpected admission. “Okay,” I say. “Truce. Just for a minute.”

Her body relaxes, and she opens her eyes. For the first time in months the look she gives me is unguarded. Tears shimmer, threatening to spill over, and I flinch as though she’s struck me.

“Whoa, whoa,” I say quickly. “Truces don’t include crying. Liam spent about four hours doing your makeup, so you need to get it together, okay?”

She blinks, sniffles. “You’re right.”

In the spirit of our truce, I bite down on my tongue to stop myself from making a smart comment at that. I think she must realize, because an almost-smile tugs at her mouth.

“So…” I say after a moment. “I guess we pulled it off. It’s really happening.” I hope she doesn’t hear the nerves in my voice.

“Yeah,” she breathes out. “I still can’t believe it. I wonder what will happen next.”

I shake my head. “I have absolutely no idea.”

“That’s scary, right?” she turns to me.

“It’s fucking terrifying.”

She looks surprised by my honesty. Our eyes meet and there’s a moment where something like understanding passes between us. It’s different from the looks we usually share—it’s not hot and angry or hot and horny, but something softer, sweeter. I glance at her hand, resting on the seat between us, and I edge my own fingers closer.

The buzzing sound of the divider between us and the driver coming down breaks the silence. “Here we are,” he says, cheerfully announcing our arrival.

I move my hand back into my lap.

“I guess the truce is over,” Cynthie murmurs, already reeling herself back in. It’s like I can see her taking all her feelings and stuffing them down, locking them up somewhere tight, somewhere I can’t get to. She sits up straight, brushes down her skirts, and her chin takes on the determined angle that I recognize. She’s ready to face whatever waits outside the car.

“Truce over,” I agree, my hand on the door handle. I take one final deep breath and then open the door, willing my hand to stay steady.