“Do you need some lotion or—”
“I have something from my dermatologist.” She flashes a smile and rushes past me into the house. “I’m gonna shower and take care of this.”
She dashes up the steps, and I call after her. “Leave in an hour?”
“Yup,” she says over her shoulder, not looking back.
I’ve needed the last twenty-four hours. Not just the lovemaking, though it’s the best on record. The conversation. Dream swapping. Being a director requires you to be a pragmatist who never stops dreaming. Last night in the huge master bathtub, we soaked together until the bubbles she poured in evaporated, along with all our reservations. With her back to my front, our legs and arms entwined, she told me her ambitions and I shared the stories I still want to tell. My life is a turntable in constant motion, and I can’t remember the last time I slowed down this way. She makes me want to slow down so I don’t miss a thing.
Dessi Bluehas consumed most of my waking moments for the last two years, but I’ve barely thought about the movie since we arrived. I was right to hold out as long as I did, because if I’d felt this, had this with Neevah for the last few months, I wouldn’t have been able to concentrate for shit. Not at the level I need to. Helming a film, especially one of this scope, requires an almost inhuman amount of focus, to the exclusion of nearly everything else.
We have two months of shooting left. I have to turn this off, this near-feral desire to have Neevah, to be with her, if I’m going to give the project the attention it deserves in this final stretch. After the movie wraps, we can discreetly pick up where we leave off here, and fuck anyone who has anything to say about it. There’s not an acceptable scenario where we don’t take this further—not after this time together.
I take the stairs two at a time and enter the bedroom. It’s empty, but the shower is running. I step into the bathroom, but she’s not in the shower yet. She’s at the mirror, her hair lifted as she examines a tiny spot at the base of her nape using another mirror.
“Everything okay?”
She jumps and drops the mirror. It shatters on the floor.
“Hey, easy.” I walk forward carefully, picking my way around the glass, and lift her up onto the bathroom counter. “I don’t want you to cut your feet. Stay right there.”
I walk back out to the bedroom, slip on my sneakers, and go downstairs to get a broom. I probably look ridiculous, running butt-naked wearing nothing but Jordans.
The mirror broke in big chunks, so it’s easy to clean up. I sweep the area thoroughly, but still bring Neevah’s flip-flops to her just in case. She hasn’t moved or spoken throughout the whole process, and I tweak her toe. I’ve never seen this look in her eyes before. Worry or fear. I’m not sure what it is, but even the day she was so shaken shooting that difficult scene, she didn’t look like this.
“Baby, you okay?” I reach up to touch the spot she was looking at in the mirror, but she jerks away.
“Don’t,” she says, her voice low and curt. She jumps off the counter and walks to the shower to test the water temperature with her fingertips before turning back to me.
“I’m sorry.” Her throat moves with a deep swallow. “I didn’t mean to be short. I’m frustrated with myself, not with you, because I stayed out in the sun too long and it can aggravate my skin.”
“It’s okay. God knows I’ve been abrupt a time or two.”
She gives me a wry look.
“Alright, many times I’ve been abrupt.” I laugh, but sober, struck by the concern she carefully smooths away from her expression.
She did tell me about her skin condition. I’m kicking myself for not thinking of it.
“You sure everything’s okay?”
“It really is.” She brightens, but I’m not sure I buy it yet. “Let’s get dressed and bring in the New Year.”