I step back to let him in, suddenly self-conscious of my bare feet and shiny face; of the fact that I’m wearing no bra under my maxi dress. My hair is its own solar system, the big coils puffing in orbit around my head.
For a few seconds we simply stare at each other in the privacy of the foyer, but it doesn’t feel awkward. It’s a thirsty silence. We’re drinking each other in, taking long gulps of one another when we’ve been alone so little.
“Oh!” I say, grasping for anything that resembles normal conversation. “I have something for you.”
“You do?”
He follows me into the living room, and I bend to retrieve a festive tin from under our Christmas tree.
“I couldn’t find you today when we broke,” I explain, offering the cookies to him.
He pops the lid, peering down at what’s inside and yielding a tiny curve of his lips. “Gingerbread.”
“My mama’s recipe.” I laugh self-consciously. “Buttercream icing. I gave them to everyone, but I didn’t see you today.”
I never see you.
I don’t have to say it for us to both know how little time, by design, we spend together. He closes the lid and frowns, tracing the raised pattern of the wreath decorating the tin.
“I didn’t get you . . . shit. I guess I didn’t get anyone anything. Some boss, huh?”
“I’m not tripping, and I know the rest of the cast and crew aren’t either. We know you’re busy.”
“So are you.” He tucks the cookies under his arm. “But you found the time. You always seem to find time for people. Thank you.”
His eyes intent on my face, the admiration in his words, warms my cheeks.
“It’s really nothing. It took . . . took no time.” I laugh, needing to shift the attention. “So what brings you by?”
He glances around the living room and up the hall. “Are we here alone?”
“Um . . .Takira’s in her room. We could talk outside?”
“That’d be great, yeah.”
I lead him out back to my favorite part of this house. We step into the courtyard, the lush grass tickling my bare feet, licking between my toes. A lemon tree lends the air the invigorating scent of citrus.
“Nice,” Canon says, sitting on the stone bench where I take a few moments to meditate some mornings.
“Yeah, we like it.” I sit beside him, leaving a few inches and half a pound of cookies between us. “We didn’t have lemon trees in our backyard in North Carolina, and we don’t have yards in New York. LA is spoiling me.”
“I’m sure you’ll have more offers after this movie. Maybe you’ll consider moving out here.”
We stare at one another for a few seconds before I have to look away, the pent-up intensity straining my control.
“So did you need something?” I ask, knowing he must since there are no “just because” visits with us. I pull one knee up to my chest and swing the other leg, needing something to do with myself while I wait for his response.
“I was wondering what . . .” He clears his throat, stands, and walks over to the lemon tree, where he rubs a leaf between his fingers. “I was wondering if you have plans for New Year’s Eve.”
It’s not what it sounds like. There’s an explanation. It’s a studio New Year’s party. There’s an event. The suits want to show the cast off. Something work-related.
“Um, I’m actually coming back to LA for New Year’s.”
He plucks a leaf from the tree and twirls it between his index finger and thumb. “Would you like to spend it with me?”
My foot slips off the bench and I almost fall, catching myself just in time. I grip the bench and let my bare toes dangle in the grass. “What do you mean? Like a party or—”
“More private.” He glances up, a slow-burning fire in his eyes. “I was thinking just us for a few days.”