Page 13 of Love Scenes

If he has an argument, it dies on his tongue, another storm cloud passing over.

Slowly, read by read, unbearably patient coaching from me and far too many exasperated grunts from him, the magnetism that’s made him such a success returns, like he’s overcome some kind of twenty-four-hour flu that stunted his ability to perform. He starts to resemble the man I last saw in that prestige miniseriesthat got him his Emmy nomination. Vibrant. Affable. Loading his dialogue with surprising depth.

If he fails me on set today, he’s doing it on purpose.

Together, we exit his trailer. The warmth of the sun catches the golden-blond undertones in his dyed brown hair. There’s a kiss of color along his neckline and the faint trace of a tattoo soon to be covered up, just the black ink top of what I think is an arrow.

We part without a goodbye.

I find Tyler sitting in front of our soundstage, dressed in black from head to toe. She’s got her phone on the ground and her arms on her knees, slouched over herself to look at the device.

“Everything okay?”

“Oh.” She takes out an AirPod. “Hey.”

“Ready for day two?”

“You’ll have to check with Guy. Or Mom. You saw how yesterday went. I’m not important enough to consider.”

It seems no one is immune to the Mom effect around here.

“Look,” I say, settling into the only role that’s ever gotten me any respect: big sister. “You gotta show them you’re in charge too. Maybe try throwing up a middle finger and screaming?”

“I’m just not the type of person that’s going to yell over someone to be heard.” Tyler’s so deep in her own head she’s treating my joke as a serious suggestion. “And Guy talks a lot. I had no idea a person could have that much to say about how he wants people to breathe.”

“I could kidnap him and keep him in my trunk, if you want? I’ve got granola bars and water bottles back there. I could hold him safely for a few hours. As for Mom... you’re out of luck there.”

Tyler stands up and brushes off her legs. Low-slung harem pants tucked into black Converse, and a slouchy black tank. “I need to be more like you,” she says, ignoring my second (generous)attempt at lightening her mood. “Say what I need to say and not feel bad about it.”

“Do I really do that?”

Her eyes, keen and secretive, narrow at me. “Ask Joseph Donovan.”

“Wow.” I’m impressed she’s dared to mention his name to me. She’s clearly out of sorts. “You know, I’dloveto, but I was too busy spending the last hour of my life making sure he doesn’t ruin your movie.”

“See? You just did it.”

“Cute.”

Tyler looks around, her gaze landing on the wall of our soundstage, beige concrete that stretches up nearly forty feet high. “Tell me this will all be worthwhile,” she says in a rare moment of vulnerability, managing to tug on my heartstrings once again.

“Of course it will,” I assure her.

I only wince when she looks down at her phone.

“Oh, by the way, have you listened to Kearns’s album?” She takes out her other AirPod. “It came out last night.”

“No,” I lie. “But I’m sure it’s trash.”

Back at homeunder my covers, drafting emails about my fast-approaching annual foundation gala, my phone buzzes with a text from Tyler that says,You were right.

She let me leave a little early. I entertain the thought that Joseph managed to set it all on fire afterward, which hurts more than I expect. Our rehearsal was awkward, and he was guarded and difficult and all-around weird with me, but he was ready.

Then Tyler follows up withKearns’s album is trash.

Everything I draft in response gets deleted before I press send.

Have you listened to it yet?she asks a few minutes later.