Page 24 of Love Scenes

They’re definitely going to come over here.

“I... I’m really sorry.”

The way he says this gets my attention. It’s candid, unexpectedly raw, and suspiciously void of snark or any attempt to reroute. There’s a pained look on his face, laboring almost. He’s rubbing his hand across his mouth, looking up into the hanging light fixture above us.

“The truth is, I don’t remember much from then,” he tells me. “I remember the press junket a year later. And how you wouldn’t speak to me between interviews. But I can only come up with a few memories from the shoot, and we were there for what? Two months? I called my manager this afternoon and asked him about it. He said you were trying to get me fired the whole time, but the team wouldn’t do it because I was a bigger name than you.”

The memory bottoms me out. How useless I felt. Nothing more than a dolled-up prop, expected to work fifteen-hour days with someone who wanted to be absolutely anywhere else. Tears well in my eyes.

“That about sums it up,” I say.

“Would you tell me what I was like?” It’s as if he’s hiding behind a wall as he asks it, peeking around the corner, afraid of what may be on the other side if he exposes himself too much. But even this small glimpse, this sign of a true heartbeat from him, of remorse instead of dismissal, is enough to spur on my real truth.

“Insufferable,” I admit. “You told me on more than one occasion to stick to my day job. Which, thatwasmy day job, so it was definitely a confusing sentiment. You once yelled at a grip for breathing too loud. You made up more than half of your dialogue on the spot. And every time we kissed, your breath smelled like sour whiskey.”

“Christ. You should’ve forced me to have a breath mint.”

“I actually tried. You sucked on it for two seconds, then spit it into a napkin and said it was messing with your process.”

Joseph buries his head in his hands. “Shit. I am unbelievably sorry, Sloane. I know it’s not enough to just say it, but I want to be clear.” He spends a moment running his fingers back and forth through his hair, eyes squeezed shut. “I want to do something to make it right. What if I put all the money I made from that movie towards—”

“I’m sorry to interrupt.” The whispering girl from the other booth has approached our table.

Joseph startles upright, and I let out an exasperated hello.

“Hi,” the girl says back. “Could I have a picture?”

Joseph nods, and I start sliding out of the booth. “I can take it for you,” I tell the girl.

She giggles nervously. “Oh, I was actually hoping it would be with the both of you.”

Surprised, I focus on my dad’s mantra when it comes to fans. Be ten times more gracious than you think. A hundred times nicer than you feel. It’s not the healthiest way to set boundaries,but we are an industry of people pleasers, and from the countless times I’ve met actors I’ve loved that turned out to be assholes, I know how much it stings when we’re less than kind. So I paste on a winning smile, hoping my eyes don’t look too glossy.

“I just watchedA Little Luck,” she adds as explanation.

Joseph nudges my leg under the table. “Funny you should mention it. We were just having a chat about that shoot.” He picks up his chin and narrows his eyes to a smolder. His brogue thickens, dancing off his smirking mouth. The Brand is back in full force.

His transformation stuns me. Because it confirms what I felt earlier: He really had let his guard down.

The girl turns back toward the table where both of her friends are watching expectantly. “Itisthem. I told you,” she stage-whispers.

Her friends stand up and march over, sheepish.

“Nice to meet you all,” I say. “I’m Sloane. This is Joseph.”

We stand up while the girl grabs our waiter to come over. I think he assumed Joseph and I were some indecisive, bickering couple out for a late-night meal. Now three people are making a small scene and asking for our picture. Despite his bewilderment, the waiter is ultimately a good sport. He leans back into the counter, holding the phone horizontally as he snaps several pictures of us, smiling wide to remind us to do the same.

The three fans give us quick hugs, their leader lingering just to say, “You guys are really good in that movie. It’s on Netflix if you want to watch it.” She starts off, then circles back. “That was a random thing to say. You lived it. Okay wow, I’m gonna disappear now!”

“I actually rewatched some of it recently,” I tell her, helping to soften the awkwardness she’s clearly feeling.

“Really?” Joseph and the girl ask in unison. “Isn’t it good?” the girl tacks on.

“Sure.” If I wasn’t in it, and I hadn’t lived the hell of that shoot, it’s exactly the kind of movie I would have watched on Netflix as a teenager and absolutely loved. Which warms my heart.

I’d never thought of it that way before.

The girl smiles. “Thanks for the picture.” She’s brimming with earnest excitement. As she walks away, she yells out, “I hope you guys are dating!” which makes her friends topple over into hysterics upon her triumphant return to their table.