She leaned over and kissed the spot she’d punched. “I don’t want you hooking up with a bunch of girls.” Leaning back, she regarded me with a slight pout, an expression that had, at the time, melted me every time she did it.

“I don’t want any other girls,” I said.

“I don’t want any other guys,” she answered, leaning closer.

“Good.” I kissed her, pulling her onto my lap, my hands wandering under her shirt as hers wandered under mine. Maybe that was the first time we went a step further than making out.

That conversation went like this: “Do you think—?”

She looked at me a long moment before nodding. “Okay.”

Emma

We’re filming at the Bennet house again. Graham and I have the first scene. I don’t know when he returned to Austin, only that I haven’t heard from him in the two and a half days since he kissed me. Meanwhile, the photos of Reid and me at the concert have pretty much gone viral, and considering Graham’s silence, it seems clear enough how he feels about that.

The kitchen is packed, between craft services people setting up breakfast and snacks, crew members standing around eating, discussing camera angles and scene layouts, and the cast taking bites between bits of line rehearsals. More than once I start to leave the kitchen and go to the living area, where it’s less crowded and noisy, but something keeps me hiding in the throng of people, and I know exactly what that something is.

Waiting to see Graham yanks my emotions back and forth, as though I’m either facing a starting gate or a firing squad. I’m as jittery and nauseated as I would be after four cups of coffee. I can’t quite get a grip, giving me five seconds, from the moment I finally hear his voice in the other room, to pull it together.

Epic. Fail.

He comes around the corner, sides in hand, talking with Richter, wearing jeans and a rumpled button-down shirt, sleeves rolled and pushed above his elbows. Running a hand through his hair, he glances around the room, his eyes not stopping on anything or anyone until he reaches me. Expression unreadable, he nods once in my direction and turns back to Richter.

“Let’s get you into makeup,” Richter tells him. “Fifteen minutes?”

“Sure.” I don’t see him again until right before we’re on camera.

I don’t recognize Graham when he comes back. My concern that they wouldn’t be able to make him look goofy enough for Bill Collins was dead wrong. His hair is slicked back with gel and he’s wearing pleated khaki pants, a coral golf shirt—tucked in—and a pair of gold-framed glasses with spherical lenses. His walk and his mannerisms are timid, yet self-important. He’s perfect.

We’re filming the absurd proposal scene between Bill and Lizbeth. The assistant director lays out the scene and we listen without looking at each other. Graham hasn’t looked at me after that first glance, though he’ll be contractually obligated to in a few minutes. I would have felt so comfortable doing this scene a week ago, before he kissed me, before he disappeared and returned not speaking to me.

“Action,” Richter says.

INT. Bennet Kitchen – Day

LIZBETH is loading dishes into the dishwasher as BILL walks in from the dining room with a stack of plates.

BILL

Lizbeth, I have something to ask you.

LIZBETH

(taking dishes from him, rinsing them in the sink)

Yes?

BILL

As you know, I am an integral part of the Rosings firm, with a lucrative career in front of me.

LIZBETH

(rolling eyes to the side)

Yes, so you’ve said.

BILL

My boss, Ms. DeBourgh, believes that a man in my position is best suited to an advantageous career if he is settled down, domestically speaking.

LIZBETH frowns.

BILL

So, I’m asking you, Lizbeth Bennet, to marry me.

LIZBETH swivels to face him, dropping a plate into the sink where it clatters and breaks.

(The expression on Graham’s face is so guarded that I have a difficult time staying in character—Bill Collins is supposed to be comic relief. Graham seems… angry.)

LIZBETH

(incredulous)

But. But. I’m in high school.

(I’m determined to fix that parenthetical incredulous expression on my face. I try to focus on his ridiculous glasses, the stupid slicked-back hair, anything. Nothing works.)

BILL

The engagement won’t be official until you’re eighteen, but that needn’t stop us from planning.

(He sounds much too persuasive to be the idiotic Bill Collins; even his nasally whine is absent. Richter is going to notice; everyone is going to notice. Suddenly I’m livid.)

LIZBETH

(stunned)

Are you insane?

BILL

(laughing carelessly)

Girls are all such teases. It’s nearly impossible for a guy to know where he stands!

(And I’m blushing again…)

LIZBETH

(horrified)

I am not being a tease. If I’ve done something to make you think I’m interested, well, I’m sorry. My answer is still no.

BILL

You don’t need to worry about the choice of ring, by the way. I didn’t purchase one yet because I wanted to make sure you had your choice.

LIZBETH

You didn’t even know me a month ago. You couldn’t possibly have come here intending to just fall in love with someone you don’t even know?

(My voice cracks and I can’t keep my lip from quivering. Dammit.)

BILL

It’s true, I didn’t know you, but I had every intention of making up for my dad’s mismanagement of Bennet Inc. by hooking up, legitimately of course, with you. I knew you were beautiful. I was sure I would feel a connection. And I did.

(Graham is staring into my eyes, and I have trouble remembering my lines.)

LIZBETH

(slinging soapy water into the sink)

This is crazy. I’m not getting married to anyone, certainly not to you.

“Cut,” Richter says, and I can tell he’s less than happy. He eyes Graham and me, his hand over his mouth, as though he wants to make sure not to say anything until he knows exactly what he means to say. “Everyone but Emma and Graham take five.” Crap. “On second thought, make it ten.” Oh, crap.

Our accomplished director leans a hip on the table and crosses his arms over his chest, regarding the two of us. I imagine this is what it feels like to be called to the principal’s office for fighting or talking in class. Graham and I both look anywhere but at Richter or each other.

“So. Graham,” Richter begins. “You realize your guy is a silly, shallow character?”

Graham nods, crossing his arms over his chest, too. Defensive response, as any actor knows.

“So what’s with the brooding stares? You’ve been spot on playing this guy as clueless and superficial. And now, he’s staring at Lizbeth as though he’s deciding whether to kick a chair across the room or throw her over his shoulder and retreat to his cave.”

I’m blushing again—throw her over his shoulder—and Graham is silent for a full minute. “I know. I’m sorry,” he answers, arms loosening, one hand gripping the countertop while he almost runs the other through his hair, stopping when he realizes it’s gelled back. “If I could have a few minutes, I’ll get into character. I’m a little off today.”

“All right. Take ten minutes. Be ready to reshoot, but let me know if you need longer.”

Graham nods and leaves the room without looking at me.

“Everything okay between you two?” Richter asks when Graham is gone.

“Yeah.” What else can I say?

“Well. I think you were responding to Graham’s lead in that last take. Remember that Lizbeth isn’t angry. She’s shocked and incredulous.”

“I know. I’ll get it right next take. I’m sorry.”

“Take a few minutes and we’ll hit take two.”

We film the scene again, and Graham has pulled himself completely into character. We do several partial scenes and a few minor retakes. Richter wasn’t far off, though I should have been professional enough to stay in character, and I can’t blame Graham completely. “Perfect,” Richter says. “Let’s take a break, and we’ll come back and do the next bit with the Bennet family.” Graham walks out the front door dialing his cell.

The last scene before lunch, which doesn’t include Graham, goes well. When we’re done, I turn and he’s leaning against a door jamb, watching me. We lock eyes briefly before the PA claims his attention. I don’t know if that kiss meant anything to him, or if it was a regretted impulse. I don’t know if I’m interrupting something between Graham and Brooke that has nothing to do with me. He’s seen the photos of Reid and me, or at least knows about them, and I hate that he’s angry, or hurt, or disgusted. I hate that we aren’t talking.

Taking a turkey sandwich, a Diet Coke, and this afternoon’s sides, I go out back to the covered patio. The weather is hot, but in the shade it’s passably warm. When the door opens behind me, I hope it isn’t someone from makeup, since they’ll have to touch up anything that gets shiny, which is inevitable now that I’m hiding out in the heat.

“Hey, Emma,” Graham says, walking around the cushioned bench where I sit and taking the seat opposite me. He sets a bottle of water on the low table and reaches into his pocket for his pack and lighter.

“Hi.”

“I’m starting the patches tomorrow, as soon as we’re done filming,” he says, tapping a cigarette out of the nearly empty package, lighting the end. Taking a drag, he stores the pack and lighter away, leans back, exhales above our heads. “That way I start when I’m not filming.”

“You bought the patches, then?” Hearing his voice makes me happy. Just knowing he doesn’t hate me is a relief.

“Yeah. When I was in New York.” He doesn’t elaborate, taking another drag on the cigarette and looking out over the parched yard.

“Is everything okay… with your trip to New York? Someone said you had a family emergency.”

“Oh. Yeah, everything’s fine,” he says, falling silent again.

“Okay. Well. Good.” I look back down at the sheet in my hand, not sure what to say now that he’s here. I’ve forgotten how Graham is with silences, though. He’s comfortable in them, never determined to fill them unless he has something to say.

He finishes his cigarette and starts another before he speaks. “Sorry for earlier, getting you bitched out with me. I was just really off today, for some reason.” His eyes are sincere, the earlier judgment in them dissolved, gone.

“It’s okay. I was off, too.”

“Well. I wanted to apologize. Actors tend to play off of each other in a scene, and I really screwed up the first time around.” He starts to run a hand through his hair again and stops abruptly, yanking his hand down and taking a last long drag, like his nicotine cravings know that he and cigarettes are about to go their separate ways, and they want to stock up.

I can’t help smiling at him. “That stuff in your hair is driving you crazy, isn’t it.”