Jackson did almost recognize me the first time he saw me, though of course I denied ever having met him. It was the first day we’d arrived, and I was sunbathing on a rock that jutted out over the turquoise water when he swam over to say hello. He welcomed me to the island, thanked me for coming down, and asked what department I was in. I noticed him looking at me funny as I told him I was Stella’s assistant.
“Have we met?” he asked.
“I don’t think so,” I replied.
“You look so familiar.”
“People always think I’m some girl on a show about teenage vampires,” I said, rolling my eyes. “I’ve never seen it.”
This was always a valid explanation in LA, where you could never be sure whether the cute guy in line behind you at the juice bar was familiar because you’d crossed paths in real life, or he was mildly famous.
“Maybe that’s it.” He shrugged. “Or maybe we met at a party or something and I embarrassed myself trying to talk to you.”
“Maybe,” I’d said, laughing to cover up my surprise at how close he was to the truth. “But I don’t remember.”
At which point he splashed me.
Part of my plan had been to get close to him in hopes of gleaning some information relating to my mother’s death—a task I’d looked forward to after our brief meeting at the Blue Cat—but I’ve found myself unable to complete the seduction. The problem isn’t a lack of desire. I see the way he looks at me; all it would take is a well-timed knock on his bungalow door and I’d be a permanent fixture in his bed. The problem is me.
It’s not that I don’t want him. Truth be told, I’d love nothing more than to dive into bed with him, and in the privacy of my own room at night I fantasize about it with an unfamiliar longing that’s never satisfied when I finish myself off. But I can’t deceive him. Or rather, I don’t want to.
There’s this infectious openness to him, an honesty about who he is and what he wants, a curiosity about life along with a willingness to embrace its beauty and strangeness without shying away from the unpleasant parts. He has no need for a coat of armor made of irony and cynicism; he comes bare-chested with sincerity and humor. If I make him sound unsophisticated or naive, then I misrepresent. He’s generally the smartest person in the room; he chooses candor.
Complicating things is the fact that he’s declared it his mission to make me laugh. I’ve never been a person who laughs a lot, not having had any friends, but he’s sought out my sense of humor until he knows exactly what to say or what look to give me across a room to coax the unfamiliar fizz of delight from my throat.
He’s confided in me about growing up with a mother more interested in partying with her model friends than raising a son and a father for whom he was nothing more than a photo op; told me horrifying tales of boarding school in Switzerland and wild stories about his gap year in India and the resulting passion for yoga, which he credits with saving his life. Never, though, has he come close to saying anything about Iris.
It would have been easier if he were self-centered and satisfied with talking about himself, but no such luck. He asks me endless questions about my life, my convictions, my aspirations—which I answer as truthfully as I can. The aspirations are easy: I don’t know. I haven’t gone to college. It’s not too late, but I don’t know what I’d study—I can’t see myself as a lawyer or a doctor or an HR director. I enjoy acting—wearing the face of a character is both exhilarating and liberating—but especially after getting to know Stella, I’m not sure I want to be chewed up and spit out by the entertainment industry (a sentiment he understands). What I can’t tell him, of course, is that the only thing I’ve ever really wanted is to take revenge on my mother’s killer, which seems more and more likely to be his father.
Convictions are more difficult—what do I believe in? My go-to answer has always been an eye for an eye. But I’m beginning to understand that life is sometimes more complicated than that.
I’ve been as honest as I can about my history; I’ve shared that my mother died and I never knew my father, and he respected my wishes when I told him it was too painful to discuss. I’ve confessed my lonely adolescence with my grandparents and the horrors of their church, careful to substitute New Hampshire for Pennsylvania in keeping with what I’d told Stella. I haven’t told him that in the past few weeks I’ve become closer with him than I’ve ever allowed myself to be with a man, or anyone for that matter—but I think he knows.
We tromp down the stairs to the empty beach and kick off our sandals to trek across the soft sand. The waves are high, but other than that, there’s still no sign of the storm. “We never should have shot down here in hurricane season.” He sighs. “Taylor and I tried and tried to talk Cole out of it, but he insisted. It was the only time he’d do it. It’s all gonna be over if the storm comes this way. There won’t be any more movie. It may already be over. The crew may not even come back.”
“But they love you,” I protest.
“Not as much as they hate my dad.” He shakes his head. “It’s strange—regardless of how he is to those closest to him, he can usually make a crew love him. But this time it’s like he’s not even trying. There’s something different about him.
