Chapter Ten

Cade

I’d had every intention in messaging Dylan on Wednesday night, but Amanda and I had a sit-down session with an acting coach, going through the more emotional scenes of the movie.

I was getting used to Amanda. She was funny. Easy to get along with.

And she wasn’t a diva-pushover.

If I had to compare her to any other actor’s set stories, I’d say she took a page from Jennifer Lawrence’s book. I have a feeling that Amanda will keep things on set fun and interesting.

Doesn’t mean I’ve stopped thinking about Dylan, though.

As badly as I’ve tried to keep her in the back of my mind, thoughts of the pretty blonde keep coming at the worst of times.

Or maybe they were the best of times.

On Thursday, Amanda and I had an intensive run through of our first kissing scene and the entire time my mouth was locked with hers, I thought of Dylan.

What would her mouth taste like?

How would her face feel between my hands?

Would she rub her body up against mine, or simply hold me tight?

When I return to my room later that night, I can’t not message her.

Unfortunately, I suddenly go middle school boy with his first major crush and, with my phone in hand and her Instagram account up and in front of me, I can’t think of a single thing to say.

A pick-up line would not work with a girl like Dylan.

How can I tell her I’m interested in her, that I can’t stop thinking about her, without being too forward? Too strong?

Hell, she’s pregnant. She’s having a kid in a handful-plus of weeks, and if that doesn’t scare me…

Nothing will.

It’s with that thought that I type something in without putting too much over-thought into it.

How’s it going? Heard a storm was going to go through. Stay dry?

I hit send before I can berate myself for stooping down as low as the how’s the weather line.

Really?

How’s the weather?

That’s exactly what a guy asks when he’s interested in someone.

I throw my phone down on the bed and begin my nightly ritual of shower, teeth, and, as badly as I want to boycott it, I shave my face, too.

Costuming decided that my hair could stay. Said it worked with the personality I was giving the character—slightly carefree, but mostly just young and fun.

They want me clean shaven though and, as long as I don’t have to cut my hair, I’m okay with this agreement.

If I’m being honest with myself, though, I’m breaking down and shaving because I’m nervous for Dylan’s response.

Nervous she hasn’t responded.

Nervous she has.

Ergo, I waste time shaving.

During which, I try hard to not think about her.

And fail.

I think about the minutes we spent together.

I think about her post.

I think about Charleigh’s words: She didn’t want Grant to know.

That’s the piece that keeps sticking out.

Which only further settles the fear that whatever the tabloids thought they knew about Dylan-as-Tatum and her time with Grant, it was falsely reported.

That doesn’t sit well at all.

***

She didn’t respond.

Nor does she overnight.

I try not to feel disappointed, but, yeah.

I’m disappointed.

Apparently, my mood was evident in my acting today because I was called out on more than one occasion.

Not wanting to be burdened with the need to check my phone every thirty minutes, I’d left the device in my hotel room, something I regret immediately upon getting back to my room that evening.

Two missed calls and a text message.

All from the same number.

I sit down quickly at the end of the mattress and open the text message.

Hey, this is Dylan. Sorry for the calls. I hung up the first time, then decided to leave a message after all, and then realized you were probably on set. So I’m texting you instead. Obv. I hope filming is going well.

I wonder if she had to press send before erasing it all, too, much like I did last night.

I can’t help but smile, and even though I want to play it cool, I redial the number Dylan called from.

She doesn’t have a traditional ringtone, but instead, her phone has a playback of Maroon 5’s “Help Me Out.”

Decent beat.

I find myself nodding to it while I wait but then…

“Hi.”

I swallow hard and sit up straight. “Hey. How are you?”

Awkward.

As.

Fuck.

I can’t remember the last time a girl so easily weakened me in this way.

I may not know her well, but Charleigh does.

Then I think of her sad eyes.

Her fierce determination.

Her Instagram post.

Even if I don’t know her, I want to.

Badly.

“You left your number on the fridge,” Dylan starts saying and I have a feeling she’s feeling just as out of sorts as I am.

Can’t have that.

“Yeah, yeah. That’s cool. Absolutely. I just didn’t think it was appropriate to ask Charleigh for your number. Not after she was reaming me out,” I try to joke.

“I’m so sorry about that. She called me after and told me. I guess, yeah, I was worried, but then I realized I shouldn’t be, and…” Her sigh travels through the phone waves. “I guess I don’t trust people right now.”

“I can understand that.” I nod a few times before adding, “Well, based on things I’ve gathered. Charleigh hasn’t told me anything. Much. Really, nothing.” Really fucking this up, Cade. “Just that you hadn’t wanted Grant to know. I don’t… I mean, if you… I guess what I’m saying is I don’t care. But if you wanted to talk to someone who isn’t Charleigh, I’d be willing to listen.”

Her laughter is nervous, but her voice is sure. “Be careful what you ask for. You’d be in over your head.”

“Maybe that’s not a bad place to be.” We’re both quiet at that and I feel that maybe I came on too strong anyway.

You know, in my ten words to the woman.

“Anyway,” I say, at the same time she says, “Okay, so…”

She laughs lightly again, and I take that as my cue to continue.

“Charleigh mentioned you’re further along than I thought. I assumed differently. Obviously, you can’t do a movie when you’re going to have a kid in like…what? Four weeks?”

“More like ten. I hope. But I wasn’t lying when I said I’m done acting. I just…” Her voice goes soft again, and when it’s clear she’s not going to finish her thought, I jump in.

“If you don’t want to tell me, that’s cool, I get it but… Why are you letting him have such a hold over you? I’m assuming it was a mistake, right? I mean, this is a complete judgement call, based on what little Char’s said and the short amount of time I’ve known you.”

“Yeah, I don’t…” she starts, but doesn’t finish, and I don’t press.

“Do you have, I don’t know, maybe plans for the weekend? You doing anything? Is Charleigh going to come up and keep you company?”

“No, she has some engagement with her parents in New Orleans this weekend. She was hoping to be in and out, but I think her dad scheduled press things for her on Sunday, so she’ll be stuck.”

I take three seconds to decide on whether or not my next question is appropriate.

And I decide…

What the hell.

“Would you want company? I have weekends off and wouldn’t mind getting out of Vancouver.”

She laughs again and this time it’s more of a “yeah, right, you’re kidding,” laugh, but when I don’t say anything else, she stops abruptly. “You’re serious?”

Two seconds this time, and I decide I’m dead serious. “Yeah. I’m serious.” Even though this fancy suite is in my view, and I can see my reflection in the mirror, I’m not really seeing my surroundings.

I’m thinking of her.

I’m imagining sitting on the pier with her.

Sitting by the fire pit with her.

As badly as I’d like to picture her sitting actually with me, on my lap maybe, I’m content in my vision putting a few inches between us.

I’m struck with the fierce desire, fierce longing, of this girl.

I want to know her.

I want to know her story.

I want to stand beside her and help her and hold her hand.

If she has another spiraling attack, I want it to be me to help her reach the surface.

This feeling came out of nowhere, but I know it as well as I know my name—I want Dylan.

In any way she’ll give me.

“I’m not really… I mean,” she stumbles over her words, “that’s nice of you but I couldn’t ask you to.”

“You’re not asking. I am. Let me hang out with you, Dylan. Let me get to know you. Even if we talk about nothing.”

“It’s your weekend,” she finally says after another pause, and I get the feeling she’s trying to brush it off. Agreeing to shut me up.

Her words don’t come across nearly as laissez-faire as she’s probably hoping for.

“It is. And I’d like to spend it with you.”

I can hear her argument coming, but instead, she settles on, “Okay. When can I expect you?”