Page 36 of Take Two

“So, what are you proposing?” Jamie asks, straightening to his full height, making me incline my head to look up at him properly.

I gesture vaguely toward the exit where the last of the crew are packing up their equipment.

“A walk?” I ask, completely fumbling this exchange in a way that would embarrass me if it were anyone else. Real smooth, Cyaire. Real smooth.

His eyebrows lift in surprise. “A walk?”

“Seattle’s nice.” I gesture around the arena in lieu of the actual city beyond these walls, as if the industrial space somehow represents the Pacific Northwest’s natural beauty.

“That’s your sales pitch?” he replies playfully, and I can hear the laughter threading through his voice.

“It’s all I’ve got.” I shrug, shoving my hands inside my jacket pockets. A jacket that I’m sure someone is going to come hunt me down for if I don’t hurry this along.

Jamie shakes his head, but the smile never leaves his face. There’s something in his expression that I can’t quite read, surprise, maybe, or something warmer.

Then, after a beat that stretches just long enough to make me worry I’ve overstepped, he says, “Alright.”

Something in my chest loosens at such a simple word, like a knot I didn’t realize was there suddenly coming undone.

“Alright?” I repeat, needing the confirmation.

“Alright.”

The smile he gives me this time is warm enough to make me forget the last ten hours of filming entirely, erasing the exhaustion and the repetitive takes and the constant pressure of performance.

Behind me, I hear Cameron cough, poorly masking what is clearly a laugh. I’m sure he’s heard every awkward word of this exchange and is enjoying my discomfort immensely.

I don’t turn around. I already know exactly who he’s laughing at, and I find I don’t care. I know exactly what I want to do with the time I have left in Seattle, and for once, I’m not going to let fear or overthinking stop me from taking it.

Chapter 10

Jamie

Acheer rises from somewhere ahead of us just as a silver flash cuts through the air.

The fish travels in a perfect arc above a crowd of tourists before landing cleanly in another fishmonger’s waiting hands. Applause breaks out immediately, and a little boy near the front of the crowd jumps high enough that his baseball cap nearly falls off. His mother fumbles beside him for her phone, trying desperately to capture something that has probably already happened twenty times today and will happen twenty more times before closing.

Cyaire stops walking beside me. His sunglasses slide slightly down his nose as he stares at the fish market with undisguised fascination, like a man encountering something entirely outside his frame of reference for the first time.

“You’re telling me people come here specifically to watch strangers throw seafood at each other? I mean, yes, I’ve seen it referenced in films, but actually witnessing it in person.” He shakes his head slowly. “Wow.”

I glance toward the stall and shrug. “You’re the actor. You tell me. Half the crowd looks pretty entertained. These men are performers in their own right.”

A laugh escapes him as he pushes his sunglasses back into place.

The disguise is ambitious. I will give him that but come on.

The oversized hoodie, the dark baseball cap pulled low, the sunglasses catching the afternoon light. It might have worked if he were six inches shorter and considerably less famous. As it stands, he looks exactly like someone trying very hard not to be recognized, which is its own kind of visibility.

“You know people can still see your face, right?” I ask as we continue walking. I try and fail to bite back my laugh. I genuinely can’t help it.

Cyaire turns toward me, mouth parting in something between protest and amusement.

“They can barely see my face,” he leans in to whisper, as though volume is the variable that matters here.

“They can see enough of it.”

He gestures toward the sunglasses with the conviction of a man presenting evidence in court. “That is literally the purpose of these.”