Jenna & Jonah's Fauxmance (8 page)

“You know,” I say, “this is really nice.”

“Yeah,” Charlie says.

“The rooms look great, by the way.”

“You said that already, genius.”

Did I? She’s got me off balance. “Well. I see. In that case, they’re hideous.”

“Thank you! I mean, if you actually like the paint job, it pretty much defeats the whole point!”

She looks mischievous. It’s kind of adorable.

“So, you spent three days painting just to piss me off?”

“Well, not
just
to piss you off, no. But I was kind of hoping it would have that effect.”

“You don’t like your landlord? I mean, you gotta admit, the rent is
very
reasonable.”

Charlie smiles and puts both hands behind her head. She appears to be adjusting her ponytail, but she’s also drawing attention to her world-famous assets. “I guess. The place is kind of a dump, though.”

“Well, what do you want for nothing? I happen to think the landlord is a helluva guy. Charming, intelligent, good-looking, and an amazing dancer.”

The sun is dipping into the ocean outside, and the light in here gets dim and yellow. And Charlie really is beautiful. “Yeah. Too bad he’s gay,” Charlie says, flashing a devilish grin at me.

“What if he wasn’t?” I ask. The question hangs there, and for once in her life, Charlie doesn’t seem to have anything to say.

She just smiles. And finally she says, “I’ll do the dishes. Thanks for cooking.”

“Um. Anytime!”

I go up to bed but find it very hard to sleep. What the hell just happened down there? Or did anything at all happen? Would I be a complete idiot if something happened? Would I be a complete idiot if nothing happened?

9
LIVING WITH YOU, LIVING WITHOUT YOU

Charlie

“You know what we need, Field—I mean, Aaron?” I say as he busies himself slicing tomatoes. I can’t get used to calling him Aaron, but now Fielding sounds fake, too. He looks up but doesn’t respond with any words, as though he wants me to pay him for any dialogue. “A montage.” He raises his eyebrows, hair falling over his forehead in his trademark way. I want to brush it away and touch his stubbled face—until he gives me a look that suggests I’m an idiot. Then I want to chop all his hair off in his sleep. “You know how they’d make almost a whole episode of flashbacks? That time we recorded ‘Living with You, Living without You,’ when you—”

“Jonah—”

“Right, when Jonah had appendicitis? It was, like, no new footage, just a few minutes of us in that lame hospital room—”

Aaron finally breaks into a grin. “So ridiculous—it was the same room they used for global studies, just with a gurney and fake medical devices beeping.” We lock eyes, laughing, remembering.

“Anyway, that’s sort of what we need now, a montage with music over it—we’d get the house all repaired …”

Aaron joins in. “Yeah, with me yanking weeds and planting new trees …”

I let myself get excited, my voice rises in pitch, and my hands flail. “Then, just as the grounds are looking great, our careers would get a makeover, too. We’d remember who we used to be before and we’d suddenly be back on top of the teen world, but we wouldn’t have had to deal with this part.”

“And what part is that, exactly?” Aaron puts the tomatoes on a cookie sheet and drizzles olive oil on top.

I bite my lip. “The stuff in between. The hard stuff. The crap. That’s why they don’t show it in movies and TV, because it’s impossible to document.”

Aaron slides the baking sheet into the oven and comes over to me. For a second I think he’s about to hug me, reach for me. But instead he puts his hand on my shoulder in one gesture of pity. “That hard part is called life. Reality. And it’s what you don’t know how to deal with.”

Feeling deflated like the withered helium balloons on our prom set, I leave the main house where Aaron and his starkness rebuff me and head outside. The property is amazing, in need of major repairs—like, say, paint, plastering, and a toilet that flushes—but it is a thing of beauty. Just like that old cliché of something beautiful hiding under the messy exterior. Off the kitchen is a small patio, emptied of furniture but rimmed with more flowers, ones so tall they nearly bend over with their own weight. I study the blue, pink, and yellow bursts and then notice something way off to the left, halfway down the cliff side, nearly jumping off the ledge into the ocean. Across the uneven grass and along the rocky paths that haven’t been tended in who knows how long, I walk toward what appears to be a small cabin. I lift a latch on the broken wooden gate and slip through, hoping the cabin also technically belongs to Aaron so I’m not trespassing and doomed to wind up in the tabloids for this embarrassment, too.

Inside, there’s just one main room, with a double bed flanked by side tables made from old fruit crates, two oil lamps, a little bathroom with a claw-foot tub, and a view of the ocean from every square foot. In a word, it’s perfect. I sit on the bed and feel, really for the first time in ages, my whole body. Tired. Hungry. The worry of what lurks in the rest of the world feels farther and farther away, and I lie back, wondering how I could have lasted so long playing the love-interest-next-door of someone who so clearly despises me. How could anyone have bought the whole charade?

Sure enough, when I wake up after my unexpected nap, the sky has darkened and I can only barely find my way back to the main house and Jonah—I mean Fielding—I mean Aaron—is nowhere to be found. I try not to get creeped out to the point of calling the police, because the last thing I want is more scandal. First, I walk around from room to room, yelling “Fielding! Aaron!” and then “Jonah?” just to piss him off and because every so often I seriously do slip up, but when it’s clear he’s either hiding or been abducted or simply deserted me, I get back to what I know how to do.

I cook. I slice. I mash. I take the now perfectly oven-dried tomatoes out and combine a few of them with the ripe avocado, add some salt, some freshly squeezed lemon juice, some cayenne from the pantry, and produce a guacamole worthy of my grandma. The custard apple I scoop out and put into a simple blue bowl. Orange wedges complete my vegetarian paradise. The sun sets fully, leaving traces of red in the sky, and I light some candles, making the table look nice even though I’m alone.

It’s not bad, really. The solitude. I’m just about to take my first bite of guacamole when a clatter jolts me. I grab a spreading knife as though I can butter an intruder to death.

“Relax, it’s only me,” Aaron announces, his arms full with brown bags, an old fishing cap pulled far down over his eyes. “Tell me you weren’t starting without me.”

I roll my eyes even though in the dim light the gesture might be wasted. “Thanks for leaving me in this run-down nightmare with no way of escaping and no idea where you’d gone.”

Aaron lugs the bags over to the table, disrupting my pretty display of plates and food. He looks at me, semidisgusted, and says nothing. The worst punishment of all. Once, when I made a scene on set about the new cleaning fluid that made my wrists swell and hives appear on my back, he accused me of being a high-maintenance poodle and refused to speak to me for a whole week, except for our lines. So when he storms off, it’s not a surprise, but it stings nonetheless. I sit for a second, then peer into the bags.

Fresh bread—not from a supermarket, but crusty, from a bakery, like I always order in delis even though I don’t often get to eat it. Baby romaine lettuce. Fresh fish wrapped in brown paper. Coffee. Milk. A flashlight. My heart sinks. He hadn’t left me; he had left me to get groceries, supplies. I put everything away, prep some more, and go find him.

He’s not in the great room, not upstairs investigating the box-cluttered rooms, not outside in the orchard. I take the flashlight and go down to the little cabin and find him sitting on the front steps.

I stand there, about to apologize, when he breaks the growing silence. “Remember Season Two? That side plot when Mr. Connolly had to sing some song about taking a trip somewhere he’d never been?”

I nod. “Holiday Far Away.” I think he ended up holidaying in New Jersey or somewhere equally exotic, but the song was a hit in the United States, perfectly timed for the holiday season here and guaranteed to become a holiday classic.

“Right. Well, that’s sort of what I want to do. Here.”

He looks up, and for just a second we are just two people. Two people near the ocean. Two people who don’t really know each other at all.

“Thanks for the supplies,” I say. “I have the fish cooking as we speak.”

Aaron stands up. “And you’ll actually eat?” I nod. “Bread, too?” Another nod from me.

“It’ll be ready in ten minutes—fish doesn’t take long.” I stare at the ocean and then back at the little cabin.

“Long enough for me to get cleaned up,” he says and disappears into the cabin. While he showers, I head back up to the kitchen and feel just the tiniest bit of excitement. This is the first meal I’ve made in a long time. The first one I’ve ever made for Fielding—Aaron—unless you count the time I threw a Hostess cupcake at his head in Taiwan and told him to get the hell up for an interview.

Aaron arrives, hair wet enough that it drips a little down his back, wetting his T-shirt, his eyes alive in the candlelight. He hands me another brown bag. “Look inside.”

Our eyes meet as I try to thank him for the new clothes. “I don’t know what to say.”

“How about, thanks and let’s hope they fit?” He glances around the kitchen. “Man, you put on a nice spread. You expecting company?”

“Just you,” I say and point to the table, where the fish, poached in an orange-tarragon sauce, waits with slices of thick bread, cheeses Aaron picked up in town, and water I’ve flavored with hibiscus and sugar. I want to have him taste the sweetness, know it came from me, that I made it and not some caterer.

Aaron and I eat and he nods appreciatively. “Remind me to thank your grandma.”

“You can’t,” I tell him, my voice solemn. “She died two years ago.”

He pauses, waiting, and then I laugh.

“Just kidding,” I say. And he’s breathless with relief, his hand over his heart.

“God, I felt so bad,” he says. “That’s a sick joke.”

“Actually,” I say, all serous again, “it’s true. She had pancreatic cancer. Diagnosed in September, gone four months later.”

Aaron’s face falls from grin to grimace. “Geez, Charlie. Now I feel horrible.” Then he pauses. “Wait. You’re screwing with me again, right? She didn’t die. You’re making it up.” I lean forward so he can see my eyes. The candlelight will probably distort the brown lens color, making them amber and odd. “Oh, no. You’re serious.” I nod. He groans, reaching for my arm but then pulling back before making actual contact. “Hey, you really can act.”

I chew a piece of bread and consider. “I can act. I just don’t get the chance that often. And don’t feel bad. Grandma Ruth would have laughed, too. She was that kind of lady.”

“Did she teach you to make this fish?” Aaron finishes everything on his plate and clears it, running the water so it soaks in the oversized sink.

“No. That I made up just now. I mean, you had the tarragon outside and the oranges, so …” I wipe the table clean.

“I’m impressed.” Aaron hands me the brown bag again. “Aren’t you going to try them on at least?”

I peer into the bag. Who knows what shape, size, garment. My stomach churns when I picture Aaron picking a shirt out for me. Or a dress. It’s intimate, choosing things for people. And we’ve never, in all our scenes or tours, exchanged gifts. Not that this is a gift. It’s just an errand, right? My heart thuds in my chest.

“Playing against type,” Aaron says. “That’s good for you. You know, you’re usually cast like Jenna, right? Even in commercials, you’re all smiles and sort of neutered.”

“Neutered?” I ask. “Like a cat?”

Aaron cracks up. I love being able to make him laugh. “No, not like as in surgically, but like with Jenna. She’s a very safe character. She’s the sort of girl who’s so sweet that she’s … impenetrable.” He grins. “In more way than one.” I open my mouth to object to his adolescent humor when he continues. “Jenna can barely manage sarcasm. Which is why, when you joke about a dead grandma, for example, it comes out of left field and I buy it.”

“And Jonah’s this all-American suck-up …” I take a bite of guacamole. “So if you’re playing against type, you should be some thieving, conniving kid from the wrong side of the tracks, right?”

“Pretty much.” Aaron nods. “And that’s probably what I would’ve been if I hadn’t been in the right place at the right time all those years ago.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning, kids from Cincinnati don’t have two-hundred-dollar sneakers.” He holds up his foot. “They don’t read Sartre or travel internationally and learn the other name for custard apple.”

“Cherimoya.”

“Exactly.”

“But you know tons,” I say. “You’re always quoting Howard Zinn and Walt Whitman.”

Aaron looks amused. “Well, I mean, I do hear America singing.” He tilts his head, studying me. “You remembered?”

“Who could forget being called a”—I put on his mean voice—“total and complete ignoramus with little or no knowledge of the outside world, not to mention historic events, who ought to read some Howard Zinn or Walt Whitman to get a sense of the country that mysteriously loves you so much.”

Aaron runs his hands through his hair. Without the work of the makeup trailer and the twelve products normally in it, or the tufts falling over his forehead that give him a softer appearance. “God, I did say that, didn’t I? What an asshole I can be.”

“Well, it worked. I mean, I ordered
A People’s History of the United States
from Amazon.”

“Did you read it?” Aaron asks, his eyes wide.

“Cover to cover,” I say, deadpan. He’s about to buy it when I punch his shoulder, only so it’s a friendly gesture, nothing he could interpret as more than friendly—even if part of me feels like squeezing his hand. I shove the instinct away. “When would I have had time to crack that sucker? It’s like twelve thousand pages.”