Page 62 of Take It Till You Make It
“That’s your husband?”
“Wait,” I say. “You don’t know that?”
Remi shakes her head. “We mostly work on family dramas.”
“It just seems like Crispin knows everybody.”
He waggles his brows. “I know a lot of people in this industry, but mostly those who work on hot teen heartthrobs.”
I stick my tongue out and pretend to gag. He laughs.
“Anyway, give it some thought,” Crispin says. “I think we film together again on Thursday.”
I frown. “Give what some thought?”
“If you want to capitalize on our chemistry by looking for a project we can work on together.” He squeezes my shoulder. “See you later.”
Feeling flummoxed over his suggestion, I watch him walk over to Remi’s husband. He says something, pats the man on the back, and they clasp hands like long-lost brothers. Crispin leaves Remi’s husband laughing in his wake.
“What did he say to you?” Remi yells.
Still laughing, her husband shakes his head. “I will never tell, my love.”
“Oh, dat man,” Remi grumbles as she works through some knots in my hair.
I spend the next two hours imagining Crispin and me playing love interests in all sorts of movies. A spy thriller. A regency romance. A superhero movie – where I’m the hopeless villain and he’s wearing tights. Maybe I should pursue this.
Chapter Twenty-Three
I pickup the little spider plant for the seventeenth time and move it to the sofa table.
“What movie did you say you got?” Mom asks.
“You know that one where the main couple were high school sweethearts, but there was some major misunderstanding that split them up and then he moved and never knew she was pregnant, then he moves back to town to take the job as the principal of the high school and almost falls over the first time he sees his son because it’s like he’s looking at his younger self.”
“Oh, right. That’ll be a good one.”
“Unless Crispin doesn’t like the actor who plays the teenage son. Could ruin the movie for him, I guess.”
I pick up the spider plant and move it back to the coffee table. We have a remarkable lack of decorations in our house since I was the one who moved us in. Mom is arranging a vase of real flowers that I picked up when I stopped to get the food for dinner.
For some reason, I thought it would be a good idea to put together a taco bar. As if I can cook and know how to do things like this. I only have ground beef I browned in taco seasoning and refried beans as main fillers. We’re in Southern California, a place with a plethora of authentic Mexican food, and I’m offering the most gringo version of a taco bar this side of the border. I should have stuck with pizza.
“This is really nice of you to have Crispin over,” Mom says. She sounds tired. She’s been helping me get the place ready most of the afternoon. She’ll probably fall asleep at dinner.
“Well, he invited himself over. But I guess you have to do that when you’re a big star who is recognized everywhere.” I turn when I hear her slide the vase. “Oh, that’s so pretty, Mom.”
“Well, you bought them.”
“But I never could have arranged them like that. It looks professional.” I admire how they droop artistically in all directions so that each person seated around the table will have a flower staring at them.
“I’m glad we still had this sweet little low vase. Your father gave me sunflowers in it for Mother’s Day one year.”
I stare at her, waiting for the wave of grief that accompanies any mention of Dad to drive her into her room, but she just continues to gaze at her pretty little bouquet. I want to throw my arms around her neck and tell her how proud I am that she made it through a memory, but I also don’t want to jinx it. I know from firsthand experience it doesn’t mean she’ll make it through the next one. Or the one after that.
I pick the spider plant up and place it on the shelf that the television sits on. Then move it to the shelf above it. Yeah. That works.
There’s a knock on the door, and I spin and glare at it like it’s a traitor. My stomach does a double back handspring off the beam and blows the landing, ending up flat on its fabricated face.
