Between the Lines

***

“Okay, Emma, lie back with your head in Reid’s lap. That’s good. Reid, one hand on her stomach.” The VF photographer is Virgil, one of those artists so well-known that a surname is unnecessary. He’s known for sensual, romantic photo spreads. Arranging Emma’s hair to cascade over my knee and pool on the blanket they’ve spread over the rough boards of the dock, he says, “Emma, at me. Reid, at her… longing, desire on your face.” No problem there.

Snap, snap, snap.

The next series has me perched on a stool while she sits on my lap, facing me, her legs locked around my hips. She’s making a concerted effort to keep her eyes averted—quite a feat in this position. “These are waist-up shots, but I need you guys close,” Virgil says. “Emma, arch into him.” Snap, snap, snap. “Good, now lean your head back, chin up.” Snap, snap.

“Back farther, eyes closed.” I press my mouth against her throat, and Virgil is euphoric. “Stunning.” Snap, snap. He crooks her arm, moving her hand to the back of my head, holding me in place over her heart, the beats echoing through me as we stare into the camera and Virgil snaps like there isn’t enough film in the world to capture this moment.

We stand back to back, our hands joined at our sides, while I look out over the lake, spotlighting what’s been termed my “archetypal male profile.” Resting her head between my shoulder blades, Emma stares into the camera as Virgil snaps off shots. “Emma, gaze over my shoulder. Imagine you’re far away, somewhere lovely and perfect…”

Off to the right, the others are gathered, talking and watching distractedly, waiting their turns. Quinton and Tadd stand behind the others, laughing. The girls sit in a semi-circle, Jenna reading, the others talking. Graham reclines just apart from them, legs out in front, ankles crossed, leaning back on his elbows, watching Emma. His mouth turns up on one side and I know she’s returning his gaze. His chin tips back, hey, and Virgil murmurs, “Perfect,” firing off rapid snaps.

The group shots are full of clowning around, some of which will make it into the spread, most of which won’t. Quinton, Tadd, Graham and I, holding Emma horizontally across our middles like a burlesque singer. A hands and knees pyramid, guys on bottom, then Brooke, MiShaun and Meredith, with Jenna and Emma on top. Tadd groans and pretends to crumple under the weight as tiny Jenna climbs atop Brooke and Meredith, and everyone screams and laughs as the whole thing nearly crashes to the mats covered in blankets and sand.

Tomorrow will be divided up, girls in the morning, guys in the afternoon. “No hangovers, dudes,” Virgil says. “The camera isn’t kind to dehydrated, red-eyed subjects.” He chuckles as our eyes roll and we drag ourselves to the waiting cars.

I duck into a car with Emma, Meredith and Jenna. Touching Emma’s shoulder, I draw her out of their conversation. She’s as wary of me as she was in the elevator this morning. “Still going off to college in the fall? Have you chosen one yet?”

Her hands are clasped in her lap, and I maintain a small empty space between us. “I’m visiting a couple next month, making a final decision.”

“Cool.”

The four of us talk about upcoming projects, and Jenna grills Emma on the colleges she’s chosen to visit next month and what she’ll be studying. I shouldn’t be surprised that they’re both in New York—for theatre it makes sense—but I wonder what this has to do with Graham, and if it has everything to do with him. We arrive at the hotel and everyone decides on room service in my room, sans Meredith, who’s staying in her room with Robby the Controlling Boyfriend.

“That guy is a total dick,” Tadd tells Emma, using the shaker from my bar to make margaritas. “How can she like that?”

“No idea,” she answers as he unscrews the shaker, pouring the mixture into three glasses, handing one to her, one to me.

“A friend of mine got into a seriously messed up relationship with a possessive guy,” he continues after taking a sip. “He checked his phone messages, separated him from his friends, hacked into his computer. It was a f**king nightmare. Actually, he said the f**king was pretty good, the rest was a nightmare.”

Emma and I narrowly avoid spraying him with margarita.

“Getting everyone hammered already, are you, Tadd?” Brooke says as she joins us.

“Want one?” he asks. “They’re magically delicious.”

“Yes, please—one for Graham, too. He’ll be here in a sec. He’s on a call.”

I’m looking at Emma when Brooke mentions Graham, and I can’t unsee the split second of joy that crosses her face. The apprehension that follows it. After filming was over, speculation about the two of them fell off completely. According to the media, she and I managed to hook up a couple of times—rather unreasonable given the fact that we haven’t been in the same city since filming ended.

There won’t be any drinking games tonight in light of Virgil’s edict against hangovers. Everyone is relaxed and nostalgic, knowing that after this one night, there will be a few high profile premiers in May and that will be it. Even if any of us work together in the future, it will never be this group again.

Graham comes in, folding his legs and settling on the floor between Brooke and Emma. “Hey, Emma,” he says.

“Hi.” She returns the smile and looks away, listening to the discussion between the others. Nothing else passes between them that I see.

“Maybe they’ll want a sequel,” MiShaun says. “Will and Lizbeth get married and settle down to a life of brooding, bookishness and boredom.”