Good For You

“they’l stil keep tabs on you.”

An idea pops into my head. I throw it out there, and imagine her chewing her lower lip while she deliberates.

Just when I’m sure she’s bound to say no, Dori Cantrel surprises the hel out of me again.

***

I answer on the first ring and she says, “I’m here,” her earlier conviction al but gone.

I don’t give her the chance to slip from doubt to regret.

“Cool. I just hit the gate remote.”

“Okay. It’s opening now.” She’s definitely panicking.

“Reid, maybe I—”

Oh no you don’t. “Pul in and park al the way to the right, I’l be right out.”

My bright idea: If we don’t actual y go out, the paparazzi wil have no way to photograph us together. Sadly, that’s as far as I got with the devious plotting, and this wil only last as long as we can occupy ourselves inside my house. I’m trying not to think about the activities with which I’d most like to occupy her time.

“Hey,” I say. Her Honda is at least ten years old. The door squeaks when she opens it, and her mouth twists almost imperceptibly. Glancing behind me at the multi-bay garage that could possibly contain her entire house, she’s speechless. Her eyes range over the rest of the place and I imagine it from her perspective. I want to impress her, sure, but there’s a difference between impressing and intimidating. I take her hand and push the car door closed.

“Stick-shift, huh? Sick.” I’ve never met a girl who can drive a stick. That is unbelievably hot. Down, boy.

Pul ing her hand from mine, she swings her bag onto her shoulder and tucks her hair behind her ear on one side.

“Yeah, my dad loves manual transmissions for some reason, and we share the car, so I kind of had no choice.” She’s stil staring at the back of my parents’ house.

Hands in my pockets, I ask her to fol ow and turn to walk inside. It’s like a reverse of our very first interaction, right after I convinced her of what a complete dick I was by scanning her from top to bottom. I wonder if she walked into the Diego house that day wishing I’d just go away, or worried that I might not fol ow, like I’m worrying now that she’l abandon the whole idea of spending the evening here, get back in her car and peel down the long driveway.

Immaculada left dinner in the warmer as I requested, and I admit that no, I didn’t cook any of it, though I’m surprisingly skil ed at table-setting. We eat in the kitchen, and I tel her about the two projects I’m comparing, both filming next fal . I can’t do both, but I can’t decide which one to reject.

“Ignore the critical regard thing for a minute,” she says.

“Because honestly, I’m not convinced you care so much about that.” We’ve pushed our empty plates to the center of the table, and her legs are folded into her chair, one knee poking up. She fixes me with an earnest, direct look, one elbow on the table as she leans forward. “When you talk about the first one, your eyes light up. Like they could almost not pay you to do it, and you’d stil want to.” God, she reads me easily sometimes. “They will pay me, though. A lot.” I get up to make coffee.

“Does that make you feel guilty about wanting to do it?

Not tortured artist enough for you?” Her voice is teasing, and right next to me. She’s brought the dishes to the sink. If I don’t stop her, I bet she’l wash them, too.

I take the plates from her, set them on the counter.

“People in my business crave recognition. It’s in our natures

—it’s why we step on stage, get in front of cameras. We want admiration, approval. We want to be the best at what we do. And Oscars say ‘You’re the best’ like nothing else in the film industry does.”

I push the button and the coffee maker grinds the beans, empties them into the coned filter and starts to brew. I lean against the counter and she leans next to me. “Okay,” she says. “Imagine you have one of those golden guys. He’s sitting on your mantel. Your talents have been recognized by your peers, and al manner of critical acclaim is yours.

From now on, you’l be solicited to do more of the same type of work, al the time. How do you feel about that?”

“Bored,” I answer, surprising myself. She smiles at me like my dad did the first time I tied my shoes by myself.

Mom tried, but Dad had the bunny-running-round-the-hole trick in his arsenal. He taught me to use chopsticks and floss and do long division, too. Somewhere after that, we lost each other. The first time Mom failed out of rehab, maybe.

“Reid?” Dori’s head is cocked to the side, a smal crease in her forehead.

“Sorry.” I blink the memories away, turn to pour the coffee. “Let’s go watch a movie. I’l let you pick.”

“What about something of yours?”

“God, no. I hate to watch myself onscreen.” I own copies of everything I’ve ever done, but I only watch them alone, the way an athlete might use game footage as a training tool.

Like an athlete, I think some of the footage is genius… and some is so atrocious that if I could destroy every known copy, I would.

“Real y? I always thought that was something you actors just say. That secretly you watch yourselves and think Oh, man, look at me. I’m so brilliant.”

“You caught me,” I chuckle at how close she comes to the sometimes-truth. Narrowing my gaze, I smirk and lift one eyebrow like a classic vil ain. “Although, I am so bloody bril iant,” I say in my best pseudo-English-aristocrat, and am rewarded with a laugh and the ear I can see darkening to an unanticipated shade of rose. Hmm.