Page 41 of Take 2
“Mhmm.”
It’s worth it to missfinallybeing right about best picture. Yachting on the Mediterranean can’t possibly have anything on how I spend the eighty-sixth Academy Awards.
Chapter Sixteen
Theheadacheismild,but I take a couple of aspirin in case it wants to develop into something worse. The bigger problem is that I don’t know how much of an idiot I was last night. I’m alone in this bed, so I’m guessing not too bad. I roll my neck and pop my hair up into a pony with my trusty green scrunchie. Once my teeth are brushed, my face is relatively presentable, and I put on the perfect billowy blouse with my twill chinos, I knock on the door that separates me from Preston.
“It’s open.”
“Good morning,” I say as I walk in.
One sleeve is already rolled up nearly to his elbow, and he works on the other one. “How are you feeling today?”
“Mostly concerned about how stupid I was last night.”
“Not sure I’d be a good judge.” He completes his Sperry model look and glances up at me with a grin on his lips. “You look great.”
“Thank you.”
He holds the door open for me, and we make our way out. This time, we hop into a rental car since, ideally, we won’t be getting drunk while Preston is working. Of course, it’s not just a rental car. It’s a luxury convertible because this is what we do now. The wind blows loose strands across my sunglasses, and I watch historic and modern buildings alike blur by.
“Glad you’re making use of that scrunchie.”
I turn to face him. “It’s a reminder that I need to beat you one of these years. I plan to shoot it at you when I go up to accept my Oscar.”
“Why do you like to pretend I wouldn’t be happy for you?”
“Because I’m still angry at you for two years ago.” My attempt to be a good sport and have a celebratory drink with him the first time I lost to Preston will forever be seared into my brain.
“You may not have responded, but I know you got my apologies.”
I shrug.
“I thought we were starting fresh with a clean slate now?” he says.
“You thought a second loss to you would do that? Interesting.”
“First of all, I wanted you to win that one. Both, really. But this year? So bad. Secondly, I thought your success and experience would, in fact, put us on a different footing than when Lisa introduced us five years ago.”
Words evade me. I tap my knee until his hand covers mine.
“Please, Mira. I’m trying.”
My fingers itch to spread out and let his weave between them. I look up to find his focus on the road before him. His jaw is clenched, and part of me wants to stroke my fingers along it to relax him. “I just don’t know what it is you’retryingto accomplish.”
We park, and he squeezes my hand. “I guess the first thing is to get you to stop hating me.”
“I obviously don’thateyou.” As much as I’d like to.
“Great. One thing off the list.” He gets out of the car, and I sigh, wondering what else is on the list.
The parking lot is full of much nicer cars than ours, and the marina we walk up to has rows of yachts that have to cost more than most of my movies. The one we get on is moderately small amongst some of the giants. It’s sleek and white with three outdoor decks where the film crew bustles around.
We pass by craft services on a lower deck and go up to the bow where Rafael Medina is talking to some cameramen. He waves when he spots us, and after he finishes that conversation, he approaches us with a wide smile. “Preston, glad you could make it out here.”
They shake hands, and Preston says, “This isn’t the kind of shoot anyone wants to miss.”
“Indeed.” Rafael gestures to the azure water reaching out to the horizon with sunshine glittering on its surface like fairy dust. “And you brought the most interesting guest possible. Mirabelle, it’s such a pleasure to finally meet you.” He rolls the “R” and makes my name sound sultry with the Spanish pronunciation.
