"You're also really squirrely," he adds with a laugh that makes his shoulders shake.
"Squirrely?" The word hangs in the air between us, foreign and ridiculous. I can feel my eyebrows pulling together.
"Yeah." Vince's grin widens, that boyish expression that has been making my stomach flip for days. "You bounce your leg a lot when you're waiting. Like, right now, actually." He nods toward my leg, which I hadn't even realized is bouncing with restless energy. "You should carry a book around to keep your mind busy." He halts, his voice dropping to a whisper. "But then again, I doubt books are your thing."
"I read," I say, a little too defensively. The words feel clumsy in my mouth. "But only before bed. Carrying a book would just be... distracting."
"What do you read?" Vince asks, his eyes lighting up with a curiosity that feels genuine.
The question hangs between us, an invitation I'm not sure I should accept.
Before I can think better of it, I find myself answering, and then Vince is sharing too—talking about the worn paperback he keeps in his trailer, the one with pages so soft they feel like fabric against his skin. We slip into a conversation that flows as naturally as breathing, swapping stories about growing up in cold, rural places, about hockey games played on frozen ponds,about snow days that feel like gifts from heaven. He speaks of his children, of the separation from his wife he terms "complicated." I don't press.
Time dissolves around us, the studio sounds fading into background noise as we lose track of the minutes stretching into an hour. Someone finally calls his name, urgent and insistent, pulling us back to reality.
As he turns to leave, he throws me a grin over his shoulder. "The marriage thing is a long story, but also none of your goddamn business."
I roll my eyes, failing to suppress a smile that spreads across my face before I can stop it. "I didn't ask."
Vince grins wider before walking off, leaving me reeling.
"Hey, Vince," I call impulsively, the words tumbling out before I can stop them.
He stops mid-stride and turns back, his expression curious, head tilted slightly to one side.
"Maybe we could grab lunch tomorrow, during our break?"
Vince pauses for a moment that stretches into eternity, his face unreadable. Then a slow smile spreads across his face as he gives me a thumbs up before disappearing with the guy who has been shouting his name.
I stand there, frozen in place, the studio suddenly feeling too bright, too loud.
All night, I replay the interaction in my head, each moment dissected and analyzed until the details blur together. Vince is older, separated but married, and impossible to read. But one thing becomes crystal clear through the fog of uncertainty: I'm going to go for it, whatever "it" might be.
Chapter 5
The Seven-Eleven Sunglasses
Andrew
Myfingerspickatthe cuff of my shirt, the soft fabric worn smooth from years of anxious twisting. I sit ramrod straight in the uncomfortable folding chair, eyes darting across the bustling studio lot, searching for a familiar silhouette that refuses to appear.
12:10. Ten minutes late.
The seeds of doubt, planted hours ago, are beginning to sprout thorny vines around my heart.
Have I completely misinterpreted his gesture? That thumbs-up last night—maybe it was for someone behind me, some crew member I hadn't noticed. Maybe I imagined the whole thing,built it up into something significant in my head while Vince had already forgotten our conversation. My hands return to my sleeves, tugging, pulling, seeking some small comfort in the repetitive motion. Five more minutes. That's all I'll give him before slinking away, defeated.
Fidgeting. Old habit resurfacing with a vengeance.
I try to go easy on myself, remembering the words of my therapist back in Fairbanks. I remember how fear can only be overcome by walking straight through it, feeling every nerve-ending scream in protest. All this nervous energy has to go somewhere, right?
My hands flatten atop each other on the table, but they won't stay still.
What is wrong with them? Why can't I get them to behave?
Why have my hands always been such traitors, broadcasting my anxiety to anyone who cares to look?
I cross my legs, resting my hands on my knee, and take a slow, steadying breath. Within seconds, my leg begins its familiar restless bounce. I give up, a sigh escaping my lips. Vince was right about that, at least. A book would keep my hands busy, my mind occupied. Anything to stop this constant, betraying motion.
