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Her brows lift as her glasses slip down the bridge of her nose, a mile-wide smile on her face. “Really? Oh that’s so great, Cohen is so sweet.”
“It’s not like, anything though,” I quickly add, because the idea of Cohen walking in this room and overhearing me describe him as my boyfriend is so cringe it makes me want to tear my skin off.
“What do you guys do?” she asks, her focus on the metal rack loaded with bagged pussies. This building is full of shocking things, and it’s funny to me that a locking chest full of pocket pussies doesn’t even garner a second glance from either of us.
“We went to coffee twice. He’s come to my place once. And we hung out at his place a couple of nights ago.” I smile at her, the back of my nose suddenly burning. “He bought me cupcakes. He makes sure I lock the door. He hasn’t made a move on me. He’s just… so sweet and kind.”
Vienna smiles, the ends of her hair curling around the button on her overalls strap. “Just because he hasn’t made a move yet doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to.” She unties the apron at the back of her neck, and then again at her tailbone, then slips it off over her head. “It was hard for you at Jizzabelle, right? I mean, I’m sorry—” she winces a little, like she’s spilled the beans. But the truth is, I always assumed the gossip made it here. “I was just gonna say, I’ve heard that Jizzabelle and their director really mistreated you.”
“Pete Bryson is the director and my ex. He was very traumatizing on many levels, yes,” I say, making sure my voice doesn’t give over to a waver. I keep my chin high.
“Well,” Vienna says, returning her focus to the sink where she turns the water back on, plugging the bottom of the basin. “Maybe Cohen is moving slow because he knows—”
“I’m damaged?” I interject, laughing a little, silently wincing at the truth.
“Not what I was going to say!” Vienna giggles, flipping a dark braid over her shoulder to her back. “I was going to say, he’s likely moving slow because he knows Pete is your ex and can assume since Pete’s a total shithead, that he treated you like shit, too.”
“You know what,” I say, my words vibrating with raw truth. “I hope you’re right. And I can’t believe I’m moving on already. I didn’t expect this to happen. But I’m feeling things I really thought I’d lost forever.”
“I love that for you so much,” she beams, wearing a genuine smile.
The timer sounds and while we wait for the mold to set, Vienna cleans up the entire work room. Putting a new pair of gloves on, she comes between my spread legs, running her finger up and down the sides of the devices. Pretty soon, it suctions and releases me, and she pulls the toy off, leaving a towel in my hand.
I clean up while she double checks everything is cleaned up and turned off, and we head out into the hall together.
“I need to grab my stuff from my dressing room,” I say, hooking my thumb over my shoulder in the other direction.
Vienna peers up and down the hall. “I don’t think anyone is here. Want me to go with you?”
I shake my head, waving her off. There are cameras surrounding this place, and you need an ID card to get in. And minus the twenty minute stint yesterday morning, Pete’s calls have slowed down some.
Things are getting better. I’m fucking manifesting that.
“No, it’s fine, seriously. Go home, tell Tuck I said hi,” I say, having not seen Tucker in a few weeks. Because I do so much solo work, I often film in the pocket hours, the time between core takes.
She pulls me into a hug, and right then it occurs to me.
“We’re friends,” I say, waving a finger between us, probably looking completely insane, bouncing a little on the balls of my feet, eyes wide.
But Vienna matches my energy, shaking her head. “Yes!” she squeals, “Of course we’re friends. I think of you as a friend.”
I pull her into me, practically smothering her. She laughs with me, and I totally see why Tucker is so completely enamored.
Letting her free so that she doesn’t start to wish she had someone to walk her out, I explain myself. Because, she is my friend after all.
“My therapist said I needed to make a friend and open up to them. And I thought I was doing that with Cohen. And… I was, I mean, I am. But it feels very controlled with him. Like I’m choosing when to share, what to share. You know? But in there,” I motion to the space we just left. “I told you how I feel about Cohen. I told you I’m seeing him. And I didn’t really measure words. It just… came out. Easily.” I sigh as she beams back at me, clearly clued into the subtext. “I made a friend, I’m not damaged and Pete was most certainly wrong,” I say, hearing the words I’ve said to myself a million times, but today, feeling them with my whole fucking chest.
Vienna leans in, her eyes narrowing in intensity as she snarls, “Fuck Pete.”
I stick out a closed fist, and we bump knuckles. She heads out, and I hear the door chirp as it locks behind her. After getting my bag from my dressing room and throwing on my favorite hoodie and sweatpants, I slip out into the hall, eager to leave. Eager to go home and… see what Cohen is doing.
But I stop in my tracks at the end of the hall, hypnotized by the neon light in the corner of the studio. In front of it, a beautiful silhouette of blurred darkness, Cohen stands, arms up, tying off a cord that swings from a boom arm.
I look around at the stagnant life around us; the untouched set with a bed ruffled from sex, cameras with shiny lenses exposed, screens dark, waiting for a story to be told. Everything in this studio is on pause until tomorrow. Except us.
“Hey,” I say, my quiet voice carrying through the empty space easily. Cohen falls to his heels, letting his arms lower to his sides as he faces me.
“Hey.”
