David doesn’t expect anyone, and he expects her least of
all.
“Gillian?” He’s buzzed her in; he’s had a minute,
almost two, to prepare himself for her arrival. Seeing her now in front of him,
where he lives, he feels like his two worlds collide, finally. They’re friendly
enough on set. David likes her. She’s funny and she’s ambitious; she screws up a
lot. Just thinking about having to whisper into her ear that she’s not on the
right mark puts a smile on his face.
“I swear it was sunny when I left!” She shakes her
head like a wet dog and it’s only now that David takes in her appearance. She’s
soaking wet, her clothes dripping on the carpet in the hallway. He grabs her
shoulder and ushers her inside.
“I’m all wet,” she complains and he
bites his tongue; this is not the time for a lewd joke. Gillian runs her hands
over her face and David is taken aback. He knows she’s young, younger than him
anyway, but fuck. She’s beautiful. She’s wearing no make-up and he can spot a few
stubborn freckles on her nose, on her cheeks.
“Fuck this hair,” she grumbles, momentarily
distracting him from her face. She tries to smooth the frizzy locks of hair.
David chuckles and can’t stop himself from reaching out, tugging one damp strand
behind her ear. Her mouth opens as though she wants to stop him, or say
something, but no words leave her lips. She just stares up at him with her big,
blue eyes that he’s come to depend on these last few months. He reads them
easily. It’s as if she were a language only he understood, only the two of them
spoke. He’s never experienced anything like this before. Once, years ago, a
director told him that even if you hate your co-stars, you have to make it
happen. Make the audience believe you love each other, that you have a long
history with each other. With Gillian, he feels, it’s no effort. It just
happens. It’s just there.
“You need to get out of these wet clothes.”
“I came here to read lines,” Gillian says as if
apologizing. “I thought we could… you said you didn’t mind.” He nods
slowly, remembering. Chris, as well as several directors have been short with
her lately, have told her to step up her game. So he’s offered to run lines
with her to make it easier for her. For him, too. This is her first big gig.
The least he can do is help her out. For better or worse, they’re in this
together. David doesn’t see the show lasting. It’s too silly, too out there. He
glances at her as she runs her fingers through her hair, as droplets of rain
fall to the floor. Soon she’ll be out of his life again, possibly. The thought
gives him pause.
“I don’t mind.” His voice cracks and he clears his
throat. He’s not some lanky, awkward teenager. “You need to get out of
these wet clothes, though.” Gillian sighs, pouts at him and nods.
“Wait here.” David says to her and disappears into
his bedroom. There should be clothes from Perrey here somewhere, but he can’t
find them. He grabs his old Yale t-shirt knowing it’s clean and a pair of
boxers. They’ll fit her – at least he hopes they will.
“Here you go. The bathroom is right over there.”
Gillian takes the clothes from him and mouths a thank you. David doesn’t mean
to listen, but what else is he supposed to do? This is his apartment and yet he
feels like the stranger, the one who came for a visit. He stuffs his hands in
his pockets and waits for her reemerge. There’s the sound of rustling behind
the closed door. He hears a muffled ‘fuck’ and chuckles. She looks so innocent
with her tiny stature, with her winning smile and her freckles. Then she starts
talking, starts swearing like a sailor. David loves it.
The bathroom door creaks open and David swallows hard as he
sees her, his mouth suddenly dry. She tugs at the boxers which end mid thigh
and giggles.
“I, uhm, put my clothes up to dry.” Gillian
searches his eyes and he has trouble not letting them drift lower.
“They’re all ruined. Even my underwear.” Oh how he wishes she hadn’t
said that. He licks his lips quickly, his eyes darting down. Her breasts strain
against his t-shirt and he has to stop himself from not touching them, her. He
doesn’t allow his eyes to wander any further, or his thoughts.
“Sure,” he stammers, “so lines, huh? Let’s go
check out what Chris wants us to talk about.” It’s a habit to put his hand
on the small of her back. She feels warm against him now and he reminds himself
not to think. Do not think about her not wearing a bra. She sits on his couch,
her legs under her. Do not think about her not wearing underwear, he tells
himself.
“Do you need anything?” David asks. His own
clothes feel too tight, as does his throat. She looks up at him, one hand in
her hair, the other browsing through the script.
“No, I’m good. Come on, sit down, David.” There’s a
smile on her face and David can’t move. She laughs, what a wondrous sound, and
pats the free space next to her. She lifts an eyebrow at him. He’s never seen
it before. There’s a challenge sparkling in her eyes. David blinks, but the
moment remains what it is.
“You look like a wet dog,” he says and she’s quiet
for a second before she starts giggling. David watches her, unable to look away.
“It’s my fucking hair,” she says.
“I like it.” He doesn’t know when he joined her on
the couch. He’s just there, so is she. David catches a strand of her hair
between two fingers. It feels so soft. It smells like rain and also like her.
He thinks of the first episode, of meeting her. Standing in the rain with her,
trying again and again to get the scene right. Outside the rain hammers against
the windows and inside, his heart does the same against his ribs. David looks
at her, she looks at him. There’s a smile on her face, confident. She has no
idea. Up until two minutes ago, he didn’t either. He tucks the strand of hair
behind her ear. His finger grazes the shell and she sighs; he doubt she even
notices. What would she do if he touched her cheeks, her lips? Her neck? Her breasts?
What if he carried her into his bedroom? What then? What-
“Let’s try this scene. What do you think?” David
startles. “I don’t know how to play it.” Gillian points at it and his
eyes follow her finger. He sees words, but they don’t register. As his eyes
meet hers again, he knows he’s screwed. This show might not last. They might be
done in a couple of months. No more night shoots. No more Gillian showing up unexpectedly.
She has no idea, none at all. When did this happen, he wonders as he nods and
she starts talking in her Scully voice. When did he fall for his freckle-faced
co-star?
Just Holding Hands 