WILL ADJUSTS HIMSELF, SITTING UP, AS IF HE’S REALLY about to audition for something. He clears his throat, then reads as Jenkins:
“‘Wow. Look at that . . . asset.’”
I’ve turned to the same scene my mom and I had read in the kitchen, but we have the version where we see the back of the girl bending over and waxing her board.
“Go on,” Will says. “Your line. Say it like you mean it.”
“‘You’re an animal, Jenkins,’” I say, sounding like my mom when she read the line to me.
“‘Well, yes, by definition. I am an animal.’” Will looks at me and winks. “‘And so are you.’”
I smile back, even though I’m not supposed to. I’m supposed to be disgusted. I look back at the script. A local surfer is coming out of the water, his ripped body glistening. My character takes the binoculars from Jenkins and looks at the surfer.
“‘Yes, I guess I am,’” I say.
Seen through the binoculars, the girl is standing now. She stretches before going out into the surf. She twists and reaches and bends and is very flexible.
“‘I guess it’s your turn,’” I say as Samantha, and pantomime handing him the binoculars. Samantha looks down at the book on her lap and feels his gaze. He isn’t looking at the hot girl in her bikini. He’s looking at her.
“‘What?’” I say, and feel what Samantha is feeling—a kind of flushed yet empowered kick.
Will says, “‘Nothing, I . . .’”
“‘What?’” I say. “‘Spit it out.’”
“‘It’s just been nice hanging with you, that’s all. I know at work we’ve been all over each other, our egos colliding and—’”
“‘No, no, no,’” I say, liking our timing and rhythm. “‘Your ego colliding with your own ego and sending shrapnel into everyone’s hearts.’”
In the script, Samantha looks shy after saying this. The word heart was too much.
I take a breath, get my emotions under control. It doesn’t say she does this, but it feels right. “‘Our heads, I mean.’” I tap my head, improvising. Will, or Jenkins, sits up a bit, pulls away.
“‘Now, that’s no way to speak to your elder.’”
He’s kidding, but his voice has softened.
Will is good at this, or we’re good at this together. It’s almost easier this way, and I wish I always had a script at hand. I feel like myself even though I’m not myself. I’ve warmed to the script as well, as if saying the words out loud not only brings Samantha to life, but makes Jenkins more likable. More than that. As Samantha, I want his attention.
“‘I know what you mean,’” I say. “‘About hanging out. It’s nice to get out of the so-called office.’”
“‘I don’t mean to be a jerk in there,’” he says. “‘Is that what people think?’”
I put my hand on Will’s leg, then take it off as if it burned me.
It’s what Samantha does in the script, and yet it’s what I would have done if I were her too, and I even probably feel the way she’s supposed to feel—embarrassed but good, and needing a response, needing him to say something to erase the awkwardness and fill the silence. Then I realize it’s my turn. It’s my line.
“‘I take it back,’” I say.
Will laughs. “‘You can’t take it back.’”
“‘No, but I do.’” I glance at the next line, then look at Will as I say it.
“‘You should act exactly how you do in there. That’s what makes you a great surgeon.’” I look back down and read, “So whatever you’re doing, or however you’re behaving, it works, in the long run.’”
Samantha turns to him, and Jenkins looks back at her.
“‘It works?’” he says. “And there’s a long run?’”
“‘It works,’” I say. “‘And there’s always a long run.’” And then he kisses me. Will kisses me, and I kiss back. Our lips are parted, our tongues touch, and I wonder if it will turn—
“‘Sorry,’” he says. “‘I shouldn’t have.’”
“It’s okay,” I say. “That was . . .” I look at his lips and let my sentence trail off because I can’t think of anywhere it could go. My body is working overtime—my head grasping for coherent thoughts, my heart walloping me from the inside. I feel a connection like a string running from my stomach to down between my legs. The string is taut and keeps being pulled.
“I guess we should call it a scene,” Will says, looking down at me.
“Sounds like a good plan,” I say, relieved by the steadiness of my voice. It will be okay. It’s better than okay. This is a good kind of crazy.
“That was fun,” he says, his voice light. I realize what a good actor he is, how his Jenkins voice and demeanor were so different from his own. He inhabited the character so well that I wonder if, when I actually see it on television, I’ll be able to believe in that version. Ours was so real. It’s then that I realize the possibility of something, which gives me the feeling of being on an airplane that's dropping from turbulence.
Will gets up. “It got beautiful out,” he says, and goes to the edge of the lanai, looking out at the ocean. “Look at that light.”
I don’t look at the light. I look down at the script, at Jenkins kissing Samantha, then pulling back and saying, “Sorry. I shouldn’t have . . .”
I had said, “It’s okay,” but Samantha says, “You’re damn right you shouldn’t have,” then gets up and walks away.
Will turns back toward me, and I flip the script over.
“Do you know when Whitney’s going to be home?” I ask. Anything to squash my mortification.
“No,” he says. He walks toward me, and I hold my breath. I wish I could get off this damn bed, or at least adjust my position.
“I have to go,” I say. “Write a paper.”
This is so awful. So good. It’s gawful.
“All right, then,” he says.
I stand up to leave.
“Let me know if you ever need to rehearse again,” he says, turning his head.
I grin, then look up to a face that tells me it’s all good. It’s wonderful.
“Practice makes perfect,” I say.