Good at Being Alive(19)

He nods. “Well, that or wizarding attire. But I’m not sure why you think I’d give you the bed. I imagine you’ve discerned by now that I’m not much of a gentleman.”

There’s a hint of a growl to his voice as he says “not much of a gentleman.” I’d have thought nothing of it before that kiss. Now it’s got my thighs clenching. “Well, obviously I’m the star of the show.”

He raises a brow. “How do you figure?”

“I lost three people, so my story is more tragic.”

“My mother has skin cancer,” he says. “I mean, it’s the common kind and entirely curable, but you never know.”

“Ah. Well, if she dies, your story would be more tragic than it currently is, but still not as tragic as mine.”

He laughs as he closes his eyes and leans his head back against the seat. “I’m glad we’ve found a way to make even our grief competitive.”



* * *



? ? ?

He sleeps soundly for most of the flight. I know this because I spend several hours staring at him.

He has tiny flecks of silver along his jawline, which of course leads me to examine his dark brown hair, where I also note the occasional gray. It occurs to me for the first time that while I’m far too young to be married in real life…he’s the perfect age.

Is he just not interested in marriage? Or is he waiting on that girl, the “complicated” one?

When we land, he’s adorably sleepy, unfolding his long frame and rising to get our bags. I’m cranky, swaying with exhaustion and bitterly cold. My teeth are chattering by the time we get in line for customs, and we’re not even outside yet.

“You’re cold?” he asks. “It’s seventy degrees in here.”

I shrug. “It’s just a thing that happens when I’m tired. It’s called downregulation. Under stress, your body starts shutting down to prioritize the most necessary functions.”

He sighs heavily, as if exasperated by the way my body is doing exactly what it’s meant to. “If only all that useless trivia you know could have helped you back when you were in school,” he says. “You might have finished your degree.”

“Ouch. Jessie? Is that you?” I ask, poking him. “Are you controlling Theo’s body? Make him punch himself in the junk so I know for sure.”

He laughs. “Were you always this strange?”

“Pretty much,” I reply. “But the dead family doesn’t help.”

Our passports are stamped, and then we walk side by side down a long, hardwood-floored hall toward the exit. I mentally prepare myself for the first moments of filming. Lars warned us that the crew will be waiting just inside the front doors and will be shooting as we approach.

“You saw the text from Lars?” he grunts.

A real couple talks and holds hands, Lars added in case it was unclear.

My shoulders sag. “I did.”

With the heaviest of sighs, his massive hand folds around mine, and we continue toward the exit.

I glance up. “What should we talk about?”

He shakes his head. “You’ve never been at a loss for words before, Rebecca.”

I can see the crew assembled, just in front of the glass doors. The cameraman is approaching with a lighting guy moving alongside him. The crowd parts and turns to see what all the fuss is about.

I force myself to smile. We aren’t wearing mics, so it doesn’t really matter what I say, as long as I manage to make him uncomfortable. “I think I’m about to explode from lack of sex. I never travel with a vibrator because I’m worried TSA will—”

“I swear to god, Rebecca, if you continue down this path, I’ll—”

“Refuse to perform your marital duties?” I ask. “You’re already doing that.”

“I could start,” he says, and for the briefest second as he glances down at me there’s a flash of something in his gaze. The same thing I saw after our wedding-day kiss.

That weird muscle at the base of my stomach, one I didn’t even know existed until a few weeks ago, squeezes tight.

“You wish,” I reply, but it’s pretty halfhearted.

The cameraman moves backward as we approach, and I wonder what that interaction just looked like. If we appeared to be bickering, or if we looked like a couple who were dying to fuck.

It kind of felt like it was both those things.

We push through the doors, and I blink at Iceland’s weak early April light. It’s surreal—daylight when my body still insists it’s the middle of the night. I’m not as tired as I was inside but I’m not entirely myself either. We are loaded into a van, where a driver has coffee and croissants waiting for us. I shove a croissant in my mouth pretty much whole, and then chug the coffee, dribbling some down the front of my jacket.

“You eat like someone in a contest,” Theo says with disdain, returning his coffee to the cupholder. I’m too fatigued to come up with a way to insult him in turn.

Lars pops his head in to introduce the people he’s brought with him in the van behind ours—an unusually small crew, as the situation demanded it: the fewer people who know this is fake, the better. “I’ll be directing, as you know, and Paula is the assistant director, so she handles all logistics. LJ is the cinematographer, Jon is on sound, and Sean is assistant camera, DIT, and grip when we need lighting.”