“Like how?”
“You have to actively think about something real from your own life—something true—that makes you feel sad. You have to go there mentally and feel those feelings until the tears come.”
“That sounds hard.”
“It is. But the alternative is messing up the shot, so you’re motivated.”
“What if you just can’t cry?”
Jack looked at me like he was assessing if I could handle the answer. “If you just can’t cry, there’s a stick.”
“A stick?”
“Yeah. The makeup folks rub it under your eyes, and it makes your eyes water. Like onions.”
“That sounds like cheating.”
“It’s totally cheating. And everybody knows you’re cheating because they just watched it happen. And they’re judging you. And that makes it all even harder.”
“Vicious cycle,” I said, like Been there.
“Exactly. But I have another trick.”
“What’s that?”
“Don’t blink.”
I blinked.
“That’s the trick,” Jack said. “Just don’t blink.”
“You mean just hold your eyelids open in a stare?”
“Be subtle about it—but, yeah. If your eyes start to dry out, they’ll water. Then, presto. Tears.”
“How do you do that without looking weird?”
“How do you do anything without looking weird?”
“Wait,” I said. “Tell me you did not do that for The Destroyers.”
Jack clamped his mouth shut.
I leaned closer. “Tell me that when The Destroyer is weeping for an entire lost universe and it’s one of the most moving moments in the history of cinema that he did not just have … dry eyeballs.”
“No comment.”
“Oh my God! You’re a monster!”
“You asked,” Jack said.
I stared at him.
Then he squinted at me. “You know I’m not really The Destroyer, right?”
“Of course.” Mostly.
“That was a movie.”
“I know that.”
“I was paid to act in it. It wasn’t real.”
But I was still processing. “Should I be mad at you right now?”
But Jack was moving on. “No,” he said, rotating toward me on the log. “You should be admiring me.” He swung his leg over the tree trunk, so he was astride it, swatting at my knee for me to do the same, until we were facing each other, knees touching. “Okay,” he said, leaning in. “First one to cry wins.”
“What are you doing?”
“I’m teaching you how to cry.”
“I don’t need help with that.”
“How to fake cry. It comes in surprisingly handy. Just think of it as a staring contest.”
“I don’t want to have a staring contest.”
“Too late.”
I gave him a short sigh of capitulation.
“Come on, come on,” Jack said, waving me closer.
Fine. I leaned forward a little.
Jack leaned forward, too.
And then we were staring at each other, noses a few inches apart—not blinking. The air between us felt strangely silky.
And when it got too intense, I said, “I’ve heard there’s a scientific thing that if you look into someone’s eyes for too long, you’ll fall in love.”
Jack looked away.
Noted.
Then he looked back. “Don’t mess me up. Starting over.”
After a little longer, I said, “My eyes are starting to sting.”
“That’s good. Lean into that. In sixty seconds, you’ll be a professional actress.”
“It’s not … comfortable.”
“Excellence never is.”
I should appreciate this moment, I thought. I was here, in person, with Jack Stapleton—the Jack Stapleton—in the midmorning light, drinking in the contours of his in-real-life face. The crinkles at his eyes. The stubble of his not-yet-shaven jaw. By tomorrow, I’d only ever see him again on screens. Remember this, I told myself. Pay attention.
“No cheating,” Jack said then.
“How would I even cheat?”
“If you don’t know, I’m not telling you.”
“You’re trying to win this, aren’t you?”
“Of course.”
“I thought you were just teaching me.”
“Have to keep it interesting.”
It was already interesting, but okay.
“And don’t make me laugh,” Jack said, all stern.