Chapter 6: I couldn’t sleep
The bar set was too quiet. It was the unnatural hush of sixty people holding their breath. The lights were a physical warmth on Joseph’s skin, a fake amber sunset trapped in rigging. He adjusted the cuff of his shirt, a simple, worn plaid, and stared at a water stain on the faux-wooden bar top that looked a little too real.
Madelyn was already in position, her back to him, a silhouette against the painted brick wall. She was stirring an empty glass, the ice cubes inside clicking a hollow, rhythmic sound.
“Sound speeding,” a voice called from the darkness beyond the lights.
“Marker.”
“And… action.”
Joseph took a breath. He let the noise of the crew, the glare, the cables snaking across the floor, all dissolve into a blank hum. He walked into the frame, his footsteps echoing slightly on the hollow stage floor. He let his gaze wander, a man killing time, until it landed on her.
He walked over, the distance shrinking in three long strides.
“Sarah?”
She turned. The light caught her eyes, turning them crystalline. A flicker of genuine surprise—the kind they’d practiced, but now it was tinged with something else, a recognition that went deeper than the script. Her lips parted.
“Asher?” The question was quiet, a little breathless. She stood up, the stool scraping.
“It’s good to see you.”
Then they were moving into the hug. His hands found her waist, the familiar curve through her soft knit sweater. Her arms went around his shoulders, pulling him down. He felt her exhale against his neck, a warm, shaky breath. It lasted a half-second longer than it should have. He could feel the faint tremor in her hands where they clasped behind his back. His own fingers pressed into the dress at her sides, holding on just a beat too long.
They pulled away. The air between them felt charged, thick.
“God, you look amazing, Sarah,” he said. His voice was lower, softer than he’d intended.
She smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. There was a vulnerability there, a slight pinch at the corners. “Always the charmer, Asher.” She gave a playful roll of her eyes, the gesture somehow fragile. “You look amazing yourself.”
They sat. The chairs were too close together. Their knees almost touched under the small table.
“What’re we drinking?” he asked, tapping the wood.
She peered into her own empty prop glass. “Anything. I got stood up.” She said it lightly, but her thumb was rubbing a condensation ring.
“You got stood up?” He leaned forward, the scripted concern.
“Yeah. I was supposed to be on a date. He was a no-show.” She shrugged, looking away toward the dark void where the crew sat. Her profile was clean and sharp in the key light. “I’m so sick of trying to date.”
“It’s not fun,” he agreed. “Well, his loss. Whiskey?”
“His monumental loss,” she said, a real thread of bitterness weaving through the character’s breeziness. She met his eyes. “Make it a double.”
Sam’s voice cut through the scene from the monitors. “Cut! Good. Hold for a lighting tweak on Mads. The shadow’s a little deep.”
The lighting technician scurried onto the set, a black-clad ghost adjusting a stand. Madelyn didn’t move from her stool. She kept her eyes on the smudged glass in front of her, her fingers tracing the rim.
“Okay, Mads, just a slight fill from the left,” Sam’s voice crackled.
“That’s it. Back to your one, Joseph. Let’s pick it up from the whiskey line.”
They settled back into position. The air felt reused, stale. He tapped the table again. “His loss. “Whiskey?”
“Make it a double,” she said, the earlier rawness sanded down to something smoother, more performative. He poured two drinks from a the bottle, the liquid catching the light like amber honey.
The dialogue unspooled exactly as rehearsed in her trailer, “This place is a dive.”
Her retort, “They have character,” was met with her soft, genuine laugh. It echoed slightly in the quiet studio. The crew, sensing a rhythm, stayed silent.
Sam’s voice broke in again. “Great. Natural. We have the coverage. Reset for the dance floor.”
Joseph stood, his knees stiff. Madelyn slid off her stool, stretching her back with a slight wince. They didn’t look at each other. They were swept up in the migration to the next patch of stage, where a small square of parquet floor had been laid under a mirrored disco ball.
The atmosphere here was different. The lights were softer, colored—deep blues and purples that pooled on the floor. A faint track of synth-pop played from a speaker, just for mood. It was unbearably intimate.
A wardrobe assistant fluttered over, straightening Madelyn’s dress, dabbing a hint of powder on Joseph’s jaw. Their eyes met over the woman’s head. Madelyn’s were wide, almost apprehensive. He gave a tiny, imperceptible nod.
They took their places at the edge of the parquet. The crew faded into the darkness. The only sound was the tiny mood music and someone whispering into a headset.
Sam’s voice was calm, clear.
“Speed.”
“Marker.”
“3, 2, 1, and action.”
Joseph offered his hand, palm up. Madelyn looked at it, then placed her fingers in his, her touch cool. He drew her into the center of the coloured light, the disco ball fracturing their shadows into a dozen spinning pieces.
He turned her, a slow formal rotation that felt absurd. They were just swaying. His hand was a warm weight on the small of her back, right where his fingers had pressed last night. Her other hand rested lightly on his shoulder, her thumb unconsciously brushing the plaid fabric near his collarbone. The distance between their bodies was a careful, scripted inch.
"God, this music is terrible," she whispered, her voice barely a breath against his chest.
"Worse than the dive bar," he murmured into her hair. It smelled like the same vanilla from her trailer, not studio spray. They completed another stiff rotation. The crew was a wall of darkness, but he could feel the lenses, could almost hear the whir of the camera dollying in.
Sam’s voice was a quiet intrusion in their ears. “Let the movement get smaller. Just… exist in the space now. Forget the steps.”
Asher put his hands on her waist, spinning her around to face him. His hands cupped her cheeks. She tilted her head, her eyes closing for a moment, her breath hitching a tiny perfect sound. He leaned his head down and kissed her, his hands slid up her back pulling her closer. Her hands came to the nape of his neck.
There was no hiding the slight part of her lips, the way his fingers flexed against her spine, the shuddering breath she took through her nose. The silent set held the echo of it.
She pulled back. “Best friends don’t kiss, Asher.” she said. The line was a fragile thread.
“We could be each other’s distraction,” he said, his voice gravelly, his forehead still leaning against hers. His thumbs stroked her cheekbones. “No strings, no feelings. Just fun between best friends.”
“Fun between best friends…” She thought for a moment, her gaze dropping to his mouth then back up. Her lips were still damp from his. “...I like the sound of that.”
Her phone buzzed on the bar table. The prop sound was jarring. She walked over, her movements slightly unsteady, and picked up the lifeless plastic block. “I have to go, Asher.”
“I’ll see you soon.” He hadn’t moved from the patch of light.
They hugged. The boom mic descended on its silent pole, a sleek black bird of prey hovering just above their tangled hair.
She whispered in his ear, her lips touching his skin. “I accept your offer to be your distraction, whenever, wherever. So long as you do the same.”
He let out a groan, a low, visceral sound of relief and surrender that the sensitive mic captured perfectly. Whispering in her ear, his own lips brushing the delicate shell, he answered, “I look forward to it, Sarah.”
They pulled back from the hug and Sarah left the bar, walking out of the pool of light and into the welcoming darkness of the soundstage wings.
“And cut.”
“That was perfect.” Sam said, finally, his voice thick with something like awe. “Jesus. That’s the take. Print everything.”
“Great work, you two,” Sam said, clapping a hand on Joseph’s shoulder as he passed. “Seriously. That’s the kind of stuff that sells tickets.” The comment felt crude, reducing the marrow-deep ache in Joseph’s chest to a commodity. He just nodded, his throat too tight for words.
Madelyn was already walking away, headed toward the cavernous dark at the back of the soundstage where the exits were. She didn’t look back. Her retreat was efficient, a straight line. Someone offered her a bottle of water and she took it without breaking stride.
Joseph forced his own legs to move, following a different path past coiled cables and equipment cases. The air outside was a shock, cool and real, washing over the fake sweat and heat of the set. He filled his lungs with it, but it didn’t cleanse anything.
The walk to the trailers felt longer than usual. His black van was a dark lump under a sickly yellow security light. Her cream-colored one was already dark, the windows opaque. He imagined her inside, maybe sitting on her bed in the silence, staring at the same water stain on her ceiling he’d stared at last night.
He let himself into his own trailer. The quiet was immediate and heavy. He didn’t turn on more than one lamp. He tossed his keys onto the counter where they skittered and fell. The plaid shirt he’d worn, the one her fingers had brushed, felt contaminated now by the studio lights. He peeled it off and dropped it on the floor.
A shower did little to help. The water was too hot, then too cold. He toweled off roughly, pulled on clean sweatpants, and fell onto the unmade bed.
The thin pillow smelled like generic laundry soap and his own shampoo. He stared at the ceiling, tracing a long, hairline crack in the paneling he’d never noticed before.
Sleep was a distant country. He watched the digital clock on the microwave change from 1:07 a.m. to 1:48 a.m. The lot outside was utterly silent.
Then, a soft sound. Not a creak of the lot, not the wind. A definite, hesitant tap tap tap on his door.
His heart kicked against his ribs. He sat up, the sheets pooling at his waist. He waited, listening. It came again, a little firmer. Tap. Tap.
He swung his legs off the bed, the floor cool under his feet. He didn’t bother with a shirt. He crossed the small space in two strides, his hand pausing on the cold metal handle. He took a breath and opened it.
Madelyn stood there, washed in the weak yellow light. She was in a loose grey t-shirt and dark track pants, her hair a messy halo. She looked younger, and utterly exhausted.
“You okay?” he asked, his voice raspy from disuse.
“Yeah,” she said. The word was hollow, a clear lie. She hugged her arms, her gaze dropping to his bare chest then flicking back up to his face.
He opened the door wider, a silent invitation. She slipped past him, the scent of night air and her shampoo trailing in her wake. He closed the door behind them, the latch engaging with a final, muffled click.
The interior felt suddenly smaller, charged with her presence. He turned around, not expecting her to be standing right in front of him, having not moved further into the room. He grabbed her waist instinctively as he collided with her, his hands finding the soft cotton of her shirt, the warm curve of her beneath it.
“Sorry.” He whispered.
The word hung there, useless and thin. Her hands came up to his chest. She looked at her hands on his chest, her fingers splaying over his skin, pale against his tan. She seemed to be studying the contrast, the reality of the contact. Then she looked up at him, not saying anything. Her expression was unreadable, a tumult of fatigue and wanting.
“I couldn’t sleep,” she finally said, her voice a rough scrape.
“Me neither.”
His hands slid from her waist to the small of her back, drawing her the last fractional inch closer.
She didn’t resist. She folded into the space against him, her forehead coming to rest just below his shoulder.
They stood like that for a long moment, a statue of quiet wreckage in the center of the messy trailer. He felt the tension begin to seep from her shoulders, a gradual loosening of muscles held tight for fourteen hours. He breathed in the scent of her hair, that same vanilla, now mixed with night air and the faint, acrid hint of the studio.
Her breath warmed his skin. He just held her, his chin resting on the top of her head, and for the first time all day the static in his mind quieted to a low, bearable hum.
“My brain won’t shut off,” she muttered into his chest. Her words were muffled, thick.
His hand moved slowly up and down her spine.
She pulled back just enough to look at him. Her eyes were luminous in the gloom.
She walked over to the bed, sitting on the edge of it. The springs groaned softly. He followed her, pulling back the rumpled covers. He laid down on his side, leaving space. She slid under the covers, turning to face him, her movements slow and deliberate.
They faced each other, looking at each other in the dark. The only light seeped from the microwave clock, casting the planes of his face in a faint green glow and leaving hers in shadow. The space between their bodies on the mattress was a narrow canyon of cool sheets.
His hand came out from under his own pillow, reaching across the gap. He stopped, his fingers hovering near her cheek. He retracted it, tucking his fist back under his chin.
“Your hair,” he whispered.
He brought his hand back up, his movements uncertain. His fingers gently brushed the strands of blonde hair strewn across her pillow. He tucked them behind her ear, his thumb brushing the line of her jaw, gently, once.
She closed her eyes, breathing in a shaky, deep breath. She moved slightly closer, the warmth of her legs almost touching his. She opened her eyes.
She smiled, a fleeting, real thing. It faded. “Joe.”
“Yeah.”
“What are we doing?”
He let his hand fall from her face, but only to rest on the pillow between them. His fingers were close enough to feel the heat from her skin. “Right now? Trying to sleep, I think.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“I know what you mean.” He stared at her lips, remembering the precise, devastating softness of them hours ago under the coloured lights.
Her gaze traced the same path his had taken, down then up. The green clock light caught the her eyes.
“Joseph.” She whispered his name, not Joe. It was a sound stripped of all armour.
“Yeah?” He whispered back, the word barely leaving his throat.
She couldn’t say anything. What was she supposed to say? I like you? I’ve liked you for the past two years? She couldn’t. The sentences were too juvenile, too monumental, and they stuck in her chest like stones. She let out a breath, a shallow release of pressure, and closed her eyes.
“Maddy.” He whispered. His thumb found her cheek again, a steady point of contact in the dark.
She opened her eyes looking at him. His expression was impossibly careful, as if she were something that might fracture.
“Are you okay?” He asked.
She nodded, a tiny movement against the pillow. “Yeah.” She said quietly, the lie obvious in its fragility.
He inched closer. The sheets rustled. The heat from his body reached hers first.
“Are you?” She asks, turning his question back on him.
“Yeah.” He says, nodding slowly. His blue eyes were dark pools, unreadable.
She moved closer. The canyon of sheets vanished. Their knees touched, a soft collision. Then her shin slid against his, a deliberate seeking of warmth. His hand left her cheek, coming to rest on her hip over the thin cotton of her track pants. The weight of it was an anchor.
Silence settled again, but it was different now. It was full of the sound of their breathing, syncing slowly. It was full of the implication of his hand on her hip, her leg hooked lightly over his.
He leaned in, kissing her forehead, his lips resting there for a moment before pulling back. The kiss was dry and soft, a seal pressed onto warm skin. It wasn’t a prelude to anything. It was its own finished sentence.
Her heart was hammering against her ribs. She pushed it down, swallowing the frantic rhythm. Her hand came across his waist, resting on the bare skin of his back. She traced small circles over the knobs of his spine, feeling the fine scars and muscles she’d only ever guessed at.
He let out a shuddered breath. The sound was raw, a fracture in the quiet. His fingers flexed against her hip, pulling her an inch closer. The sheets whispered in the dark.
He shifted suddenly, rolling onto his back and pulling her with him so she was half lying on his chest. Her head found the space between his shoulder and his neck. His arms wrapped around her, solid and definite.
She buried her face against his skin. His hand moved up and down her back in long, slow strokes.