The Beginning, page 2
part #0.50 of Off Screen Series
For some reason, Emma felt drawn to Addison Blake. They had been talking nonstop for over an hour, and Addison had not once mentioned Emma’s work. She’d inquired about the origins of Emma’s coffee snobbery. That question had led to a discussion about their childhoods, as well as the serious challenges they shared with sleep, sun, and stupidity. Emma felt a twinge of something else familiar as she sat with the captivating writer. She was hesitant to name it for fear she would have to admit it—attraction.
Addison wasn’t only charming, she was beautiful. Emma kept looking at her new companion’s eyes. She found herself contemplating that Addison had the makings of an incredible actor. Addison’s eyes were every bit as expressive as her words were engaging. They changed in hue from light blue to indigo to an almost gray color as Addison’s mood shifted in time with the stories she told. Addison gave a humorous retelling of her experiences as a middle school teacher. Then, she regaled Emma with the embarrassing tale of how she once accidentally tripped Steven Spielberg in a movie theater. Finally, she shared the painful story of her mother’s untimely passing.
Emma reached across the small table and covered Addison’s hand. Her heart lodged in her throat at the sight of the tear rolling down Addison’s cheek. She absently stroked the hand in hers in an effort to console her new friend.
Addison looked at the hand covering hers and felt her heart flutter. She hadn’t dated anyone in over a year. She’d told herself she didn’t have time to waste on romantic entanglements. If she had bothered to take the time to examine her reasons, she would have been forced to acknowledge that she struggled with the pace of her life, and the constant need to be on-the-go. Addison made friends quickly. She had many friends in Los Angeles, but most offered a different kind of friendship than she had enjoyed back home in Maine or in college. It wasn’t that she had nothing in common with them or that there was a lack of genuine caring for the people she called her friend. Addison’s life and the life of those around her existed on what she deemed the go-go-go philosophy. It was the need to constantly be on the move, and it set Addison at direct odds with the need for quiet that her craft demanded. It seemed difficult for many of her friends to grasp that concept. She closed her eyes at the sensation of Emma’s hand gently caressing hers. All of it made her crave her mother’s counsel.
“Addison?” Emma called softly. “I’m sorry.”
Addison looked up slowly. Emma’s compassionate gaze forced her eyes to momentarily shut again.
“Addy?”
Addison opened her eyes and sighed. She returned Emma’s affectionate glance and smiled. Addy was her childhood nickname. Only one person called her Addy in Los Angeles. That was Tamara. And, Tamara was hardly a fair-weather friend. They had been college roommates. Tamara had made the move west right after graduation. She was quirky and at times overly enthusiastic about everything, but Addison loved her. Hearing the name pass from Emma’s lips calmed Addison’s surfacing sadness. It was as if Emma instinctively understood her needs.
“Thanks.”
Emma was confused. “For?”
“Listening.”
“I’m actually pretty good at that.” Emma winked as she slowly pulled her hand away.
“I noticed. I am sorry, Emma.”
“Sorry?”
“Yeah, here I have been waffling on with all my stories. You must be bored to tears. We’ve barely talked about you,” Addison said honestly.
Emma smiled. “Well, you are the writer, remember? I’m the actor. You tell the stories. I just read them when you really think about it. Besides, you’re far more interesting.”
Addison detected a hint of insecurity in Emma’s statement. The actress fidgeted with her coffee cup, and her voice, while light, carried a tone of underlying sadness. Addison wondered who had hurt the beautiful woman sitting across from her so much that Emma thought her life would be uninteresting. “Somehow, I doubt that’s true,” Addison said sincerely.
Emma looked at her skeptically.
Addison winked. “Oh, come on, Emma. We all know you Kansans have the dirty laundry on Dorothy Gale and that twister. What was she taking? LSD?”
Emma erupted in laughter. “How exactly is it that you are struggling as a writer?” she asked.
Addison shrugged. “Apparently, not everyone finds me as witty as you do.”
“Well, then they aren’t really paying attention,” Emma said sincerely.
“Maybe they’re right,” Addison offered her own assessment.
“I don’t believe it.”
“You’ve never read anything I’ve written.”
“True. So, why don’t you let me?” Emma offered.
Addison smiled half-heartedly.
“Why not? I promise I will be honest, but I also promise I won’t laugh. I mean, unless I am supposed to,” Emma assured her friend.
Addison let out a heavy sigh.
“What?” Emma was beginning to feel defensive. “Let me guess? The dimwitted, blonde, actress couldn’t possibly offer an honest assessment, right?” She started to pull out her chair when Addison grabbed hold of her hand.
“It’s not that,” Addison said softly.
Emma implored the writer with her eyes.
“I’d rather our friendship be this—that’s all.”
Emma slowly relaxed and watched Addison closely as she continued.
“Look, I didn’t come here to get you to read my stuff,” Addison said.
“I know that,” Emma replied. “That’s why I offered.”
Addison nodded. “For the record, I would value your opinion. We’ve spent almost two hours together without getting into that whole networking gig. I just—”
Emma’s hand took up residence over Addison’s again. “Addy— I’ll make you a deal.”
“A deal?”
“Yeah. Scared?” Emma challenged her new friend.
“Last deal I made was for the bomb of a BMW that barely gets me to the beach these days.”
Emma laughed. “Come on, be brave.”
“Okay, Miss Bronson. Make your pitch.”
“One month—coffee once a week for one month, right here—no shop talk. If we can keep the conversation completely off screen for one month, you let me read one of your scripts.”
Addison arched her brow and pursed her lips in consideration. “I don’t know, once a week in this place?”
“Now, who is the snob?” Emma asked.
“Okay, but I have my own addendum to add.”
“And what might that be?”
“The next coffee date you tell me about Emmie Bronson.”
“She isn’t all that interesting; I assure you.”
“I’ll trust you to judge my screenplay. You trust me to judge interesting for myself,” Addison said.
“Fair enough,” Emma agreed. “So, next Saturday—right here—same time.” Emma scribbled down her number on a napkin. “If anything comes up, call me.”
Addison nodded.
“Addy?” Emma called to her friend as she began to leave the table. “Anything,” she said.
***
Three weeks passed quickly. Emma and Addison had shared three long Saturday afternoon discussions over cooling cups of coffee. Emma was certain she had laughed more in the last three weeks than she had in the last three years combined. She had worried that maintaining a conversation without foraying into the murky realm of shop-talk would prove difficult. Her misgivings had so far proved unfounded. Addison spent their second date listening attentively as Emma spun colorful tales of life in Riverton, Kansas. The closest the pair had come to slipping in their agreement to avoid any work-related discussion occurred when they discussed their hometowns. Emma had teased Addison about the writer’s rapt fascination with her upbringing in a town even smaller than Addison’s home in Northern Maine:
“You’re taking notes, aren’t you?” Emma guessed.
“Notes?”
“You aren’t plotting some small-town murder mystery mini-series based on Billy Bob Binder’s misfortunes with Emmie Louise Bronson, are you?”
“That would require more creative license than I have the credentials for,” Addison supplied. “But, I will concede that the idea of Billy Bob Binder as a character has definite potential.”
Emma chuckled softly as she made her way toward the small café. The sky was uncharacteristically gray and there was a slight, unseasonable chill in the air as Emma crossed the street toward her destination. She stopped when she caught a glimpse of her coffee-companion making her way from the opposite direction. Addison seemed to be lost in thought as she traversed the slight crowd on the far side of the street, and Emma wondered what thoughts were milling in the writer’s mind.
Addison had a name for the current exercise taking place in her brain—emotional gymnastics. That was the best way she could describe it—up, down, over, under, and back again—that is how Addison’s thoughts and emotions seemed to flow. Emma Bronson plagued her thoughts. More than that, Emma seemed to have taken up residence in Addison’s heart. This was a road that Addison swore she would never again travel—falling in love with someone who could never return that emotion. She’d survived that pain once. She wasn’t at all certain she would be victorious in another battle. She endeavored to deny her feelings, ignore them, or beat them into submission. It didn’t matter how much Emma made her laugh. It was of no consequence that she trusted Emma implicitly. The fact that—more than once—thoughts of Emma produced a rare need to release the sexual and emotional tension they conjured was not going to sway Addison’s rational thoughts. There was no way that Addison Blake was going to fall in love with Emma Bronson—period.
The last week had been hell for Addison. Weekly coffee dates had gravitated to late night phone conversations—conversations that left Addison missing Emma more with each day that passed. She’d withdrawn from her friends, needing to immerse herself in silence. It seemed that was all Addison could control. She could guarantee the serenity of silence in her surroundings. The silence surrounding her stood in stark contrast to the noise that banged like a drum in her head and the constant rattling of her heart that had become deafening. Addison’s normal five hours of sleep had been reduced to a whopping average of one to two hours per night. Each time that she closed her eyes and attempted to quiet her thoughts, the familiar routine would begin.
Her heart would scream at her head to give into its longings before her head would take control again, forcing her heart back into logical submission. It reminded her of her attempts as a young girl to master the balance beam. That task had left Addison with only one conclusion—she was completely unbalanced. That is exactly how she felt now–unbalanced. The only thing that seemed to bring her swaying emotions into some semblance of order was writing. She would sit by the faint light of several candles and the emanating glow of her laptop for hours, furiously typing out her emotions into a foreign world of her creation. If it provided nothing else, it provided a momentary escape. If Addison Blake were incapable of finding true love or a fairytale happy-ending in her life, at least she could give that to someone else. So, what if those people were only make-believe?
Maybe, just maybe it was time for Addison to pull away from spending time with the charming actress. One thing she did know, any attempt on her part to end the blossoming friendship would hurt Emma deeply. That meant distance was not an option. Addison would rather endure the upheaval in her heart than cause Emma any distress—ever. That reality offered her one point of clarity. It also left Addison feeling out of control. She briefly considered making her way to a bar just to have a one-night-stand. She needed some relief—anything—anything to quell the churning that persisted within her. Ending her friendship with Emma was not an option. Addison understood that a one-night stand with a stranger would ultimately leave her feeling lonely, frustrated, and even if it were illogical—guilty. She took a deep breath and prepared to cross the street. “Son of a bitch,” she moaned in defeat when she saw Emma in the distance.
There was a reason that Emma Bronson was considered one of the most beautiful women in Hollywood—she was. Emma possessed a rare combination of qualities that made a person desirable. She was not particularly tall. Addison guessed that Emma stood about 5’5, although Emma insisted she was nearly two inches taller. That, Addison surmised quickly, could be attributed to the fact that she had never seen Emma in a flat shoe. 5’5 was the perfect height for an actress. Emma was neither so tall that she created an imposing presence nor was she so short that she required stilettos to rival an escort or leading man’s height. It was that way with everything about Emma. She was gorgeous, no argument could be made otherwise. She had a fair complexion, but she was hardly pale-skinned. Her blonde hair cascaded freely in soft waves that fell just below her shoulder blades—although Addison was certain there was some other color lurking beneath the wavy surface. Emma’s features were striking, yet her demeanor and expression softened them. It all conspired to give Emma the coveted girl-next-door look. She was the type of girl every boy or lesbian hoped would move next door during the height of teenage fantasy. As a writer, Addison dubbed this unique combination The Three Bears Syndrome. It was the perfect affliction for an actor. It was a writer’s nightmare. How could you describe the indescribable? Addison sighed when the crosswalk light turned to green.
Emma captured Addison’s gaze in the distance and Addison momentarily lost her breath. “Shit,” she groaned. Emma smiled, and all Addison wanted at that moment was to write them a scene. She wanted to jog across the street, sweep Emma into a romantic embrace and kiss her senseless. She cursed her foolish inclinations and offered her friend a wave. “Just coffee, Addy—it’s just coffee.”
Chapter Three
“Hi there,” Emma greeted Addison.
“Hi.” Addison accepted a hug from the object of her affection.
Emma had already taken the liberty of ordering for them. She directed Addison to have a seat and studied her carefully. “Addy? Is everything okay?”
Addison smiled weakly.
“Not your most convincing scene,” Emma told her.
“I’m sorry, Em,” Addison said sincerely. Something was bothering her. It was the constant skipping of her heartbeat every time she was anywhere in the vicinity of Emma. In fact, she didn’t even need to be near Emma to experience the annoying flutter. It happened randomly throughout the day and night. On top of it, Emma was everywhere. The news was abuzz about the possible cancelation of Emma’s show. If Addison clicked on the television, walked through the supermarket, or popped onto social media, chances were, she would be confronted with a barrage of images that featured Emma Bronson. It all fueled the spark inside Addison that was threatening to become a five-alarm fire.
“Nothing to be sorry for. You just seem, I don’t know—worried or something,” Emma observed.
Addison sighed. They had both honored their agreement and had not discussed their careers. They had one more hour until the completion of their four agreed upon coffee dates would come to an end. Addison was curious, and she was concerned about Emma. She knew what Emma liked to eat, Emma’s favorite kind of movie, that Emma was terrified of spiders. She knew the names and occupations of the actress’s two siblings. She knew about Emma’s morning ritual that included yoga, followed by dance tunes in the shower. And that before leaving the house, Emma always grabbed a strong cup of coffee laden with cream and sugar, a strange combination that somehow made sense given Emma’s sometimes silly personality. Addison had learned many intimate details about Emma (Emmie) Bronson’s life, and the one thing she still wasn’t sure about was how Emma felt about her career. Did she love it? Did she loathe it? Would the ending of the show that had launched her into near superstardom be a relief or a devastating blow? These were missing pieces in the puzzle that was Emma Bronson. No matter what the answer turned out to be, Addison would support her friend. Emma was who she was. It was impossible most days for Addison to reconcile the images and taglines associated with Emma Bronson the actress, and the person that sat across from her now. They were the same person, and yet they were nothing alike at all.
Emma noted the tension that pulled at the corners of Addison’s lips. Not for the first time, she found herself wondering what it would be like to replace that tension with her kiss. Addison Blake affected her in strange and unexpected ways. It had become a habit to rush home from the studio as quickly as possible in the hopes of managing a quick call to the writer. Addison told Emma about the students she was tutoring, embellishing their quirky personalities every chance she got. Emma wondered if Addison was using any of them as models for characters. She occasionally wondered if Addison would ever write a character based on her, or if she imagined Emma in one of the many roles she was creating. All of those questions opened up the void she desperately sought to fill about who Addison was.
Emma loved Addison’s tales about life in rural Maine. She was content to listen for hours to Addison describe her mother, and how she sorely missed the black dog that she called Rufus the Doofus. She found Addison’s fear of escalators amusing, but she never teased the writer about it. Addison confessed she was a sap. She loved happy endings, cried at love songs, and not-so-secretly enjoyed a glass of sweet, white wine. She worked out every day, if only because she loved to eat pasta as much as she was happy to breathe air. Addison had a wonderful sense of humor and a quick wit. She could also be introspective and thoughtful, and she was incredibly kindhearted. Emma was curious how the many dimensions of the woman she affectionately called Addy, impacted Addison’s work. Did she write melodramas or farce? Writing was an enormous part of the woman’s life who sat across from Emma. Emma wanted to know everything about Addison. She wanted Addison to know everything about her.
