Page 13 of Lights, Camera, Love

‘Thank you,’ Kye says as he takes the glass from me, his long fingers accidentally grazing mine. He swallows and tips his head at the sliding door. ‘Want to sit outside? No wasp nest here. Luckily, I had a lighter and a can of hairspray with me when I arrived.’

My eyes widen, but Kye says, ‘Kidding, Evie.’ He nudges the sliding door open with his shoe and steps aside so I can go first.

Thrown by my strange reaction to him simply saying my name (my mind goes to the phone-sex hotline again), I keep my hands busy by grabbing my portable speaker and a packet of sweet-and-salty trail mix from my tote.

We head outside onto the verandah, where a soft chorus of frog calls and cricket chirps greets us like a little animal orchestra. I sink into a cold metal chair and resume the Lucky Daye mix on my speaker, keeping the volume low so we don’t disturb anyone else.

‘Nice choice,’ Kye mutters, nodding at the speaker.

I smile. ‘Thanks.’

‘How’s your neck holding up?’ he asks as I brave a sip of bourbon. It’s not what I’d ordinarily drink, but I’m surprised to find it smooth and quite delicious.

‘It’s a bit better.’ I hold up my glass. ‘This’ll help. Thank you.’

‘Don’t thank me; thank the poor bastard who left it here.’

I chuckle and settle back in my chair, gazing out at the distant ridge of midnight-blue mountains pushing up the starlit sky. ‘Do you think you should’ve handed the bottle in?’

‘You mean to reception?’ he says.

I laugh. ‘You’re right. I think the chickens run the reception desk.’ I haven’t seen a soul at this farm other than our filming crew since we got here.

‘Nah, it’s totally the alpacas,’ Kye says. ‘They’ve got that shit sorted.’

Another chuckle slips out. ‘As soon as I arrived, they handed me a robe and a pair of fluffy slippers.’

‘Made out of their own fur?’ he says, impressed. ‘That’s worth a five-star Google review right there.’

I laugh again, and he takes a swig of bourbon.

Silence falls between us, and I hunt for a conversation topic. ‘So, have you been working with Austin for long?’

He briefly rests the rim of his glass against his plush bottom lip. ‘A couple of years.’

‘Do you also manage other actors?’

‘No, just him.’

‘Do you love it?’

His brows lift. ‘Do I love it?’

I don’t know why I asked that. I guess I’m trying to figure out whether Kye’s aloof and surly vibe is just his personality or if he’s genuinely miserable. I thought I picked up something at that city cafe when Austin was talking about returning to LA.

‘I get to travel the world with my best friend,’ he eventually says. ‘What’s not to love?’

He takes another swig of bourbon, and I hum a sound of agreement, but he’s holding something back.

I’m pretty good at sensing when someone’s hiding their true feelings—it takes one to know one—and I just don’t buy what he’s saying.

It’s not my business, though, so I tear open the trail mix and pick out a few salty pretzels.

When I hold out the packet to Kye, he freezes, glances at me and then gently digs into the bag, choosing only a few M&Ms. Honestly, it’s like trying to engage a cat with trust issues.

‘How long have you and Austin been friends?’ I ask, peering into my glass. I can’t seem to stop this interrogation even though I really should be trying to get some sleep.

Kye stares out ahead, taking a moment to answer. ‘I lived with Austin and his family when I was a foster kid,’ he says quietly. ‘That was obviously a long time ago, though. Now, we’re just best friends. And colleagues.’

‘Oh.’ I take another sip of my drink, unsure how to respond. ‘So, you grew up with him?’ I ask, hoping I’m not overstepping.

‘Yeah, but not like a brother.’ He swallows tightly. ‘More like a house guest, or an exchange student or something like that. I was never adopted or anything, and to be honest, I didn’t want to be.’ He leans back in his chair and rubs his brow.

I redirect the conversation. ‘I don’t have any brothers or sisters,’ I say. ‘Actually, I don’t even have a dad. It’s just me and Mum.’

‘Yeah?’ I feel Kye’s eyes on me, his jaw resting in his hand.

‘Yeah.’

A burning feeling builds behind my eyes as I think back to the first time I ever admitted those words : I don’t have a dad.

I was in Year Eight at school, and I had to research my family tree for a history project.

Mum told me to just leave his side of the sheet blank, but the thought of doing that left me feeling hollow.

I did have a father—a pretty cool one—even though he lived in America and we hadn’t met yet.

As I stared down at the blank page, though, I realised I knew nothing at all about my father’s relatives.

I tried filling out the sheet using his Wikipedia bio, but I couldn’t find any family history that reached further back than his parents.

So, I did something that still makes my skin crawl. I found the contact details for Gabriel Dean’s agent online and sent him an email, saying that I needed to ask my father a few questions about his family.

Two weeks passed with no reply, and after obsessively refreshing my inbox, I ended up handing in the assignment with the words ‘I don’t have a dad’ scrawled on the father’s side of the page.

The next day, the teacher apologised to me with guilt-ridden eyes, and the school changed the family tree diagram they used for their printouts, making room for families with different structures.

‘When did you get into dancing?’ Kye asks quietly, and my eyes jump back to his.

‘Oh, gosh. I think I was about four.’

I smile at the memory of turning up at my first ballet class and bursting into tears when I was told I was too young to wear pointe shoes—ironically, a much happier recollection than the one I just conjured about my father.

‘It’s always been my thing,’ I say. ‘I’ve done all the styles—ballet, jazz, tap, funk, Latin—but I always loved hip-hop the best, so I ended up focusing on that.’

Our gazes cling together for a sticky moment. Kye’s thickly lashed eyes are hard to look away from.

‘When did you become so good at hip-hop?’ I probe.

He ‘hmpfs’. Ha, it’s been a while since you’ve made that sound, Groucho. The familiarity of it makes me smile.

‘Just a bit of a natural, I guess,’ he says, running a hand up the back of his neck. ‘I’ve only ever done drop-in classes, and I couldn’t even start doing that until I finished high school.’

‘Because you would’ve been teased?’ I guess. Some of the kids at my school were merciless to a boy in my year who took dance lessons—it was so sad.

‘Oh, I didn’t need that to get teased. The idiots I went to school with already had it sorted,’ he comments. ‘It was more that I had to get a job before I could afford something like that.’

He turns silent, and I subtly study his profile.

Teased, foster kid, no money. Three facts about Groucho that I would never have guessed. I want to know more, but before I can think of an appropriate follow-up question, he climbs to his feet and stretches out his arms.

Biceps. That’s another word.

Yep, I might be a mayfly. Would that explain why the wasps were drawn to me? The winged insects recognised one of their own?

‘I should get going,’ Kye says.

‘Sure.’

Feeling a little deflated—I was quite enjoying our unexpected chat—I trail him back into the cabin.

Once we’re inside, he turns to face me. ‘Time to get into bed?’ he blurts, and we both flush. ‘Fuck, I don’t know why I said that, sorry. I meant, are you off to bed? I’m just … making conversation. Forget it.’ He rakes his fingers through his mussed-up hair.

‘It’s all good.’ An awkward chuckle tumbles past my lips. ‘Actually, I think I’m going to put a movie on my laptop. If the wi-fi behaves.’

‘Yeah? Which one?’ he asks politely as he rolls his suitcase towards the door.

His question catches me off-guard. The film I plan on watching, while it’s my favourite, is a bit random. ‘Oh, it’s just an old eighties movie called Heathers .’

‘Really? I love that movie.’

Kye turns to face me as he speaks, one hand slipping into the back pocket of his grey jeans. And then something happens that I’m in no way prepared for.

The corners of his mouth lift, his eyes light up, and he smiles .

‘I think it’s one of the best black comedies ever made,’ he continues, while I attempt to peel my eyes off the breath-stealing smile that I’m pretty sure any top fashion brand would pay millions of dollars for. It completely transforms his face. It’s … he’s … he’s stunning .

‘Goodnight, Evie.’

‘’Night,’ I scrape out, wondering if what I just saw was an optical illusion, some kind of trick of the light. I mean, it is pretty dark in here.

Kye glides the sliding door closed behind him, and as I reach out to lock it, I’m left staring at my dazed reflection in the mirrored glass.