Brewing a Gentler Future

I have to sit up or risk drowning in my snot. Pulling my knees up to my chest, I hide my face in the blanket, muffling my sobs. The last thing I need is Mom barging in, or worse, Dean with his lewd comments.

My breath comes out in quick puffs. Stupid Dean and stupid cast for being frat boys. Sniffling, my lips stretch into a smile. I bet they had an actual dick-measuring contest. I chuckle. Maybe I’ll be brave enough to use that next time he teases me. Although not everyone acts that way.

I wipe my nose on my hand. What am I, a toddler? Grimacing, I swing my legs over the bed. I need to clean up and then maybe I’ll make some tea. That might help me go back to sleep.

With another sigh, I push to standing, cursing as the tile’s cold seeps into my bare feet. Whose bright idea was it to turn a stable into a dormitory?

Shuffling to where I dropped my suitcase earlier, I dig through the contents. Damn, I know I brought slippers. Where are they?

Dancing back and forth on my toes, I crow when my fingers finally close around the soft fuzz of thick socks. I quickly put them on.

At first, the warmth brings comfort, but when I glance down at the cute little cat faces staring up from the pink fluff, my vision blurs.

I grunt and tug at the ends of my hair. Why did I bring these socks? A small voice whispers, “Because in the daylight, you told yourself socks can’t hold any feelings.”

Well, that was dumb considering who gave them to me.

I bend over, ready to take them off when my fingers brush the cold floor. Sniffling, I straighten. They’re just socks, and it’s like the Arctic in here. Next time I’m in town, I’ll get proper slippers and burn these. Or better yet, I’ll hide Dean’s socks and make him wear them while filming.

That might work, or, I roll my eyes, he might not even be embarrassed.

Better to destroy them.

Finding the sweater I discarded earlier, I slip my arms into the thick material, zipping it to my chin.

I scowl at the socks. I’m nearly forty and can’t be left alone, like a toddler. But if I’m getting upset over socks…

Shaking my head, I creep to the door. It’s the middle of the night and I’m just going to the bathroom. No one will see me.

Thankfully, the hallway outside my closet of a room is empty. I hold my breath and listen.

Silence.

I creep along the paneled hall of closed doors, and I breathe a sigh of relief when I reach the bathroom. I keep the light off, the moon’s glow through the window providing enough illumination.

Washing my hands, I avoid looking in the mirror. The last thing I need is to see a ghost. I dry my hands, but my eyes burn again, and I sniffle. Why did I think of that?

I snort and open the door. Maybe it’s that stupid movie Dean made everyone watch on the bus. Why would they make a movie about Bloody Mary?

Maybe that’s why I had a nightmare.

Dean is definitely getting these socks.

I stand in the hallway, glancing between my room and the stairs to the lower level. Would tea be helpful or just keep me from sleeping?

The quiet ticking of the clock at the end of the hallway catches my attention.

Four-thirty.

I have to get tea now if I’m doing it. The cast will be up soon to start makeup.

I glance down at my outfit. The pink socks clash with my loose, red-striped pajama pants. Luckily, the sweater hides the purple t-shirt I slept in under its drab gray. Maybe there will be a thermos. I can bring the tea back to my room and wait until everyone is busy filming before emerging again. I can blame jetlag.

Nodding to myself, I head down the stairs. A faint clicking floats out through the large open door. I freeze on the bottom step and clutch the banister. Is tea worth having to talk to someone?

Looking at my socks, the cat faces blur. Yes, tea, and then hiding. Maybe then I won’t keep crying.

I hug the wall the rest of the way to the kitchen. Who else could be up at this hour? At least I know it won’t be Dean. The makeup girls complained about how he barely makes it to their chair in time to get on set.

I ease my head around the door and take in the room. It’s a spacious kitchen, but it needs to be to keep up with the demands of a film production.

A faint glow draws my attention to a small table in the corner. Illuminated by the blue light of a laptop is Adam.

He has been nothing but nice to me. I grit my teeth to stop the fresh tears. Sheesh, I am a weepy baby tonight.

I back away from the door.

Adam never takes his eyes from the screen and whisper-calls, “There will be plenty of tea to share.”

I make an undignified squeak.

“Or we can try to figure out how to use that monstrosity.” He points to the industrial coffee machine. It has way too many tubes and levers and buttons to be workable by a mere human.

“Are you going to come in?” he asks.

Get it together. He isn’t going to bite. Biting was never the problem, it was the…

Nope, nope, nope, not thinking about that now.

Adam smiles when I work up the courage to shuffle into the kitchen. “Can’t sleep?”

I shake my head and take the seat across from him.

“Me either.” He sighs and tugs on one of his rather large ears. “I actually have lines to say today, and I just know I’m going to mess them up.”

I open my mouth, and all that comes out is an embarrassing croak. He smiles softly as I die a little inside and clear my throat. “Dean messes up all the time.”

“He has way more lines and Philippa,” he dips his head, “your mom, keeps tweaking them.”

“Only because Dean makes things up that sound better, which means Mom has to change the rest of the lines to make them fit.” My cheeks heat at sharing my mom’s secret, but my heart flutters when he laughs.

“You’ll do great, and if not, you’ll just do it over,” I reassure him. “It’s not like theater where you only get one chance.” My chest tightens. “Or real life, you don’t get to redo those things,” I whisper with another sniffle.

His look is unreadable when I peek at him again.

“What has you up at this hour?” he asks.

I shrug. “Lots of things, but I think I’m going to blame it on that movie of Dean’s.”

“There was an awful lot of blood.” He shivers.

I fight back the other memories tied to blood.

“What is it?” he asks softly.

I’m sure my face is doing something stupid because my nose is getting itchy, and my cheeks burn. I’m saved from having to answer by the whistle of the teakettle.

Adam turns off the burner before the whistling can wake everyone up.

“Milk and sugar?” he asks without turning around.

I don’t trust my voice and make a noise of agreement. I never used to like tea, but I never knew you could add stuff to it.

He makes two cups of tea, adding generous splashes of milk and spoons of sugar. He places a mug in front of me. “Special nighttime tea to chase away the nightmares, just like my ma used to make it.”

I wrap my fingers around the warm ceramic and smile. “My dad used to warm up milk in the microwave.”

“The microwave?” His eyes widen, brows shooting up toward his hairline.

A laugh escapes me. “Sorry to upset your British sensibilities. It gets the job done and no worry about setting the house on fire when you’re half asleep.” I shiver and squeeze the mug tighter.

Cocking his head, he stares at me. I fight the urge to smooth down my hair. Why didn’t I at least look in the mirror to fix my hair?

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks softly.

“Talk about what?” I say much too quickly.

“Whatever is bothering you.” He shrugs. “People don’t get up at this ungodly hour if something isn’t bothering them.”

I shift my gaze to look out the window at the distant lighthouse.

“You don’t have to. I just thought it might help.”

I stare down at the dumb socks again. Nothing can help me. Talking won’t change anything. A cry escapes my throat, surprising both Adam and me.

He comes around the table and squeezes my shoulder. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

The comforting weight of his hand snaps something inside me. I twist and bury my face in his stomach. My arms wrap around his torso, and I cling to him as my body shakes with sobs.

The soothing sounds he makes barely register in my ears, nor the warm patterns he rubs on my back.

Many long minutes later, I pry my eyes open and stare at the weave of his dark t-shirt. Great, I got snot all over his shirt.

“Feeling better?” he asks.

I keep my head pressed against his chest and just breathe for a moment. I haven’t cried since everything happened, and here I am bawling my eyes out to a practical stranger.

My next breath is shaky. “Sorry.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“I don’t feel worse.”

His laugh rumbles through me. “That’s me, Adam Wren, making people not feel worse.”

I chuckle wetly. He really is sweet.

He leans back and catches my eye. “How about I refresh our tea, and we start over?”

My heart slams into my ribs.

His gaze flickers over me. “Or not. We can just drink our tea and enjoy the silence before everyone else gets up.”

My lips tremble, and I manage a nod.

He goes about adding hot water to the cups of tea, setting one in front of me before returning to his seat.

We lapse into silence, and I drink half of the best cup of tea I have ever had and debate. Maybe I should tell someone. Adam has been nothing but nice since I arrived, and he’s nothing like…

I already had a breakdown on him. I suppose Adam deserves to know the truth. Maybe it will help me figure out how to tell Mom.

I look across the table and watch Adam mouth words from the script before tentatively asking, “Did my mom tell you why I was coming?”

He keeps his eyes on the laptop screen and replies, “Just that there was some sort of emergency and that you need to get away for a bit. She gave us a lecture about how we can’t act like a bunch of horndogs.” Adam shakes his head and smiles. “Who even uses that word anymore?”

“Is that a problem?” I ask. “There are plenty of females on the crew.”

“Naw. The makeup girls took care of the nonsense in the beginning. I think Philippa was worried about our reaction to fresh blood, since we’d all been locked down filming for so long.” He winces and runs his fingers through his short hair. “That’s a crass way of putting it.”

My eyebrows rise. “And Dean listened?”

Adam groans. “At least here. You should see him when we get the chance to go out. Women flock to him. I never could get anyone to look at me like they do Dean in half a second.”

I stare into my mug. “I’d rather have someone like you looking than Dean. You’re sweet and kind and—”

His expression shifts into a smooth mask, and his words come out flat. “Thank you for saying that. I know they didn’t cast me for my looks.”

“It’s not about looks,” I say fiercely. “Besides, you’re in the film. I’ve never been in any of Mom’s films.”

His forehead scrunches.

“And you’re not like Dean. He’s too bombastic. You’re safe.” Muttering, I add, “Someone like Dean is what brought me here.”

I really need to stop talking.

He reaches across the table and puts his hand over mine. “Dean is mostly harmless.”

“They all seem that way.”

His thumb rubs the pulse point on my wrist.

“They’re nice and charming to everyone, and you can’t say anything about it because they get upset.”

The lighthouse’s beacon washes over the kitchen, and I’m thrown back to that night. Flashing red and blue lights, broken glass scattered across the highway, and mangled cars.

Adam’s gentle caresses bring me back to the present. “I don’t know what happened, but I’ll do my best to keep Dean in line.”

I turn my hand to lace our fingers together, clinging to it like a raft in the open ocean.

“The short story,” I force the words out, “is nothing dramatic. I was dating a guy, and at first, it was great. He made me feel like a princess. But when we went out, he would flirt with everyone but get upset if the waiter even smiled at me. It took me six months to have enough, and I broke things off. Boy, he did not like that. I just wanted to put myself back together.” I chuckle darkly. “He wouldn’t take no for an answer. I had to get a new phone number, but then he started following me.”

Adam sucks in a sharp breath, but I am too deep to stop now.

“He was waiting in the parking lot one night when I left work. I just wanted to get away, so I started driving. Next thing I know, his truck shoves me into the guardrail, crushing the back half of my car. I was lucky to only have some bruises. James was not so fortunate. The police officers told me afterward the momentum of hitting me sent him into the ditch. He rolled the truck and needed to be cut free. Broke his hips, spine, and other stuff.”

“I’m so sorry.” Adam’s fingers tighten around mine.

“He nearly died, and I blamed myself. My anxiety got so bad. They gave me pills. One night, he left a message. Who knows how he got my new number, and I swallowed the whole bottle.”

I close my eyes, feeling everything again. The violent cramping, the freezing bathroom floor, and the light dancing behind my eyes. “I just wanted it all to be over.”

Adam’s gentle touch on my hand never falters.

I puff out a breath. “The recovery treatment really is nasty. I don’t recommend any of it. I won’t try again.”

His hold on me tightens before his thumb resumes, rubbing random patterns on my wrist.

I shrug. “And that is the whole ugly story of why I’m here.”

The silence grows heavy before he says, “I’m honored you trusted me. My ma always says it’s better to get it out than keep it in.” Adam’s thumb stills. “Is this okay? I mean, me, touching you?”

I pause, just feeling where we’re connected for a moment. “It is. Everyone has been so scared to ‘set me off.’ I didn’t realize how much I needed this.” I squeeze his hand back.

He fidgets with his mug with his free hand. “I know this is totally the wrong time, and it’s not just because you’re new, and pretty, and—”

I raise my eyebrow at his cute rambling.

He takes a deep breath. “I’d like to get to know you better. Not, like, in a relationship way, but as friends.”

My face warms, and I drop my gaze to the table. “I’d like that, and I think we skipped a couple of steps and have gone right to best friends.”

He gives my hand a squeeze before releasing me. “Maybe we can come up with a way to prank Dean. He is always getting us. That’s what friends do.”

I glance down at my socks. The cats’ faces no longer blurring. “I think I can come up with something.”

The lighthouse beam sweeps across the kitchen, and for the first time tonight, the light doesn’t bring back the crash. Instead, it catches the steam rising from our mugs, creating tiny halos in the pre-dawn air.

Adam laughs and lifts his mug. “To friendship.”

I pick up my own, the ceramic tea-warm and steady in my hands. I smile, really smile, as our mugs clink. “To not feeling worse.”