In Focus

Chapter 2: Press, Continued-3

He pictured Leo’s eyes, tired as they’d been in the hallway. Weary hazel, saying, sometimes I wish I were Colby…

He didn’t think Leo actually meant that, about Colby specifically. But the ache of it, the inadequacy, the shadow…

God. Even the memory hurt. Sam hoped he’d said the right thing, then. He’d tried. He’d asked Leo about historic ships, research, dedication to the role. And Leo had answered, surprised but then pleased, tentative, looking at Sam as if never having had exactly that conversation ever before.

His fingers quivered with the need to text Leo the I love you.

He didn’t. He wanted to say it out loud. And he wanted Leo to hear it. And he didn’t know what would happen, when he did say it.

He thought Leo might not listen. He thought Leo might not believe the words.

But he also thought that Leo might. If Sam said them right.

He thought Leo might even say the words back. And he wanted that so badly he forgot to breathe, watching Colby Kent shake an interviewer’s hand in an expensive hotel suite.

And he thought about Leo and knowing what people wanted, Leo quietly doing exactly that, under cover of glitter and jokes and pink jeans and red-carpet flirtation. And he thought about Leo’s life, movie premieres and lavish British period dramas and late-night talk shows and space-opera science-fiction villain-character glee.

The sleeve of his jacket, black and serviceable, had a loose thread. He noticed it, looking at his hands. He knew his shoes were scuffed. Speaking of shoes, from earlier.

This week was a gift, a dream, an impossibility given form. What future could it have?

But, protested a tiny voice in his head. It sounded a lot like Leo’s. But we made this happen, didn’t we? We wanted this, and we figured it out. We could do that again.

The interviewer had left; the next one had come in and was setting up. Sam shook himself, and went over to Colby, who’d gotten up to stretch and to look rather forlornly at the end of his coffee, now cold, on the bar. “Hey. You want me to refill that?”

Colby’s eyebrows went up. “You’re not my assistant.”

“You’re doing the hard work, here.”

“Am I? Oh…I could…you don’t have to…well, thank you.” Sam had put sugar and cream in it; he’d been watching Jason. Colby at the moment was his responsibility, in a sense; he regarded that feeling, his own protectiveness, amused.

Colby finished half the refill in one impressive sip. “Thank you again.”

“No problem. That one looked kind of fun.”

“The interview, or the coffee? Yes. I’ve met him before, on other press rounds, so we know each other, a bit. He asks good questions.” Colby leaned back against the bar, casually silver-screen luscious, tousled cocoa hair and thin height and elfin cheekbones. “Tonight, after this…did you want to accompany Leo to the taping of whichever talk show it is? Otherwise you’re welcome to join us for dinner, but I suspect Leo would appreciate your company.”

Sam propped elbows against the bar next to him. “Yeah, I was kind of thinking that. But I know I’m here to…you know you’re paying me. To photograph your week. You’re my client. So if you want…”

“What I want is for you to make Leo happy.” Colby dove back into the defenseless coffee. It didn’t stand a chance. “So by all means go. And also I’m not certain I like that phrase. Being your client…”

“I mean,” Sam said. “Technically.”

“Yes, but that sounds so detached.” Colby’s eyes were tremendously unfair. Wide and sincere, a wistful kitten hoping for affection. “You said we were friends. It is more that, rather than my employing you, isn’t it? Doing this for a friend. So please be happy for yourself, as well.”

Sam had to laugh. “I am. Seriously. This has been amazing, all of it, everything. Thank you.”

“I like making people happy. If you—”

“Mr. Kent!”

Colby made a very small face into his last sip of caffeine, not annoyance but inching that direction, and murmured, “Three more…” and then, “Yes, Angela, thank you!” He put the vanquished coffee cup down, and nodded at Sam, and went.

And Sam, watching, felt a prickle of unease slide along his back. Something about that motion, that moment. Colby on his own, walking across the room…smiling at the newest interviewer, a tall enthusiastic woman who’d blatantly worn a shirt with the Romeo and Jules Shakespeare logo on it…which felt odd, didn’t it, sort of too eager…when she was here to be professional and interview Colby Kent…

She wanted to shake Colby’s hand. He smiled politely, and did. She put her other hand atop his as if holding it in place. Colby’s smile stayed in place too. Flawless.

Sam took a tiny step forward. Not even a step. Shifting weight that direction.

This interviewer introduced herself as Chrissy, and beamed at Colby. Said the usual words about what a pleasure, she was a huge fan, she was so excited about Steadfast. She also added that she’d seen all his movies and television roles, even the early high school teenage soap opera. Colby said, “Oh, goodness, that’s such a compliment, thank you!” with every drop of matchless winsome charm he’d ever possessed. His shoulders hadn’t relaxed.

Chrissy scooted closer. Asked the now-standard questions: what was it like bringing the history to the big screen? And adapting a novel Colby loved? And were there any scenes he’d especially wanted to keep, or to change?

Colby leaned back while managing to make the motion look like contemplation, not a need for space. Answered, about the scenes, “I’ve always loved everything with Stephen and Will, of course, but particularly that first meeting, at the ball, or rather away from the ball, in the library—I knew we needed that essentially just as it was written. The way they fit each other, even then—they recognize something in each other, even from the start. And it’s a wonderful beginning.”

“Yes,” Chrissy said, “not to mention your first s*x scene with Jason Mirelli! Can you talk about that? What was that like? Was it as fun as we all imagine?”

Colby hesitated, a split second’s worth of sorting out an answer, when the question had pushed up against intimate areas. “Well, it’s on camera, you know. We’re working. We did have an intimacy consultant look over those scenes in the script—thinking about what would look and feel right for the characters and the history—and then we approached it in character, as Will and Stephen, as it were.” He paused, though, because he knew, of course he knew, what viewers would want; he added, lightly, “And of course I do love Jason, so looking at him and wanting him wasn’t precisely difficult.”

Chrissy sighed mistily. “Such a love story! And, honestly, thinking about Jason and those shoulders…when he pushes you up against the books like that, oh, yes…and of course now you get to come home to that! Every day!”

“Jason’s lovely.” Colby’s voice stayed unruffled, friendly, practiced at on-camera charm. “He’s so generous—as an actor, and as a person. He’s easy to fall in love with. Which of course I’ve done; but also I’m so thrilled for you all to see him in this role. He’s absolutely brilliant; there are so many layers to his Stephen, and I’m so proud to’ve played Will alongside him.”

Sam wanted to applaud. Or to hug Colby. That’d been a perfect answer to a f*****g invasion-of-privacy comment: Colby’d brought the topic away from real lives and bedrooms, back to the film and honest praise for Jason’s performance, without appearing flustered or upset, and with love radiating from every word. The fans would adore that. And it’d been glorious verbal skill.

“Oh, you’re so sweet,” Chrissy proclaimed. She was looking at Colby in much the same way Colby had looked at the coffee: ready to pounce and consume. “You’ve done so many romances, rom-coms, all of that—was it easier, or maybe harder to separate character and reality, with someone you were totally falling in love with, on set?”

Jesus. Could they get away from Colby’s romantic life? Sam was about ready to intervene, and it wasn’t even his job. But one of the assistants held up two fingers: two minutes left.

Okay. Two minutes. And then Colby could have a break. Sam would make sure of that.

“It was…” Colby hesitated again. “Both, honestly? It was easy because, as I’ve said, Jason’s so wonderful…we could talk about anything, character motivations, scene revisions, and so on, and we knew we could trust each other. And, again, Jason’s such a splendid collaborative actor—I’ve always admired him, you know, I always thought he was so responsive, so good with fellow actors. So that part was easy. The difficult bit was compartmentalizing emotions—that is, when we’d have to fight in a scene, or when Will believes Stephen’s dead—oh, drat, is that a spoiler? Well, it’s in the novel—or Stephen coming home to find Will so very ill. That was in the trailer, so it’s not a spoiler, er, I hope. I think we both had a bit of trouble with those sorts of scenes. But, you know, again, it helps to be in character—I’m not Will, and Jason isn’t Stephen.”

Sam, having seen the movie and the scenes in question, couldn’t even imagine. If that were Leo—if, like Jason, he’d had to run through a door and find the man he loved at death’s door, lying limp and white in bed, blood on the handkerchief beside him—

An iceberg’s worth of chills bit the nape of his neck, the skin of his arms.

He was also impressed: Colby had managed to fill up most of the two minutes, with all those words.

Chrissy and her cameraman traded a quick flick of glances. She said, “Everything you tell us about Steadfast only makes us more excited!”

“Oh, thank you—”

“One more thing! Can I hug you? Our viewers, your fans, always want to know whether Colby Kent gives good hugs! They say you seem like you would!”

“I…” Colby wanted to say no. Sam could see it. But he didn’t. “Oh, well…yes, I suppose? If that’s something people would like?”

“Great!” She jumped up. And, as Colby got up, she flung both arms around him. Hard. With no more warning than that.

Colby was a fantastic actor. He even hugged back. And smiled.

She held on tighter. And longer. Clinging. Not releasing.

Something shifted in Colby’s eyes, a fraction of a fracture—not enough that any camera would pick it up—

“Oh, thank you so much,” Chrissy said, and let him go, not without patting his shoulder. And rubbing. Petting him. “Just as cuddly as I thought. And, for the record, everyone, Colby Kent kind of smells like lemon sugar!”

“Shortbread,” Colby murmured. “I was baking…”

“So sweet! Literally!” Chrissy waved. “We won’t take up more of your time, but thanks for doing that!” She petted his arm. Again. The camera stopped rolling. The operator threw her a thumbs-up.

Colby managed to keep smiling, but didn’t say anything at all, which made alarms start shrieking inside Sam’s head.

Chrissy and her cameraman bounced out of the room, giddy, transported. Colby had continued not saying anything, standing in place next to the chair.