Page 94 of Director's Cut
With only about three hours between the screening and the after-party, I tell myself I’ll be subtle. Easygoing. Not ridiculous. But I still manage to drag Maeve to the most expensive, best-reviewed casual French restaurant in Cannes. We’re both hesitant at first, but soon conversation flows as we find our natural easy rhythm. Within an hour and a half, I’m taking Maeve’s hand, both of us wine-tipsy and scallop- and cassoulet-stuffed and leading her back to my suite. I kiss every patch of skin I can in the elevator. Her shoulder, her collarbone, her neck, her jawline, her forehead, remembering the scent and taste of her skin.
We open the hotel room door and fall onto the chaise by the bed, kicking off our shoes.
“So now that you have this research grant…” I say, smiling at her.
She smiles back, shaking her head. “I don’t know I have it.”
“But like”—I narrow my eyes—“you pretty much do. You prepping for your conference next?”
She drops her head onto my shoulder. “That and a research trip. The grind never ends, does it?”
I brush a hand through her hair. It’s especially soft, the way hair only feels right after it’s been washed. “Nope. We just get better and better at bouncing back into it.”
“You were amazing up there, by the way,” Maeve says. “Did you have to plan out what you were going to say, or did you just speak from the heart?”
I think back to being up on that stage, seeing the film with an audience, the euphoria I felt throughout the experience. “It’s the same way I approach our lectures, honestly. I know my main talking points, but the best answers come from passion. I love that movie. I hope they let me do more like it.”
She runs a thumb over my inner wrist. It sends shivers through me. “How will you know if you can?”
“Depends on if this one sells. We’ll know in a couple of weeks.”
“You know, I always thought you were an exceptionally good teacher. I thought I was helping you find your passion by encouraging you to teach more and move away from movies. But seeing you up there, all the pieces of you finally fit together. The way you analyze film composition, the depth that you engage with theme and content, that passionate way you talk about making movies and TV. You were radiant at that screening. It would be such a crime for you to ever abandon that for anything.” She brushes the back of her hand against mine. “Including me. You have the kind of talent I’d spend years studying to write about.”
It’s amazing how much loftier it sounds when she says it.
A lump rises in my throat. “Thank you.”
“So…” She sighs. “Don’t quit, okay.”
I smile. “There’s more to be done here, I think.”
“Good.” She shakes her head. “God, I’m going to be grading finals in the French Riviera because of you. You’re a dream.”
I run a finger along her jawline. “I literally dreamed of dating a professor since I was like seventeen and you’re even better than my fantasy. So I think that honor belongs to you.”
I look at her lips. It still doesn’t feel like the right moment, though. It would be too easy to just fall back into our pattern. And yes, I’m medicated now and know what not to do. But I can’t shake the feeling that I have to try my damnedest to make sure we don’t fall into our old ways, seeing the other person through the lens of an ex.
Maeve smiles, though, tempting me. “What?”
I guess a new, better relationship starts with communication.
“What do we do this time? To keep each other as happy as possible, make this relationship as healthy as we can?” I say.
Maeve leans back, her head resting on the pillowy comforter behind us, her wavy hair forming a halo around her. I turn on my side and lay beside her. Watch as she looks up at the ceiling.
“What do you want from this, in the end?” she asks.
We’re sitting in a luxury hotel room over six thousand miles away from our houses. The comforter is overstuffed, and the lighting is a little too bright, and one open window allows the rushing of the harbor waves to seep in. Yet my heart beats softly; my head’s clear. I feel like I’m home. I’m home with Maeve. All I feel is pride at what Maeve has seen of me, what she will see, what I’ll see from her when I go with her to her conference in a few months. I imagine us cuddling after the after-party tonight in ratty pajamas, taking turns showering tomorrow because the shower is too small, Maeve using her superior-to-mine French at a patisserie in the morning.
“I want each of us to be each other’s solace amid the insanity of the careers and lives we’ve chosen,” I say.
She inches closer to me. Close enough that I can hear her breathing. “I’ll feel that way if you tell me when a worry comes up, if you ask me for help when you feel yourself spiraling. If you’d do the same for me. If you’d steady my breathing like you did at the Oscars during your more overwhelming public commitments and if you’d keep picking weird-ass date spots like the tar pits.” She leans in closer still, kissing the tip of my nose. “What do you need from me?”
I exhale. “I’ll feel at home if you remind me to take my meds even when I’m consistent, if you let me just cuddle with you after I go through grueling press tours. If you tell me when I’m picking shitty projects, if you befriend Dave so I don’t have to. If you bring me cookies when I get huge rejections, and if you move out of your backhouse. Just…if you’re gonna love me, love me for me. And I’ll love you for you.”
When I lean over to kiss her, I plant it on her lips. Soft at first, firm, then downright begging, digging my fingers into her hair and into the fabric of her shirt. Our bodies collapse into each other like a sigh of relief. She tastes like wine; she tastes like laughter; she tastes like home.
“I love you,” I say against her lips.