summary: since you and michael both don't have your licenses, your next best option is a bike to get around. there's only one problem: you never learned how to ride one. michael, determined to change that, helps you learn one summer afternoon.
tags: sfw, oneshot, fluff, established relationship, you're both 17, michael being the world's most patient bf, minor injury, hurt/comfort, young love, use of "baby", happy ending.
wc: 2.6k
a/n: my first request! thank you to the sweet anon who sent this in ♡ the fluff in this may literally kill me... and michael is much more patient than me, lmao. also, i was able to write a oneshot under 4k words; I'm shocked. enjoy!
based on this request. thank you!
between michael's already hectic personal life, and the fact that neither of you had your driver's licenses, dating was increasingly difficult.
every date consisted of getting dropped off and picked up by parents, early curfews, and spending the majority of the time just sitting around in each other's houses.
you two had met a year earlier at an event your dad had dragged you to. your dad was a producer, and he always said he loved bringing his 'little girl' to his work things, even though, only six months away from eighteen, you were definitely not a little girl anymore.
you had found michael sitting comfortably on a fabric bench outside the bathrooms, hiding from the main event. you sat with him for a total of twenty-five minutes and bonded immediately. he complained about his father and his brothers, then about how he loved music, movies, animals, and eventually his career and what he wanted to do with it.
your dad had peeked his head around the corner and found you sitting with him. he wanted to get mad, tell michael to step away and get in his face, but he also wanted to work with michael. so instead, he shook his hand, smiled, and carefully pulled you back into the party.
michael was always extremely respectful, and that was the only reason your parents let you date him.
most of the time, you two would just hang out at hayvenhurst. it wasn't terrible, and after four months of dating, you had found which rooms were quietest, which brothers would tease you the least if you were near, and where rebbie would hide her secret stash of romance movies. still, something was discouraging about needing permission and transportation to do anything else.
this saturday, the problem was particularly unbearable. it was ninety-eight degrees in encino, and every single person in the house already had plans, meaning no rides for you two. a thirty-minute walk into town seemed insane in this heat, and after you and michael's fourth movie while on the couch, you were starting to get antsy.
"can we do something?" you mumbled, lying on your boyfriend's lap, staring up at the struggling fan above. it was probably just pushing warm air around.
"like what?" michael asked, pulling a loose strand of hair from your forehead that was beginning to stick from the sweat.
"anything. get ice cream. go to the diner. go shopping," you listed, sitting up and throwing your head back to complain. "ugh. i'm so bored."
"we have no way to get there."
"i know. can you just ask bill or something? i'm literally going to die."
michael sat for a long moment, letting the sound of a bird chirping and the fan above replace the silence. "we could ride there."
"ride?"
"yeah," he said, smiling, like it was the best idea he ever had. "you can use one of my sisters' bikes. it'll only be ten minutes if we go fast."
you were far too embarrassed to admit that at seventeen, you had never learned how to ride a bike. it would be humiliating for him to know. "or, we could just watch another movie."
"what?" michael laughed. "you just said you were bored."
"i changed my mind... we still have to see that alien one anyway."
"nope," michael said, standing from the couch and giving you his hand. "we're gonna bike into town. it's decided."
you groaned, grabbing his hand and rising from the couch like it pained you. you decided that you guys could decide on something else once you were outside. maybe (hopefully), jackie had just gotten home and could give you a ride.
once you both got into the garage, you scanned through the bikes like you knew what you were looking for.
"not that one," you said once michael reached for a blue one. "it's too small."
"it's la toya's," he said, glancing between you and the bike.
"la toya is shorter than me."
"okay..." he agreed, moving over to the other ones. "this one?"
"it looks low."
"the tires?" he asked, bending over to examine them. "i dont think so, it looks-"
"no. the seat."
"well, i can adjust it."
every single problem you invented michael seemed to solve. he had adjusted the seat, checked the tires, and wheeled it into the driveway for you as he went back in to get his. you stood in the driveway, holding the bike, utterly horrified. i mean, you could just pretend. it had to have been easy enough, right?
"baby, i'm not sure the brakes work," you called out to him from the driveway.
michael walked with his bike, kicking out the stand to walk over to yours. "they look fine to me," he said, squeezing the brakes on the handlebars.
"and the chain?"
"why don't you take a look?" he laughed. "seems like you know a lot about bikes."
you squatted down, pulling at the metal chain mindlessly, trying to look busy. michael released the kickstand on his own, hiking one leg over to the other side and perching on the seat. "let's go," he smiled, completely oblivious.
"mike..." you mumbled, not meeting his gaze.
"huh?"
"i don't know how..." you said even quieter.
"what? i can't hear you, baby."
"i don't know how!" you yelled out.
"to ride a bike?"
all you could do was nod. this was so embarrassing. it didn't help that michael tried to hold his laughter, biting hard onto his bottom lip, before completely falling apart into a full on belly laugh.
"don't laugh!" you scoffed. "i knew this was a bad idea. i'm going back inside and going home," you said, letting the bike fall to the ground as you walked away.
mike let his bike fall too, running after you and stopping you from opening the door by grabbing your waist. "no! baby, i'm sorry," he said between giggles. "you just should've told me! had me thinking you were an expert or something."
"i was trying to make sure it was safe," you mumbled.
"you were pulling on the chain like you were fixing it!"
your eyes narrowed at him. "seriously," you said sternly. "don't laugh."
michael planted a kiss on your cheek, watching your expression and smiling. you could never be too mad when he gave you those puppy dog eyes. "let me teach you."
you scanned around the parking lot. "no. what if someone sees? no one else can know but you."
"then we'll make sure you're a professional before anyone gets home."
you took a sharp inhale in, ready to lay some ground rules. "you cannot tell anyone. especially marlon."
"i won't."
"and you can't let go of me."
"i won't"
"michael, i'm serious. i'll freak out."
"and i'm serious too," he said, kissing your forehead now. "i'll hold on the entire time."
you scanned between him and the bikes. "the entire time?"
"the entire time," he promised.
ten minutes later, you had still not moved a single inch. michael was trying to explain the mechanics of it all, in the same way he'd explain his music, so his rambling made no sense. every time you'd try to lift both feet off the ground, you'd freak out and balance back on one foot. absolutely no progress had been made.
"are you holding on?"
mike had one hand on the handlebars, and the other on your waist. "yes."
"with both hands?"
he looked between both of his hands, nodding firmly like you guys were launching a rocket instead of riding a bike. "yes."
"michael..." you said, looking up, not even really sure what you wanted from him.
"i've got you," he promised, tightening his grip. "just put your foot up."
you squeezed your eyes shut, took a sharp breath in, and finally lifted both your feet. the bike slowly rolled forward in response.
"michael!" you yelped.
"i got you!" he laughed, keeping a firm grip on the bike and slowly moving it forward. he was completely in control and yet, you were still terrified.
"you've got to open your eyes, baby," he said, leaning down to look at you. "you're gonna fall if you don't."
you slowly peeled one eye open.
"both of them."
"you're asking for a lot," you groaned, slowly opening the other. your knuckles were turning white from how hard you were gripping the handlebars.
next on the agenda was learning how to pedal. if michael had any time in the world to be extremely patient, now was the time. you were moving at the speed of a sloth trying to learn.
"it's just like before," mike explained. "you have to put your feet up, but this time bend your knees so they'll land on the pedals." he tried to demonstrate first, raising his feet on his own bike. "see? and then i'll hold the brake so you don't move so you can get used to that."
"okay..." you replied carefully. "but keep your hand on the break."
you hopped back on your bike, michael keeping a firm grip on both the bike and you. he pressed down on the brake dramatically, showing you that he was, indeed, holding it. you slowly lifted your feet, this time with your eyes open. you took his advice, bending your knees, and letting your feet fall onto the pedals, one higher than the other.
"there you go," michael said proudly. "now move the higher foot down, and vice versa. that's how you move."
you were feeling confident, and did as he said, moving your top foot down, the wheels slowly turning.
"look at you!" he smiled, still doing nearly all the moving and steering himself, but hey. "you're a natural!"
"you're the one doing everything."
"no, i'm just steering. you're pedaling," michael said, slowly removing his one hand from the handlebar but keeping the other on your waist. the bike immediately swerved.
"michael!"
"you've got to steer now!"
"you didn't tell me that!"
"i am right now," he laughed.
you jerked the handlebar to the right, nearly falling off. michael's grasp dug harder, ready to catch you if you fell. "not so hard! just move it a little."
"but i need to balance! how do i keep it straight?"
"balancing is easier the faster you go."
you took a confident breath, trying to speed up. michael had to jog next to you to keep up. "you're doing great. just look forward."
after another fifteen minutes, you were really starting to get the hang of it. Michael had done a few runs with you, helping you get started before completely letting go. what an angel he was, you thought.
you felt like an absolute professional, even showing off by doing a full circle turn. michael had performed in front of sold-out stadiums, on tv, and had won awards, and yet, you'd never seen him as proud as he was now.
michael had helped you start, letting you continue to bike around on your own. you had looked away from the front wheel, looking around the driveway. when you weren't fixated on every single move, it felt extremely natural.
"i'm doing it," you breathed.
"you're doing it!" michael cheered back.
he noticed you were getting to the end of the driveway, right where it was completely downhill, when he remembered something. he forgot to teach you how to brake.
he jogged to keep up, trying to grab the bike before you went down the hill. "okay, now slow down!" he yelled, trying not to scare you.
"i thought you said i have to go fast to balance?"
"i didn't mean this fast!" he knew he couldn't explain how to brake right this second. "uhm- okay! now turn! hurry!"
the bike was moving fast down the hill. you started to freak out and jerked the handlebars to the left. the front wheel twisted beneath you, the bike turning completely sideways and shoving you to the ground. you tried to put out an elbow to stop you from falling, but it scraped harshly all the way down the pavement, along with your knee.
by the time michael caught up with you, you were already down. he dropped to his knees, quickly trying to assess the damage. "baby! are you okay?"
you didn't answer. the sting hadn't fully registered, but the sight of the blood coming to the surface on your knee made your throat tighten.
"let me see," he said, carefully reaching for your arm.
"don't touch it!"
michael immediately pulled back his hand. "okay. okay i won't."
you felt tears begin to spike your eyes as you spoke through the lump in your throat. "you said you wouldn't let go."
the guilt dropped to his stomach. he did promise that. "i know. i'm sorry. i'm so sorry, baby."
"and you didn't teach me how to stop!" you yelled.
"i know. that was really stupid of me."
the tears began to run down your cheeks. not even because it hurt, but because you felt humiliated. it felt like being a kid again and trying not to cry when you got hurt, with adults swarming you to check up on you.
"can i look at it?" michael said softly. "i won't touch it. i just need to see how bad it is."
you wiped your eyes with the back of your hand, nodding reluctantly.
michael took a sharp inhale when he saw both of the scrapes, both bleeding.
"is it bad?" you asked through tears.
"no-not at all. we just need to get it cleaned." he stood, offering you a hand up.
you were probably being more dramatic than needed, but you loved seeing michael like this. he was so caring and nurturing.
you took his hand, wincing in pain, before bringing your uninjured arm over his shoulder and limping onto your right knee, using him as a crutch.
you looked back at your bike sitting at the edge of the driveway as he walked you inside. "what about the bikes?"
"i'll come out and get them in a second," he said, leaning down to open the door with his unused hand.
"what if someone steals them?"
he softly laughed, trying to bring light to the situation. "then they'd be doing us a favor."
michael guided you into the house, finally getting into the bathroom and lifting you up onto the counter. "stay right there," he said, digging through the medicine cabinet and under the sink.
"mike, it's just a scrape." you started to feel bad with how seriously he was taking this.
“two scrapes,” he corrected, finally finding the first-aid kit. “and they’re both bleeding.”
"barely," you mumbled.
"you were crying," he said, opening the box to find a small bottle of hydrogen peroxide and neosporin.
"that's because you betrayed me."
he stopped fumbling with the kit, meeting your eyes. "i really am sorry." god, those puppy dog eyes were too convincing.
"i know," you said, reaching to grab his shirt to bring him closer. "i forgive you."
michael smiled as he poured the hydrogen peroxide onto a washcloth, bringing it to your knee first. "this might sting."
you winced again as he rubbed the blood off, cleaning the wound. he moved next to your elbow, doing the same before grabbing the neosporin and squeezing a small dot onto his finger. he rubbed it on both of the wounds, finally covering each wound with a band-aid.
"am i still a professional?"
michael laughed. "you were until the stopping part."
"which is completely your fault that you didn't tell me how."
"right," he nodded thoughtfully. "then yes, you're still a professional."
"can you still teach me how?"
he smiled at your determination. "i'll show you tomorrow," he promised, kissing your forehead.
summary: after being proposed to less than twenty-four hours after kissing his brother, you try to bury your feelings in wedding planning. as the wedding draws closer, you realize loving jackie wasn't enough to marry him, and leaving him wasn't enough to prove you choose michael.
tags: sfw, oneshot, angst, brother’s fiancée, love triangle, drunken kiss, engagement, yearning, cheating, mentions of j*e? (like one line), reader is insufferable, happy ending
wc: 7.2k (gn i got carried away)
a/n: thank you guys for so much support on part one! i was literally going through the five stages of grief writing this at work, so now you guys get to experience it... also, thank you to my lovely mutual who originally gave me the idea for this fic! @cupidslyrics
part 1 | part 2
part 2 - mean it this time
You stood in the foyer long after Michael had stormed out of the house. You didn't know where he planned on going, but you knew it wasn't really your business anymore.
You knew what that kiss did to him.
You wiped your cheeks with the sleeve of La Toya's sweater, moving back over to the kitchen. You slowly cleaned up for him, throwing the leftover food away and rinsing off his dishes. It felt strangely intimate, cleaning up after him. Like an apology he'd never know you made.
You turned on the faucet, letting the warm water run down your fingertips. You had until the end of the day. You had just a few hours to figure out if one drunken kiss could outweigh your five-year-long relationship.
It wasn't just a drunken kiss, though. That was the issue.
By four in the afternoon, you still had no idea what you were going to tell Michael.
You had slid a small note under his door after he left. Nothing too telling, just "Can we talk tonight?" scribbled lazily onto a ripped sticky note.
Jackie had woken up not much later, peppering you with kisses from your chin to your forehead. His hands fumbled anxiously around your waist, grabbing the fabric of your sweater like it anchored him. He took you home later, telling you that you "needed rest for tonight."
Jackie was nervous. You could tell. Even if you couldn't figure out why, it was glaringly obvious.
You didn't take Jackie's advice, pacing around your apartment after he dropped you off. You were talking to yourself, making up imaginary scenarios for how the conversation with Michael was going to go. You probably (definitely) looked crazy.
You had showered, changed, and attempted to eat something, but the throbbing headache never went away. You watched the phone more closely than usual, waiting for it to ring, but it never did. You had even picked it off the wall and held it up to your ear to make sure it was working correctly.
The dial tone ringing back at you proved that it did, in fact, still work.
Jackie told you that he'd pick you up at five, but by four-thirty, you still stood, completely unready, staring back at your closet. He hadn't told you where you were going, but made sure to emphasize you were dressed nicely. You opted for a cream-colored dress; one that he had bought you last summer. You didn't love it— it hugged you in all the wrong places, making your usually curvy figure look frumpy— but you knew Jackie liked it, so you wore it.
Right as you finished putting on your earrings, there was a knock at the door. Jackie was fifteen minutes early. As you walked to open it and tell him to give you a second to get ready, you paused after you saw what he was wearing. He had on a full suit, his hair carefully styled, smiling, with his hands hidden behind his back. You couldn't remember the last time Jackie had worn a suit, and whenever it was, it was definitely not for an outing with you.
You scanned him. "What are you wearing?"
Jackie glared down at himself. "A suit."
"I can see that... why?"
"For dinner tonight," he quickly answered. "Are you ready?"
"Almost," you said, putting a hand out to usher him in. "Let me put my shoes on."
As you bent over to slip your heels on, you looked back up and noticed brown paper peeking behind his back he was holding.
"What's that?" You pointed with your head.
He smiled wide, bringing his hands out in front to reveal a bouquet of red roses, beautifully encased in brown paper and a white ribbon.
You rose from the ground, bringing out a hand to take them from him. "What's all this for?" You asked, giggling.
"Do I need a reason to buy my girlfriend flowers?"
"Well, you usually have one," you said, bringing the flowers to your face to smell.
He laughed, leaning down to your forehead to plant a kiss. "Do you like them?"
"I love them. Thank you, baby," you smiled, leaning into him for a hug, wrapping your arms around the carefully ironed suit.
"You look beautiful," he mumbled against your neck.
Your eyes shot down, noticing his hands fumbling and shaking while grasping onto the fabric of your dress. "You're making me nervous."
"Why?"
"Because you're nervous," you said, walking over to the countertop to grab your purse. "I can feel your anxiety."
Jackie dismissed your claim. "Come on, we're going to miss our reservation."
"Where are we going?" You asked as Jackie held the front door open.
"Well, wouldn't that ruin the surprise?"
You rolled your eyes sarcastically, laughing and following him out of the door while lightly grabbing on his arm to lead you.
Jackie never told you where you were going, even while in the car on the way there. You passed familiar streets, trying to remember previous restaurants he had taken you to, but every right turn made you more confused. He was obviously taking you somewhere you two had never been.
Jackie smiled the entire ride, looking out through the middle of the backseat to watch the drive and occasionally squeezing your thigh. Usually you'd put your hand on top of his, but today, your hands sat on your purse as you stared out the backseat window.
You loved him. That's what made everything so much harder. If Jackie had treated you badly, you would've left. If he had stopped loving you, or the relationship was already falling apart, the decision would've come much easier.
But he was a good man. God, he was amazing. The guilt was eating you alive every time the thought of wishing he would just cheat on you came into rotation. You'd have to shake your head, physically swatting it away. Jackie is a dream. Most people beg for love like this.
And when you'd remember the way your stomach would twist when Michael was near; how your eyes always found him before his brother, you bit your lip so hard you could've drawn blood. Don't do this to Jackie, you thought. He doesn't deserve it.
The car eventually slowed in front of a restaurant you didn't recognize. It was beautiful; large golden pillars out front, floor-to-ceiling glass doors, and a valet booth out front with workers dressed in dress shirts and leather loafers.
The driver came around the car, opening Jackie's side door. Jackie put out a hand, holding yours as you stepped out onto the pavement. You scanned around the exterior before your eyes landed on him again. "This place is beautiful... Where did you find it?"
"I have my ways," he smirked, leading you into the building as one of the valet men opened the door.
The interior was exactly as you'd expect from the building: absolutely gorgeous. Each table was candlelit, filled with older couples that would swirl around their wine in the glass before taking a sip. The menu—though you hadn't seen it yet— probably consisted of a few light appetizers along with entrees of different overpriced meat. You knew the exact demographic of this place just by the way every server had their uniforms fully ironed, even down to the napkin folded in their pocket.
Jackie was talking to the host as you looked around, and he finally grabbed your arm as the host began leading you to your table.
"Everything is set," the woman said. "Your table is right back this way."
Your eyes shifted towards Jackie. Everything? you thought. You followed down a dimly lit hallway, before she finally led you into a room. There was only one table inside, decorated with candles and another bouquet sitting in the middle.
You stopped in the doorway, your jaw dropped looking at the room. "It's—It's beautiful... What's all this for? What's the occasion?"
Jackie moved past you, pulling out your chair for you to sit. "You're the occasion." He smiled, waiting for you to sit before pushing the chair back in.
You watched him walk to the other side and sit. His hands shook as he unfolded the napkin to set it on his lap.
The thought unraveled like a loose threat being pulled. The napkin. His hands shaking. The flowers. The suit. The private room. The way he'd been acting since last week.
Your stomach dropped as you realized. No, you thought. No, no, no.
"Are you okay?" Jackie interrupted.
You cleared your throat. "Yeah—yeah," you choked out. "I'm—I'm just hungry." You quickly grabbed the menu in front of you, scanning the appetizer list without reading a single word.
It had been five years. You guys had talked about marriage and kids before, but it all seemed so hypothetical back then. It was hitting you much harder now with how real it was.
And the worst part was that before yesterday, you would've said yes without a second thought. You'd hear him say his little speech on one knee, your eyes brimming with tears, as you yelled out 'yes' and jumped into his arms.
You were still going to say yes... right?
The rest of the dinner blended into one, horrifying playback in your mind. If the universe was ever going to give you one moment to stop time, it better give it to you now.
A waiter entered the room holding two champagne flutes and a bottle of expensive champagne. Jackie popped the cork, letting the carbonation settle before pouring you both a glass.
"To us," he smiled, lifting his glass out.
Your stomach twisted. "To us."
You took a bigger sip than you probably needed. The alcohol sure as hell wasn't going to help with your already steady hangover, but you prayed it might help drown the current situation out.
"Do you remember our first date?" Jackie asked, reaching his hand across the table to hold yours.
You nodded. "You were almost an hour late."
"What? More like twenty-five minutes," he laughed.
"Mmm, it was actually forty-five," you smiled back.
"My mom kept rambling about being a 'good man' and then got mad when I told her she was what was keeping you waiting."
You both laughed hard before finally stopping and letting the silence return. You took a long sip of your glass. "I love Katherine."
"She loves you too. The whole family does," Jackie smiled, thinking about how that same woman would be your mother-in-law after today.
"I love you," he continued. His expression had softened, all of the previous nervousness blending into something familiar and domestic.
You felt your eyes beginning to burn and your throat forming a lump from his words. "I love you too." Loving him wasn't the problem the only problem and God, you wish it was.
The server came by with your food. You had ordered some entree, something you skimmed past and decided on. You weren't very hungry at this point anyway.
You two ate mostly in silence, except for when he would remember something from your early-dating days, you would laugh about it for five minutes, and the silence would return. Getting the food down your throat was harder than you expected, and every time you thought for more than thirty seconds, you were convinced you were going to vomit right there. It was sickening how normal it all was.
After the server left to clear your plates, Jackie looked down at his lap waiting for the door to shut.
"Baby," Jackie started. "I've been trying to think all week of the right thing to say."
You wanted to interrupt him. To tell him to stop. You wanted to sob and say you couldn't think about this right now. "Jackie—"
"Please. Let me just say this before I forget."
As he stood from his chair, your heart started beating so hard it could've come out of your chest.
"I've been thinking of the right thing to say, but sitting here, enjoying a nice dinner with you, reminiscing on us," he smiled. "I realized there isn't some perfect thing. The way I feel about you doesn't need to be perfectly articulated because truly, I don't think I could put it into words."
He walked over to your side of the table, standing and holding your hands. You wished the floor would swallow you whole before he got the opportunity to reach in his jacket.
"Five years ago I was forty-five minutes late to our first date. And yes—I admit it," he giggled. "I thought you'd leave. I spent the entire drive in silence expecting you to have gotten home and unplugged your phone. I thought I'd never see you again."
Your eyes began to burn. "But you stayed. You stayed through every tour, every argument, and every reason I might have given you to stop waiting around for me."
Jackie lowered himself on one knee, fumbling with his jacket pocket before sliding out a black velvet box. "You've chosen me every day for five years. And I want to spend the rest of my life choosing you."
He let go of your hand and went to open the box. For one final moment, you considered stopping him and giving some excuse. When the box opened and caught the light, though, that all ended. It was gorgeous. It was exactly what you would've chosen for yourself.
Michael entered your mind for a moment. How were you supposed to talk to him freshly engaged? What were you supposed to tell him? Did he know?
"Will you marry me?"
You stared down at him. You loved him, and you weren't going to risk it. Michael was one, drunken kiss. The life, the family, the future you guys were building; why wouldn't you say yes?
"Baby?" Jackie asked, his smile beginning to fall.
You couldn't humiliate him like this. You couldn't choose Michael without knowing if he was even choosing you too. You're making the right decision, you told yourself.
"Yes."
Jackie's smile painted right back on, his eyes brimming with tears. "Yes?"
You nodded quickly, the tears starting to fall down your cheeks. "Yes," you smiled, bringing him into a tight hug.
Jackie's hands shook as he slid the ring into place before pulling you against him. He released a heavy sigh, one that had probably been building for the entire week. You cried into each other, laughing through the tears as his hand grasped the back of your head.
Despite the fact that the ring was light and dainty, it felt extremely heavy on your finger. It held a weight you were afraid to carry.
Jackie held your hand the entire car ride home, lifting it up sometimes to admire the ring. You're engaged. You kept waiting for the excitement to hit, but it never did.
The driveway of Hayvenhurst was filled with cars, and practically every light was on inside. You could see people shuffling and moving around beyond the windows.
"Why is everyone here?"
"For you, silly," he said, looking at your ring like it was obvious. "They all knew."
"Everyone knew?"
"I know, I was surprised they could keep it a secret too."
You both stepped out of the car, Jackie never letting go of your left hand. The second the front door creaked open, the whole house erupted in chaos. La Toya sprinted over, hugging you tightly in the entryway before holding your hand out to examine the ring.
"You said yes!" She yelled.
You laughed as she pulled you into another hug. "I said yes."
La Toya held you for a second longer, bringing your chin up to whisper in your ear. "Now are you regretting not having any fun last night?"
You slapped her arm, laughing. Katherine was behind her, moving to hug you next. "I knew you would," she said, kissing your cheek. "Welcome to the family."
You thanked her before passing through everyone in the room. They all wanted to see your ring, congratulate you, or ask what he said. Michael, though, was nowhere to be found.
You casually checked the kitchen, the living room, and even peeked your head through the studio doors, but he was never there. You didn't know whether his absence made you feel relieved or more anxious.
"Where's Michael?" Jackie asked before you could.
"He went upstairs earlier," Katherine responded. "I haven't seen him since."
You remembered the note from this morning. He must've seen it.
Before you could stop yourself, your gaze lifted towards the staircase. Michael stood at the top, leaning on the wall like he was assessing the situation before coming down. When you met his eyes, you noticed he wasn't looking back at you, but instead down at your hand, at the ring. The ring itself was an answer.
Jackie noticed him after you did. "Come on, man!" He yelled. Michael slowly descended down the stairs, finally smiling and looking at Jackie. His eyes never met yours.
Jackie gave Michael a quick side hug, slapping his shoulder. "You know, I've got to give you some credit. She did like this ring much better."
You laughed, confused. "What do you mean?" you asked.
Michael answered before Jackie could. "I picked it out."
You looked down at it, horrified, before meeting his gaze again. "You did?"
"Jackie picked out a different one."
Jackie laughed, completely unaware of the tension in the room. "It was a nice ring!"
"It was huge. I told him it was way too flashy." Michael stiffly laughed.
"And somehow, he was right," Jackie shook his head, smiling.
You rubbed your thumb over the intricate detailing on the side. "It's perfect."
"I know," Michael whispered, swallowing hard. "Congratulations."
"Thank you," Jackie smiled, pulling you flush to his side.
Michael smiled and walked past you two swiftly, his eyes lingering on yours for a moment before he looked down. Before you could say any more, La Toya pulled you into the kitchen to cut a cake they had ordered.
By ten, the guests began to leave; the older siblings going home to their own homes and the younger going upstairs to begin getting ready for bed. Michael spent maybe ten minutes downstairs before going back up, and he never came back down after that.
While Jackie sat with two of his brothers on the couch, you slipped upstairs to excuse yourself to the restroom. You walked down the opposite hall to the bathroom, standing in front of Michael's door. Your hand lifted to knock on the door, but as you caught a glimpse of your ring again, you considered turning around.
You decided to knock anyway before you could change your mind. The door opened slowly, and Michael stood holding the knob as he stared. You couldn't read his expression; it wasn't heartbroken, or angry, or disappointed, but instead he stood still, his eyes finding yours.
You had practiced this conversation a hundred times until there ended up being a ring on your finger. You didn't know what to say anymore. "I said we'd talk tonight," you whispered.
Michael opened the door wider, stepping to the side to let you in. "What is there to talk about anymore?" he asked, glancing down at your ring.
You walked into the room, carefully shutting the door behind you and letting the lock slide into place. The note you had written was still folded up on top of his dresser. You had written it before you knew.
"I didn't know he was going to propose tonight."
"Would it have changed anything if you did?"
You thought about it for a long moment. You wanted to tell him maybe. How if maybe Jackie were a worse man, it wouldn't be so hard to walk away. How if he had waited for another year to propose, you may have chosen Michael. But that wasn't what happened. You were now engaged to Jackie downstairs. You couldn't keep giving Michael 'maybes'.
"No."
Michael nodded, pressing his lips together. "Okay."
"I just didn't want to avoid you after everything that happened."
"You're not avoiding me."
You sighed hard, looking down and fumbling with your hands. "Michael..."
"Yes?"
"Last night shouldn't have happened."
Michael's expression shifted slightly, but he still stayed quiet.
"It wasn't fair to Jackie, and it wasn't fair to you either."
"You don't have to worry about me."
"But I do." Your eyes brimmed with tears, but you couldn't cry. Not here. Not because of something that was in your control. Your voice was shaky, barely above a whisper. "Are we okay?"
Michael smiled genuinely for the first time the entire night. "We will be."
Not we are, but we will be. It had to be a good enough answer for right now.
"Promise?"
Michael stared back at you. "I don't think promises carry much weight right now." His honesty stung, and you looked back down at your feet.
You turned to leave, partially because you didn't have much to say, and partially because you didn't want to cry in front of him. Before you could take the first step, though, he asked something.
"Are you happy?"
"Yes." It wasn't a lie.
"Then that's all that matters."
You just stared back, like if you looked away he would vanish. The second you walked out of that room, things would be different, so you were cherishing it. He stood for a long moment just watching too, the bittersweet tension of it all weighing on his heart.
"You should go back downstairs," he whispered.
You slowly opened the door, stepping into the hallway before turning around. "Goodnight, Michael."
"Goodnight."
Two months later, you were still waiting for we will to become we are.
Michael was painfully cordial. He congratulated you when you spoke about the wedding, answered when he was spoken to, and smiled when the rest of the family was around. Technically, nothing was wrong.
But he stopped calling. He'd sit beside his sisters at dinner instead of taking his usual seat on the other side of you from Jackie. He stopped updating you on his life.
And just when you thought your heart couldn't break anymore, you noticed the way your thoughts about him changed. How you used to fantasize about him at night in bed, imagined him running up and kissing you. Now, you'd lay awake missing his teasing, his jokes, his kindness. You just missed your best friend.
Wedding planning was busy enough to keep your mind off of it. Every week brought another decision, whether it was a venue, invitations, dresses, food, music, or a growing list of music executives Joe insisted needed to be invited.
It didn't help that out of all his brothers, Jackie had chosen Michael to be his best man.
"This is embarrassing."
Jackie laughed, one hand on your waist as he stared down at your feet."We're barely moving."
"Exactly. How am I doing it wrong?"
"You keep stepping on my feet."
"I think you're moving them on the wrong count," you laughed.
The coffee table was pushed against the wall as you and Jackie danced (or tried to) for the wedding. He claimed he was "the best dancer in the family" and had "been doing this since he was a kid", but you two still could not get the feet nor the turn right.
Jackie lifted your right arm, going to turn you. You, though, turned left. "Where are you going, girl?" Jackie laughed. "You turned the wrong way!"
You bent over your knees, laughing with him. "I thought you said turn left!"
"I put out your right hand."
"I listen to verbal confirmation," you caught your breath after laughing.
Neither of you noticed Michael had entered the room. He stood in the foyer's open doorway, looking between the furniture pushed to the side and you two in the middle of the room.
Jackie noticed him first. "Mike, come here. Show her the turn. She's incapable."
You looked back at Jackie, hitting his chest, annoyed. "I am not! He's incapable of teaching it."
Michael smiled slightly, not stepping forward. "I'm not getting involved."
A telephone rang from the kitchen when Marlon called out. "Jackie! Phone!"
Jackie sighed, letting go of your waist and walking towards the room. He pointed at Michael. "Wait," he called. "Show her the turn while I'm gone."
Michael stopped. You watched him from across the room. "You can show her when you get back," he tried to say casually.
"It'll take two minutes. Come on," Jackie said, already out of the room, so Michael didn't have much room to argue anymore.
Michael didn't move from the doorway, looking anywhere except at you.
"Well?" you asked.
"Well what?"
"Show me the turn."
"You don't need me to."
"Apparently I do," you tried to joke.
Michael sighed, looking towards the kitchen. He hoped Jackie would walk through again, but he didn't. "He's lifting your hand too early. You need to take another step before you turn."
"That's it?"
"Yes."
"No—Michael, you have to actually dance with me to show me." His eyes finally met yours. "It's just dancing," you added.
"Yeah..." he paused, taking a sharp inhale before walking over. "Yeah, it's just dancing."
Michael took your hand, your fingers interlocking as he reached his other hand towards your waist. You tried not to react when he touched you, but you practically stopped breathing.
"Put your hand on my shoulder."
You quickly moved your hand, acting like you hadn't forgotten in the moment. "I know how to slow dance."
"I don't know about that," he laughed.
You laughed along with him. For the first time in months, his shoulders seemed to fall around you, and his smile seemed genuine.
"Start with your left," he said, looking down at your feet.
You followed him, expecting to step on him the same way you were with Jackie. Michael adjusted, though, moving you firmly whenever you took a step wrong. Your mind began to close in on the feeling of his large hand on the small of your back, his fingertips lightly tracing the fabric of your shirt.
"Stop looking down," he said.
"I'm trying not to hurt you."
"You haven't."
You looked up, but Michael was already looking at you. For just this moment, everything felt right. After a few steps Michael counted under his breath, he lifted his hand to spin you.
"Now turn."
You spun, falling perfectly into place, both of his feet still intact. When the spin ended, Michael brought you back to him, pulling you flush to his chest. Your breath caught in your throat. "See?" you whispered, your words barely registering to either of you. "It was Jackie's fault."
Michael should have laughed, but he was staring at your lips. "Yeah... I guess it was."
You could still hear Jackie talking on the phone, but right here, in Michael's arms, his voice felt planets away.
"Why have you been avoiding me?"
Michael's eyebrows furrowed, bringing him back to the present moment. "I haven't."
"Michael. You don't call, you don't sit next to me. Hell, you barely talk to me."
He looked back, offended, but there was a softness underneath. "You're engaged."
"I know."
"Then why are you asking?"
"Because I miss you." Michael's hands froze. "I miss my best friend. I don't understand why everything had to change," you paused, swallowing hard. Michael had stopped whispering the counts. "You said we'd be okay."
"We will."
"When?" you asked, starting to get upset. "It's been months."
"And you're still engaged."
You let go of his shoulder, but he still kept a firm grip on your waist. "What is that supposed to mean? We can't be friends?"
"That's easy for you to say."
"What?"
Michael sighed. "After that night, you got everything back. You didn't lose anything. I did."
He let go of your waist too, leaving only your hands interlocked. "I'm his best man. I'm doing everything I can to make this easy for him."
"You didn't have to agree to that. He's got plenty of brothers."
"What was I supposed to tell him?"
"No?" you said, more like a question because it was so glaringly obvious.
"That's funny coming from you."
You immediately released his hand, Jackie's footsteps entering the room.
"Did she figure it out?" Jackie asked.
"Yeah. She follows just fine," Michael said, looking at you one final time.
Michael went back up the stairs. Jackie laughed, walking towards you. "So it was me?"
"I guess so," you tried to laugh, but your eyes fixated on the staircase.
Jackie replayed the track, moving through the dance again. Once you two got to the turn, you did it perfectly, never stepping on his feet.
"There you go," he smiled, kissing your forehead. "You're ready."
You had never been less ready in your life.
The invitations arrived a week later. The large box of cream-colored cards sat, both your names in gold lettering. It was weird seeing them written like this. It shouldn't have made you as uncomfortable as it did; your names had been written on birthday cards, hotel reservations, and little notes you'd leave around your apartment. This time, they looked horrifyingly permanent.
Jackie grabbed a stack out of the box. "Can you start addressing these?"
You sat frozen, not even looking up at him to grab the cards.
"Baby?" he asked, watching you closely.
"We need to talk," you said, pulling at a string at the bottom of your sweater.
He took a seat at the island next to you. "We are talking," he said carefully.
You had practiced this conversation ever since you first said yes. Yet now, the words seemed to catch in your throat.
"What happened?" he asked.
"Nothing happened."
"Then what do we have to talk about?"
You twisted the ring on your finger. Jackie's gaze fell, watching you do it.
"I don't think I can do this."
His heart dropped. He waited for you to continue, but you just sat silently, playing with the ring.
"What do you mean?"
"Everything. The wedding. I just," you took a sharp inhale. "I don't think I can do it."
Jackie shook his head. "Don't say that unless you mean it."
Your eyes filled with tears faster than you wanted them to. "I do."
It's funny, those were the exact words you were supposed to be saying in three months.
He stood up, pushing the chair back in harder than intended. "You said yes."
"I know."
"We've been planning this for months."
"I know."
"My entire family knows. People were making arrangements."
"I know."
He slammed a hand on the countertop. "Stop saying 'I know'!"
You flinched, meeting his eyes again as tears streamed down your cheeks. He put his fists to his side, letting his hands relax as he walked closer. "I'm sorry," he said, his brows furrowing. "Why?"
"I don't know."
"Did you stop loving me?"
"No, Jackie. I love you."
"Was there..." he stopped, the words tasting bitter on his tongue. "Was there someone else?" he asked, scanning your face for the truth.
"No," you said, matter-of-fact, forcing yourself not to look away. Michael wasn't yours. That happened before the proposal. You weren't ending this to run to him. Still, it didn't feel completely honest.
"Then what's the issue?"
You anxiously shot your eyes around the room, afraid to look at him. " I just..." you started. "Between all the wedding prep and how busy everything's been, I don't think I've really stopped to ask if I even wanted this."
"Five years," Jackie tried to hold back his tears. "And you don't know if you want me?"He wanted to scream. He wanted to tell you no, that you were just nervous about the wedding. That you could still make it work.
Who was he to tell you what you wanted, though?
"I do want you."
He scoffed. "Just not enough to marry me."
Jackie looked away, laughing bitterly under his breath. "You hesitated."
"What?"
"Whenever I proposed. Before you said yes."
You hadn't realized he noticed. "I made excuses for you. I said you were just shocked. I assumed you'd feel better once we started planning. I've been making excuses for you ever since."
"I'm sorry." That's all you could say.
He had started pacing around the kitchen. "What am I supposed to tell everyone?"
You shot up quickly. "Tell them it was me."
"It was both of us."
"No," you cried. "You didn't do anything wrong."
"I didn't do everything right. I don't want the family to blame you," he got quiet. "Even if I do."
Jackie walked back toward you, pulling you into a familiar hug. You immediately began crying against him. He held you tight as tears began falling from his eyes as well. Five years existed within that hug. Every tour, every holiday, every argument and apology was ending beside a box of cards neither of you would ever send.
Jackie pulled away. "I think we need time apart," he said, wiping his face. "Real time."
"Okay."
"And I don't know how long it will take for me to forgive you."
"I understand. I'm going to miss you," you confessed. And it was true.
Jackie smiled. "I think we both just need to remember where I stop and you begin."
Out of habit, he leaned down and kissed your forehead. "Take care of yourself."
You smiled at the familiarity of it all, grabbing the ring from your left hand. It left an indent in your finger despite only wearing it for a few months. "You too."
He took the ring, holding it tight in his palm. It held the emotional weight of five years of happiness. He stepped away, turning to leave. Once he walked out the door, he didn't look back.
You stood in your own kitchen, scattered cards lying on the counter. They all had a name and date for a wedding that wasn't happening. For the first time in five years, there was no longer an us.
Right after Jackie left, your first instinct was to call someone. You could've called La Toya, but you weren't ready for the family to know. Also, how could you explain it without explaining you and Michael first?
Instead, you opted to call Michael. You weren't proud of it. But he would understand. Underneath all the drama and the time apart, he was still your best friend. You called his studio number. You were afraid if you called the main house number, someone else would answer. You knew he'd answer anyway; he spent most of his time in that room.
You hadn't used this number in months, but your fingers still had it memorized as you dialed. He answered on the third ring, staying silent before finally speaking.
"...Hello?"
The sound of his voice made whatever composure you had left disappear. "Michael?" you choked out.
"What's wrong?"
You covered your mouth, trying to quiet the sob that threatened to come out. "Can you come over?"
"What happened?"
"I can't—" You looked at the invitations scattered across the counter. "I can't tell you over the phone."
You heard rustling on the other line and him faintly speaking to someone else. "I'm leaving now," he finally said.
The line went dead before you could say anything else. You hung the phone back up, staring at where Jackie had been standing. The ring was gone, but a clear indent remained. You compared it to your right hand. Was it always there?
Michael arrived less than twenty minutes later. He knocked softly on your front door, his hands fidgeting as he waited. He knew how to be friends with you. He actually knew you so well that he knew something was wrong from the second he picked up the phone. Doing this was muscle memory.
When you opened the door, he noticed your eyes were red and puffy as you sniffled.
"What happened?" he asked again.
You tried to answer, but the tears began to fall again. You ran up, quickly hugging him as you sobbed into his shirt.
"It's okay," he said, holding you tight as he rubbed his thumb across your back. "I've got you."
You had forgotten how much you missed hearing him say that. He held you until your knees weakened, and he finally walked (or waddled) you over to the couch. Every time you went to talk and explain, the words caught in your throat as you began crying again. He stood up to grab you a box of tissues, and you finally caught your breath.
"I probably look horrible."
"You do," he tried to joke. You laughed along with him, but very quickly, that laugh turned into a sob again. He pulled you tight to his chest, laughing. "I'm kidding... oh my."
For a few more minutes, neither of you spoke. He continued to rub your back, pulling away the slick strands of hair that started sticking to your cheeks. You had cried so hard you started hiccuping, and would routinely hiccup into his chest between tears. It was scary how easily the two of you returned to this. Two months of distance disappeared the second you needed him.
Michael's eyes scanned around the room, finally landing on the cards in the kitchen.
"Did Jackie leave?"
All you could do was nod.
"For the night?"
"For—hic—For good."
Michael inhaled sharply, but he didn't loosen his grip on you.
"I ended it," you continued. "I gave him the ring back." You began crying again, trying to talk through tears. "I hurt him so bad, Michael."
"I'm sorry."
You pulled away just enough to look at him. "No, you're not."
"But you're not sorry the wedding is off." It was more of a statement than a question.
Michael chose not to answer and looked away.
"See?"
"Do you want me to lie to you right now?"
You tried to stare at him, reading his expression, when another hiccup came through. Michael smiled, trying to bite his lip so he didn't laugh.
"Don't—hic—laugh at me!"
He was full on laughing now. "I'm not!"
"Yes you areeeee," you dragged out, half-laughing, half-crying.
"My gosh, you are a mess," he laughed, standing up from the couch. "Let's get you some water."
He filled up a cup at the sink, bringing it over and out until you grabbed it to take a sip, still hiccuping beside him.
"I didn't end it for you," you finally said.
"Okay. Good."
"I need you to know that."
He rubbed the top of your head like a little kid. "You don't need to explain anything to me tonight."
"I do," you said, setting the glass on the coffee table in front of you. "I left because I was scared of making a decision that big without even knowing if it's what I really wanted. For the record, I didn't even know if you still loved m—"
"I do." He cut you off, looking down at his hands. "That's the problem."
"I love you." The words left quicker than you'd like. They were true, without a doubt, but you started to second-guess yourself when he closed his eyes, and his body stiffened after hearing them.
"No."
"No?"
"We can't do this right now."
"But it's true," you insisted.
"You just ended things with Jackie."
"It doesn't change the way I feel about you."
"But it does change how much either of us can trust how you feel right now."
You sighed, looking down at the couch.
"You're crying over my brother," he tried to further his argument. "And you should be. You loved him. You were going to marry him. I'm not asking you not to be upset."
"Then why does it feel like I don't get you just because I'm sad about him?"
He lightly laughed at your contradicting argument. "I'm not saying no. I'm saying no tonight."
"Then when?"
"I don't know—a few months?"
"What?"
"If you love me when this doesn't hurt so much, tell me again." His thumb brushed across the bare skin where your ring had been. "Tell me when you're not looking for someone to make losing Jackie feel easier."
"And if I do?"
"Then we'll talk about it then."
"You're annoying."
"Coming from the girl who just said she loves me," he laughed, your head resting against his shoulder.
"Are you going to disappear again?" you asked.
"No."
"Promise?"
Michael looked down into your eyes. "I promise I'll be your friend."
It wasn't everything you wanted out of the night, but it was enough. You got your best friend back, and that was enough.
Four months later, you still loved Michael, but not in the way that you used to. Not in the 'the world will end if we can't be together ' way, or the 'escape from your hurt with Jackie' way. Instead, it was in an incredibly simple way.
You loved how he'd remember small things you said over the phone. You loved how he'd open your car door. You loved how he'd relax whenever he'd come over to your place for movie nights. You loved having your person back, regardless of whether it was platonic.
The Jackson family had learned how to talk about you without an uncomfortable silence following. They took the news hard, but even La Toya told you, verbatim, that she 'saw that coming.' Even you and Jackie were doing better. He still wanted his space, and you respected that, but you had called a total of three times since then, and it wasn't completely devastating to hear his voice.
Michael had kept his promise. He started calling again; first every few weeks, then days, then every day. He'd call to complain, come over for dinner, and stretch on your couch like the last six months had never happened.
Neither of you mentioned what you said that night. You were convinced he had forgotten. Maybe you wished he had; it would probably make it less awkward.
Tonight was like every other normal night. Michael had come over to watch a movie, bringing his fancy popcorn maker over from Hayvenhurst. He held a movie he had already seen and insisted you would love it. You rolled your eyes just seeing the cover.
"What? You don't even know what it's about," he tried to defend, making you both a bowl of popcorn.
"You have bad taste in movies regardless."
"Mhm... and that's why you cried during the last one?"
"I had something in my eye," you smiled.
"For an hour?"
"Lint doesn't have a time limit." You both laughed.
You both sat on the couch, eating as you watched. You stopped paying attention thirty minutes in. Michael was relaxed beside you, his shoes kicked off as his feet rested atop the coffee table. You stared at him as he ate another handful of popcorn.
"What?" he finally asked.
"Nothing."
"You're creeping me out... stop staring."
You smiled. "Can I not look at you?"
He brushed it off, rolling his eyes and focusing back on the movie. He still saw you watching in his periphery, though. He grabbed the remote, deciding to pause it and turn towards you.
"Okay," he said, settling to fully look at you. "What do you want?"
"I love you."
"I know that."
"You told me to tell you again in a few months."
"How many has it been?" he joked, pretending like he was trying to remember.
"Four!" you said, slapping his arm.
Michael set the bowl down, wiping the salt across the blanket. His joking demeanor vanished completely.
"Do you still miss him?"
"Sometimes," you answered honestly. "But I don't want him back. Missing someone doesn't mean you made the wrong decision."
Michael looked down. "And you're not just saying this because I'm here?"
"No," you said, moving closer. "I'm saying this because I kept choosing you."
He swallowed hard. "I talked to Jackie," he admitted.
"About me?"
"About how I feel about you."
Your stomach dropped. "What did he say?"
"That he already knew."
You felt the guilt rising in your stomach. "Is he okay?" you whispered.
"No... but he will be."
We will be. It was finally true.
"He isn't happy about this," Michael sighed. "I don't think we should expect him to be. But I wasn't going to start anything with you and hide it from him."
You smiled at his response. "Oh, so now we're a 'this?'"
"Hmm, that depends."
"On what?"
"If you still want me," he smirked.
You rolled your eyes. "You're going to make me say it?"
"I listen to verbal confirmation."
You shook your head. "Yes, Michael. I still want you."
His gaze dropped to your lips. Unlike the first time, you weren't drunk. Jackie wasn't in the house, and you didn't have a ring waiting for you tomorrow. Everything felt like it was finally falling into place.
"Can I kiss you?" he asked.
Before you could say yes, you leaned in close, kissing him first. His hand found your cheek as yours rested lightly on each side of his neck.
There was no panic this time. No guilt waiting tomorrow morning. You were ready to choose him today, choose him tomorrow, and every day after.
"I love you too," Michael said softly against your skin.
Camille was nothing short of busy, spending most of her days waking up early and falling asleep on her marble countertop while reviewing scripts late at night. She had another press interview with Daniel on Wednesday, an industry event Thursday, three different meetings on Friday, and photoshoot fittings for preparation over the weekend. Now, Monday, the previous week had completely burned her out, and she practically had to beg Evelyn to clear her schedule, just for one day.
After a lot of negotiating and a meeting having to be moved to Tuesday, she was finally allowed to sit and breathe. Of course, not before her mother woke her up at 8 a.m. to call and check up– which ended up being an hour-long call.
"I know, maman." Camille sighed, leaning over the counter and cradling the receiver in the crook of her neck, dropping a large scoop of crushed coffee beans into the coffee maker. "I'll come visit next week."
Her mom continued talking, speaking so quickly that Camille barely had a second to get a word in.
"Yes." Another sentence, followed by a question, then silence. "Yes." Another, her mother even humming after her question, waiting for an answer. "I said yes."
Camille sighed as her mother finally said goodbye. "I love you too," she smiled, finally hanging the phone back on the wall. The coffee maker familiarly sputtered before dripping the coffee into the pot below. She stood, leaning her hip on the counter as she waited, appreciating the small silence while it lasted. It wasn't every day she didn't have somewhere to be, and she was fully committed to taking advantage of it today.
Still dressed in an oversized silk pajama set, she rubbed her eyes, bringing a hand up to grab a mug from the cupboard. Just as she poured herself a cup, the intercom beside the door buzzed loudly, interrupting.
She groaned, walking over to it when it buzzed again.
"Jesus, I'm coming," she said, completely to herself. The small silver button buzzed back when she pressed down on it.
"Good morning," a familiar voice chirped.
"Daniel? What are you doing here?"
"Evelyn told me you had a free day. We're going to breakfast."
Camille stumbled, trying to find an excuse. "I just woke up! I'm still in my pajamas!"
"See you in five minutes down here," Daniel replied enthusiastically.
"But–" she tried to protest, but heard the familiar buzz of the line ending. "...Hello? ...Daniel?"
She groaned loudly, taking her finger off the button and beginning to walk back to her room to get ready, leaving the full cup of coffee on the counter abandoned.
"Unbelievable," she muttered. "No one seems to respect a girl's well-deserved day off."
Ten minutes later, she emerged from the bedroom, quickly fastening a pair of pearl earrings, her hair lazily pinned up, in an effort to look presentable. She hopped out, putting on a heel before grabbing her purse sitting on the counter.
Down the hall, an elevator operator stood, smiling lightly when she came closer.
"Good morning, Camille."
"Morning," she sighed, entering the open door he was holding.
"Your friend had been down there for ten minutes."
"Don't remind me. He's very impatient," she laughed.
Living somewhere with an elevator operator, doorman, and full-time security had once felt incredibly extravagant. Now it was simply another part of her life.
As the elevator landed on the bottom floor, the doors opened, reflecting the dark hardwood floors that still smelled of fresh polish and the gold chandeliers in the lobby. Daniel stood, smiling brightly once he saw Camille.
"Only took you eleven minutes."
Camille thanked the operator, walking towards Daniel and rolling her eyes. "You're lucky it wasn't longer."
"I was convinced you went back to bed."
"I was considering it," she laughed, pulling her bag higher on her shoulder. "I honestly still am."
"You'll feel better after breakfast."
"I already had breakfast."
"Coffee doesn't count, unfortunately," Daniel shook his head, walking towards the large glass doors. The outside of New York was dark, clouds covering the sky as light snowflakes fell. The contrast was stark between the warm, golden lighting inside and the cool blue of the city.
The doorman nodded, opening one of the large doors and holding it. The sharp wind of December flooded in, immediately waking any tiredness left in Camille. She quickly stuffed her chin in the neck of her jacket, throwing her hands into her pockets as her purse casually slipped further down her shoulder. She had officially regretted changing out of her warm pajamas.
A flash went off across the street; a paparazzi stationed outside the apartments, waiting for someone famous to walk out. He jumped at the opportunity, quickly bringing up his camera to get a photo of her and Daniel.
"Really? Even in this weather?" She huffed.
Daniel followed her gaze, moving from Camille so they weren't walking so close together. "They must've got here after I came."
"And now they get a photo of us leaving my apartment."
Camille looked away, walking towards the curb where a dark car pulled up. Daniel smoothly walked in front of her, opening her door as he raised an arm for the paparazzi across the street. Camille quickly grabbed his arm to shoot it down.
"Please just get in the car and don't encourage them," she said as Daniel lightly chuckled and shut her door, moving to the opposite side of the car.
The car pulled from the curb, slipping back into routine traffic. The photographers got further and further away, blending into the city life. The windshield wipers swiped the falling snow from the window, even though snow had already begun piling up in the crevice at the bottom.
"If the next headline says something about you leaving my apartment, I'm blaming it on you."
Daniel just laughed, ignoring Camille's annoyance and changing the subject. "Did you sleep at all last night?"
"Obviously I slept."
"Okay... for how long?"
"Enough."
"Enough usually means not enough."
"And why does my sleep schedule pertain to you?"
Daniel lightly punched her arm. "Because you act like this with me if you don't get enough sleep."
Camille softened her shoulders, finally smiling for the first time this morning. "Okay, you win. But that's why I needed that coffee."
The car slowed, joining the usual morning traffic of Manhattan. Pedestrians hurried on sidewalks, holding newspapers over their heads as a shield from the snow. Yellow taxis accelerated once the lights turned green, slipping through thin slush.
"Evelyn said you've been impossible to reach this week."
"Evelyn has seen me every day this week," Camille shot back.
"Still, it seems like you've been ignoring calls," Daniel implied.
"I answer every call that comes through."
"Yet you ignored my call yesterday."
"That's because it's you."
Daniel acted sarcastically shocked. "I'm offended."
The truth was, she had answered pretty much every call. Most of them even before the second ring.
It was always Evelyn calling to review her thoughts on a new script, her mother checking in to make sure she was eating well, and directors who knew her personal line calling to offer her roles. It should've felt like a blessing to be this busy, but in the midst of it all, she could only think about one thing.
It was never Michael who called. Not that she'd been waiting for him. She was busy, exhaustingly busy. Still, every time the telephone rang, she found herself moving just a little faster than before.
Her life continued around her just the same as before she scribbled her number on a napkin. That was six days ago now. When did she start counting?
The car slowed beneath the restaurant awning before she could continue, a familiar doorman standing outside, walking over to the car to grab the door.
"Miss Beaumont," he nodded, Camille stepping out of the car and flashing a smile.
"Good morning."
Daniel slid across the back seat, leaning out of the same door and greeting the doorman. "Morning."
"Good morning, Mr. Hart."
The doorman held the restaurant door open, both of them swiftly walking in and meeting the host at the front desk. She had a phone cradled in her shoulder, holding open a reservation planner and flipping through as she talked.
When Camille and Daniel walked in, she smiled, holding a finger up and scribbling a last name into one of the boxes before dropping the receiver back down.
"Hello, we have your usual table ready. Please follow me," the young woman said.
Daniel thanked her, following her closely with Camille. "You called ahead?" Camille asked.
"I just wanted to make sure they had the one in the back."
Both of them sat at a round table in the back. Every table they walked by glanced, focusing back on their coffee, and forgot about it.
The host set down two menus on the table. "Your server will be right with you."
Camille smiled, nodding when the woman continued. "And Miss Beaumont?"
"Mhm?" she mumbled, taking a sip of her water.
"I just wanted to say I love your work."
"Thank you," she smiled. "That's really sweet."
The host nodded, turning on her heels and walking back towards the stand. She never asked for an autograph, just gave a compliment about her work.
Daniel watched her walk back to the front before speaking. "Nothing about my work."
Camille looked back, unimpressed. "It must be hard being reduced to my breakfast companion."
The usual server appeared at the table, holding a pot of coffee, flipping over both of the mugs in front of them and pouring a gracious amount. Camille thanked him before bringing her lips to the glass to take a small sip off the top.
"Better?" Daniel asked.
"Much better."
The server took their orders, scratching them onto a paper notepad before returning to the back.
Daniel took a sip of his coffee, relaxing in the chair. "So, which role are you taking?"
"How do you know about my future roles?" Camille asked.
"Evelyn sent me the scripts."
"Why?"
Daniel shrugged. "She wanted my opinion."
"Does everyone talk about my career behind my back?"
"Only when you refuse to answer the phone," he replied. "So?"
Camille settled in her chair, sighing. "I don't know," she admitted. "Evelyn likes the period piece."
"Of course she does."
"She says it's safer, better for the media." Camille grabbed across the table for the small creamer cup.
"It's also twelve weeks in LA next year, and you can't book anything else if you do."
Camille poured the creamer, watching the dark brown coffee turn lighter. "It's a good director."
"But it's not what you want, Camille. That's obvious."
"I like the comedy better," she confessed.
Daniel took another sip of his drink. "Then why not take it?"
"It's not that easy," she sighed. "Everyone still thinks I'm that little girl from the television. If I spend an hour and a half tripping over furniture and making jokes, I'm not exactly proving them wrong."
Daniel shot back quickly. "But standing silently in the background of a serious one will? Doing another movie in a dress far too small for you while the entire world talks about your looks proves you're not little anymore?"
Camille rolled her eyes, focusing back down at the cup. "So you don't like the romance either," she stated.
"It's not that I don't. I know you don't like it. You want something more. I think you should chase that instead of whatever looks best on paper."
Camille smiled, looking back up at him and shaking her head. "When did you become so wise?"
"I usually am; you just never noticed."
Camille lightly chuckled, taking a sip of her drink while looking around the restaurant, deep in thought. "The period piece is based in the 20s. I bet the sets would be so cool."
Daniel watched her think. "Since when do you care about movie sets?"
Camille set her cup down, resting her elbows on the table. "I know, I never have... I was blown away when I saw The Wiz ones though."
"You saw them?"
"Yeah, they're still filming," she added. "Michael showed me."
"Michael who?"
"Michael Jackson, how many Michaels do you think I know?"
"Apparently one well enough to wander around his movie set with him."
Camille smiled, remembering the night. "It was after the record store; we got fried chicken and ate it there. It was actually pretty funny; we had to sit on this little blanket next to the set of the yellow brick road and practically had a little picnic."
"What a weird first date."
"It was not a date," Camille corrected sternly. "We just got food."
Daniel leaned back in his chair, listening.
"You should've seen the costumes. Diana Ross' shoes were out, just sitting on the shelf. They had grey rhinestones instead of the red. Isn't that interesting?"
"Very."
"And Michael's costume was absolutely ginormous. They have to stuff it with trash bags and other stuff."
Daniel's face wrinkled. "Trash bags?"
"Well, obviously clean ones. He told me the real straw was too itchy."
"That's understandable."
Camille relaxed her shoulders, realizing how excited she had just gotten. "Anyways, it was fun. He knows all these little things about the cast. Even the costumer designers, producers, everything. You'd think he was a full-on actor."
"It sounds like it was fun."
Nothing was embarrassing in admitting it. Michael was interesting, and she enjoyed the time she spent with him. It didn't have to be any more than that.
"Are you going to see him again?" Daniel asked.
"I don't know, I gave him my number."
"I'm assuming he hasn't called?"
"No," she shook her head, trying to seem less bothered than she was.
"I wouldn't overthink it. He is filming a movie, as you said."
Camille only shrugged her shoulders.
"How long has it been?" Daniel continued.
"Six days."
Daniel laughed into his cup. "That isn't very long."
"I know it isn't. I'm not upset; I just kind of thought he would."
"He probably will."
"And if he doesn't?" Camille shot back quickly.
"Then he doesn't," Daniel shrugged. Camille frowned at his simplistic answer. "It doesn't make the night any less enjoyable," he added. "You enjoyed yourself, had a nice night, and maybe made a new friend. None of that changes just because the phone hasn't rung."
Daniel watched how his advice still managed to leave her pouting. "Do you like him?"
"I don't know," she started. "I just don't know if I like him like that. I barely know him."
"Well then you don't have to put a label on how you're feeling."
"That sounded intelligent."
"I have my moments," he nodded. "He does sound nice, though. I'd like to meet him."
"Why?"
"Because you've spent the last five minutes talking about the yellow brick road and trash bags, and yet you look the happiest you have all morning."
Camille kicked his leg under the table. "What? I said I liked him," Daniel laughed.
"You haven't even met him."
"Well then I guess he better call you."
By the early evening, a small layer of snow had covered the top of every building Camille could see. After breakfast, she was now dedicated to enjoying her day off.
She sat on the couch in a white, cotton robe, her hair still damp from a shower. A black and white movie played on the television, lighting up the otherwise darkened living room. A bowl of popcorn sat on the glass table; her foot rested beside it as she carefully painted her toes a deep shade of red.
In the movie, a woman had run into a hotel lobby as a man called her name repeatedly, pretending not to hear him. Camille grabbed another handful of popcorn.
The telephone rang beside the counter in the kitchen, Camille's hand still deep inside the bowl. She shot up, wiping the salt on her robe and grabbing the phone, all before the second ring.
"Hello?"
"Before you start complaining," Evelyn started. "They've changed the start time of the meeting to 7:15."
Camille sighed loudly into the receiver. "Ugh. 7:15 is criminal."
"You wanted today off."
"And now I'm being punished for not working myself into the ground."
"Wear something warm. They expect it to snow all through the night. And bring both scripts; Martin wants to know what you're considering next"
"I already know which I want," Camille said, hopping up onto the counter to sit and continue painting her toes.
"The comedy?"
"If you already know, then why are we having a meeting?"
"Because wanting to do something and committing a year of your career to it is very different."
"Do you not think I should do the comedy?"
Camille could faintly hear the rustling of a planner from the phone. "I don't think you shouldn't do it, it's just," Evelyn continued. "You're young, Camille. You're in the peak of your career. As your friend, of course I want you to do what you want. As your publicist, though, I think you should be smart."
"And the period piece is smart?"
"The period piece has a respected director, a higher budget, and would look much better. You shouldn't completely disregard it."
Camille painted a small stripe of red on her pinky toe, taking her nail to clean it up. "Fine. I'll see what Martin has to say tomorrow."
Evelyn sighed, her voice immediately changing to a more enthusiastic version. "Well now that that's done... tell me about Michael Jackson."
"Oh, my God."
"Vincent told me!"
"Vincent talks too much."
"Maybe... but I want to hear all about it. Did you guys have—"
"Jesus, Eve! No!" Camille cut her off quickly. "We literally just got food and went to a soundstage."
"I've already heard that much. I want to hear what Vinny didn't see."
"I've already spent my entire morning explaining this to Daniel."
"Well, Daniel doesn't ask enough questions."
"That's what I like about him," Camille said.
"No, that's a serious character flaw," Evelyn stated. "So, who asked who?"
"He asked me, obviously."
"What'd he say?"
"He said he was enjoying himself and wanted to keep hanging out."
"And then?"
"We went to the soundstage and ate Kentucky Fried."
"No, really?" Evelyn teased sarcastically. "What did you guys talk about?"
"Work, movies, what's next."
"That is horrifically boring. Did he bring up Daniel?"
Camille sat silent on the other line, trying to hide a smirk Evelyn couldn't see anyway.
"He did! You have to tell me what you said."
"I told him we had been dating for three years."
"Oh no."
"...And that he was proposing."
"You're evil!" Evelyn laughed loudly.
"You should've seen his face!" Camille laughed with her. "He looked so scared and still told me congrats."
"When did he ask for your number?"
Camille's laughter died out. "Six days ago," she said softly, like a confession.
"You counted."
"I did not; it just," she fumbled. "It just happened six days ago. I'm just very updated on the date."
"Mhm... do you hope he calls?"
"Just as much as I hope a new friend I gave my number to calls."
"Friend... I'll make sure to quote that when his tongue is halfway down your thro—"
"Goodnight, Eve! 7:15, I got it!" Camille cut her off, slamming the phone back against the wall.
She took three full steps back to the couch before the phone started ringing again. She huffed, walking over quickly and grabbing it again.
"I swear to God, Eve, I do not need to be interrogated—"
"Camille?"
Her hand froze. The familiar voice on the other end was quiet, almost uncertain.
"Michael?"
"Hi," he said softly.
"Hi..." she stumbled, lowering the polish brush back into the container.
"Sorry, is this a bad time?"
"No—no, not at all. I was just calling my publicist. Evelyn has a hard time knowing when conversations are over"
Michael laughed on the other end. "What are you up to?"
"Currently watching a movie," she said, looking back over at the living room.
"What movie?"
"I'm not even sure. I missed half of it," she smiled. "What about you?"
"Camille," he started, disregarding her question. "I'm sorry I haven't called. This last stretch of filming has been exhausting, and every night once I get home, I think it's too late to call."
Camille smiled into the receiver even though he couldn't see it. "Well, you'll be pleased to know phones work after nine."
"I wasn't sure if yours did."
"It does."
"Good to know," Michael said, laughing quietly. "Especially because I almost called last night."
Camille blushed behind the phone. "Why didn't you?"
"It was after eleven."
"Michael."
"I know, I know, but I still think you shouldn't bother a girl that late at night. Doesn't send off the right message," he started, laughing as he remembered something. "It's because one of your old movies was on TV."
"Which one?"
"The one where you're in that little blue dress and are trying to steal that necklace for half the movie."
"Oh, God. You turned it off, I hope?"
"Of course not. Watched the whole thing."
"That was your first mistake."
"I liked it!"
"Then you have terrible taste." She leaned down to the edge of her toe, noticing she had painted the side of her skin during the conversation. "Bon, look what you've made me do."
"What'd I do?"
"Distracted me. Now my foot's covered in red polish."
"You're painting your toenails?"
"Attempting to," she said, taking her finger to clean up the rest. "Or maybe the whole toe."
"You're quite the multitasker; a movie, talking to me, and painting your toenails."
"Seems like I can't even relax on my day off."
A long moment of silence stretched before either of them said anything, Michael finally speaking up to break the ice.
"Well," he said. "I should probably get back to the set before someone comes looking for me."
"You're calling me from set?"
"Yeah... I snuck into one of the makeup trailers."
"Just to call me?"
"I was afraid if I waited till I got home it'd be too late again. Anyway, I need a break."
"Are you still in costume?"
Michael smiled at himself in the mirror, realizing how ridiculous he looked. "Yep, the whole get-up and everything."
"You called me as a scarecrow?"
"Why does that change anything?"
"I would've taken you much less seriously."
Michael laughed as a distant knock could be heard on the door.
"Michael?" a muffled voice called. "They're ready for you."
Camille heard through the call, answering. "Well, it sounds like your hiding spot has been found."
The city passed quickly by them, blending sidewalk lamps, reflective skyscrapers, and the rippling water below a bridge, into one, endless shade of copper.
New York had grown quieter, the hustle and bustle dying every five hundred feet when the buildings started to get wider instead of taller. The only sound out here was the occasional taxi slipping through an intersection or the distant rumble of the subway somewhere beneath them.
Camille sat peacefully, absentmindedly tracing the city's skyline with her eyes as she watched through the car window. She had spent the last two years in New York, and yet, she'd never seen this part of the city.
Vincent turned on a side street. Camille leaned slightly forward once a security gate came into view. Vincent eased the car up to the small booth surrounded by tall iron fencing, stopping just behind the barrier arm as Michael rolled down his window from the backseat.
"Evening, Michael," the guard chirped.
"Good evening," Michael smiled.
The guard's eyes briefly flickered toward Vincent, then Camille sitting beside Michael, lingering for only a moment before returning to him.
"Back again, huh?"
"I practically live here now," Michael huffed.
The guard let out a soft laugh of his own, pressing a small button behind the booth walls. The barrier arm lifted with a low, mechanical hum as it rose, leaving the pathway clear.
"You guys have a good night," the guard waved.
Vincent pulled past, following the long winding road deeper into the lot. Towering soundstages rested under bright floodlights. Production trailers sat carefully in neat rows, large white cables stringing them along. Warehouse doors were shut closed, the metal handles gleaming under the moon's shine. It looked less like a workplace and more of a city that had gone to sleep.
Michael shifted forward in his seat, directing a finger to the nearby soundstage. Vincent eased beside the building, the car lightly jolting once he put it in park.
Michael smiled nervously at Camille, watching her reaction intently. "I didn't know where else we wouldn't be seen," he admitted.
Camille looked around the lot through the window in awe. Michael had propped open the back car door, smiling nervously and waiting for a response.
"Is this okay?" he asked.
Camille slipped out of the door, fully standing and taking the whole scene in. For a moment, she didn't say anything. She caught a glimpse inside the window of the nearby soundstage; a stack of plastic yellow bricks leaned against the wall.
"This is more than okay," she giggled. "This is rad."
She spun around, listening to the distant hum of a large overhead light in the distance. "You know," she continued. "I've been to a million soundstages and I've never seen them after everyone leaves."
Michael's expression shifted, a small, genuine smile finding his lips. "Really?"
Camille nodded enthusiastically. "I deserve a proper tour of this place."
Michael looked like he was ready to jump at the chance to show her around, but scanned back down to the paper food bag in his hand. "You don't want to eat first?"
"We have all the time to eat. It's not everyday you see Oz like this."
Michael decided not to argue and set both of their paper bags onto the small table outside. They'd come back to it.
"Alright," he grinned. "Come on," he said, already starting to lead her deeper into the lot, his hands stuffing into his jacket to warm him from the cold winter air.
Camille rushed next to him, their steps in sync as they crossed the pavement. The large lot was so quiet the only thing that could be heard was their breath and their steps below them. Each time Michael would stop and talk, it was in a deep whisper; the only appropriate volume for a place like this.
It was so quiet and peaceful it was almost eerie. Camille remembered every soundstage the same--loud, crewmembers running while holding boxes, an older producer laughing loudly with someone while perched beside a trailer, and a distant phone ringing inside an office. The only silence was when the director would yell for quiet on set before a take.
Michael walked beside her, finally stopping in front of a closed building.
"There isn't much here. Most of these trailers and buildings are empty. This is probably the most interesting thing here," he said, grabbing the handle and pushing the door open.
Rows of clothing racks sat, barely illuminated from the gleam of an overhead light above pooling in. Michael found the nearby switch, turning on the lights inside. The room slowly began to come alive. Garment bags hung on top of hangers, protecting costumes. Somewhere deep, an emerald green jacket reflected. Patterned dresses, polished boots, and an entire rack of colorful suits for the munchkins were lined carefully, each with a paper tag dangling from the top of hangers.
Camille walked slowly through, examining each rack, careful not to mess with anything.
"It's so funny," Camille remarked. "Every wardrobe department smells the same."
Camille turned smiling, but her breath quickly hitched when she noticed how closely he was following.
"Yeah?" Michael hummed, slightly smirking as he watched Camille's expression fall.
Camille quickly turned back, pretending to continue to look through the costumes again.
She cleared her throat. "Yeah..." she started, finding a black fabric garment bag with "Michael" written in small lettering on the tag. "It always smells like fabric, hairspray, and whatever stain remover they use to get makeup out of clothes."
She carefully pushed the other costumes to the side, examining the tag and looking back at Michael. "This is the scarecrow?"
Michael nodded, moving over to the bag to unzip it and show her. He grabbed the small metal, before stopping and looking back at her. "You know I'm playing the scarecrow?"
Camille's eyes widened, barely enough to notice, realizing what she had just admitted to. "No," she tried to convince, her voice dropping an entire octave. "Well, yes–just from a trade magazine."
Michael just slowly hummed, continuing to unzip. He slipped the bag off the shoulders of the hanger, leaving the costume on display. He picked it up, showing it off of the rack.
Camille laughed, grabbing the brown tattered denim lace-up vest. "This is huge! No way you fit in this."
Michael laughed with her, looking at the saggy costume. "It's usually stuffed," he said, grabbing onto the fabric now too. "They originally tried to actually fill it with straw, but it was way too itchy."
"What'd you use then?"
"Newspaper scraps, trash bags, honestly anything we had on set," Michael giggled.
Something else caught Camille's eye, and she moved deeper into the building. Michael quickly readjusted the bag, zipping it up and setting it back on the rack.
Camille stopped near the back, eyeing an open cardboard box, a pair of heels rested next to it on top of a fabric handkerchief. She reached a hand out to the shelving unit, close, but not touching. Just admiring. The silver rhinestones gleamed under the light, making the grey color appear almost blue. They looked like they had just been turned in, out in the open while most other shoes were tucked deep onto the shelves.
"Tony Walton really outdid himself."
Michael stood behind her, gazing over her shoulder, finally seeing what caught her eye.
"Oh, yeah, those are Diana's."
"They're not red," Camille said, looking at Michael for permission to touch them.
Michael reached his arm over her shoulder, grabbing one of the shoes from the bottom of the pump. "No," he quietly hummed. "They said the silver fits her better."
"Do they?"
"I think so," Michael smiled. Camille watched him closely. He wasn't smiling about the color of the shoes.
Camille ran a finger over the bump of the rhinestones, moving the conversation forward. She smiled as she remembered something.
"When I was little, I played Dorothy."
"Seriously?" Michael replied, smiling.
She nodded. "Yeah, it was some television special," she laughed. "Put me in the pigtails and everything."
Michael laughed with her. "I would've paid to see that."
"I sincerely hope every copy of it has been burned."
"I have connections," Michael smiled, leading her back outside into the lot.
Camille reluctantly pulled herself away from the clothing racks, slowly following behind him into the hall. He opened the door, the cold air rushing in as he flicked off the light. Camille stuffed her hands back into her jacket, taking a large exhale and trying to bury her chin into the neck of the jacket.
"I have a feeling you'll like this," Michael chirped in front of her, already walking to the next destination.
Camille looked up from the ground, slightly jogging to keep up with him. In front of them was a soundstage, large faded lettering painted at the top of the concrete wall that said "STAGE 4." Michael smiled as she caught up, waiting for her before opening the main door.
The large door opened with a deep groan as the warm inside air met the outside. Beneath the outside light spilling into the darkened room, Camille could make out equipment pushed to the side, a ladder resting on a wall, and what seemed like dirt on the concrete deep into the set. Michael walked in first, flicking on a nearby light switch, the room finally illuminating. A small bunch of fake cornstalk sat in a corner, fake bricks lining the wall. On the opposite side, a large stack of wood and sticks adjacent to a large, wooden pole.
Camille walked slowly, just taking the scene in. She examined everything, the large piles of equipment still left, zipped up inside fabric protection bags and an electricity cable tucked behind the wood. As she got closer to the set, she noticed the concrete quickly transition to the dirt-covered floor, old footprints still in it. She continued moving, the dirt crumbling under her heels with each step, walking over a piece of yellow marking tape still there. She put a hand out to touch one of the pieces of cornstalk, mostly to see if it was actually real.
"It's fake," Michael said, following behind her.
Camille smoothed her thumb over the prop, looking at the rest of the bent over cornstalks. "I know," she turned to look at him. "I wanted to see if it felt fake."
Michael laughed. "It fooled Richard."
"Richard Pryor?"
"Yeah," he laughed, recounting the memory. "His jacket got stuck on one right before a take. He was convinced it was a real plant and was trying to fight the thing off."
Camille chuckled, feeling the edge of the stalk to try to picture it.
"And after we finally pulled him off, he walked off complaining that they purposely made the prop like that."
Michael sighed, finally just smiling and looking around the set.
"We were all laughing so hard we couldn't even film for another five minutes," he continued.
"Yeah, that sounds like Richard," Camille laughed.
Michael smiled back at her, nodding his head for her to follow. He continued walking around the set, looking at most of the props that had been untouched for months. They were almost done with filming, and yet, they still hadn't cleaned up most of the soundstages. Camille walked beside him, her hands tucked back into her pockets.
Michael pulled out a hand, pointing at one of the far corners. "That's where I did a bunch of my scenes."
"Stuck up on that pole," Camille smiled, looking at the wooden scarecrow pole.
Michael huffed. "For a lot longer than I wanted to be."
"Really? How long?"
Michael thought for a second, trying to remember the longest scene. "A few hours one time."
Camille's eyebrows shot up. "No way," she said, watching the pole and imagining him under the hot studio lights for that long. "I would've complained."
"Oh, I did," Michael shook his head, laughing.
"What, they didn't listen?"
Michael shrugged, still smiling. "Whatever it takes to get the perfect shot, I guess."
A comfortable silence settled between them as they slowly made their way back to the large stage doors. Michael pushed one of them open, another rush of winter air cutting through the warm inside.
Camille shivered, balling up into her jacket. "Okay," she giggled. "Maybe now we eat."
Michael grinned, already walking faster to the metal table outside one of the soundstages. "I bet it's getting cold."
They walked back, closer to each other than they initially were, trying to get as much body heat as possible. The cold air stung deep within Camille's throat. They stopped in front of the table, Camille pulling her hands out to grab the first paper bag. She picked up a large paper box, it still halfway warm.
"Wait," Michael protested, stopping her in the middle of grabbing another box. He looked around thoughtfully, before his eyes landed on the doors of the soundstage beside them. "Why don't we eat inside?"
"Really?" Camille asked, already sliding the box in her hands back into the bag.
Michael already grabbed the other bag, tilting his head to welcome her over. "Yeah, come on. It'll be much warmer."
"Okay," Camille agreed. It didn't take much to convince her.
Michael pushed the heavy door open, waiting for Camille to walk in before letting it creak shut. The warmth immediately settled around them, the wind outside nothing more than a hum now. He walked over to the light, flicking it up with an elbow before eyeing around the set. His gaze landed right to the side of the main set, right where the yellow brick road previously was.
Most of the set had already been disassembled, including the plastic yellow bricks which were perched on a nearby wall. He had truly spent a lot of time here, with this cast, these producers, directors, and costume designers, and now it was only a matter of weeks before everything was wrapped up. Before everything in all of these buildings would be hauled off in large trucks, stuffed in storage, and forgotten about once post-production started.
Michael nodded his chin up, pointing at a little space just beyond where the set started. He remembered one scene there, a take that took over twelve times. He smiled to himself as he recounted it. "How's right there?"
Camille just nodded, following over. Michael set the food on the concrete, grabbing a small blanket sitting on the back of one of the chairs nearby and setting it for them to sit. Camille set both of the bags on the blanket, before lowering herself as well.
"A little picnic at the yellow brick road," she said, looking around the rest of the half-done set and grabbing the box of chicken again, her eyes following the fake yellow bricks. "Or, what's left of it."
The large paper bag was practically the size of her entire torso, with multiple boxes sitting in it. Camille and Michael both pulled each box out of their bags, sprawling it across the blanket. Once she finally set the last paper cup of coleslaw down, she looked at the amount of food sitting in front of them.
"Michael," she said, her jaw fallen open as she looked back up at him. "How many people were you expecting?"
Michael laughed, seeing how he definitely might have overdone it. "I told you I didn't know what you'd like so I just... got a little bit of everything."
Camille raised an eyebrow at him, sarcastically unimpressed. "A little?" she shook her head, already grabbing a box to open.
Michael laughed with her, grabbing a box for himself, opening it and leaving it for grabs on the floor. Camille grabbed a plate beside them, starting to make them both a plate. She placed something from each box onto the paper plate before handing it over to him.
"Voilà," she smiled, handing the plate to him.
Michael accepted it with a grateful smile. "Definitely needs more chicken," he joked, grabbing another fried chicken leg.
"Trust me, we won't run out," Camille teased, finishing her plate with one last spoonful of mashed potatoes.
"I figured we'd have leftovers."
"For who?" Camille asked through a bite of chicken, jokingly looking around the set for a third person. "The Munchkins?"
"You never know, they're actually pretty hungry," he shrugged while chuckling.
Camille let out a small moan of enjoyment as she bit into the chicken leg.
"Good?" Michael asked.
"So good," she tried to say, covering her mouth with her hand. "I don't know how I've missed out on this all my life."
"Just wait till you try a cheeseburger. You'll be blown away."
Camille laughed, taking another bite as they both focused back down to their plates. For a while, neither of them spoke. It wasn't awkward, but instead, just two people eating comfortably with each other. The only noise was the occasional rustle of the paper bags and the humming wind beyond the door of the soundstage. It was incredibly domestic, and for the first time in either of their lives, it didn't feel like they had to perform.
Camille reached for another biscuit, her gaze looking around the set. This had become almost a routine, one of them looking up at the other and noticing them already examining around the room. This time, though, Michael didn't look away. She caught him in the corner of her eye, finally looking back to face him.
"What?" she asked. "Do I have something on my face?" She brought her thumb up to the corner of her mouth, trying to rub any crumbs.
"No, no, I just," he looked down for a second, almost reconsidering before looking back up. "Can I ask you something?" he questioned, trying to seem casual.
Camille nodded. "Yeah."
"Are you and Daniel..."
Camille's eyes widened before she snapped back to her previous expression. "Dating?" she said, trying to finish his sentence.
"Yeah."
She nodded thoughtfully again. "Oh, yeah," she said nonchalantly.
Michael's breath caught slightly as he snapped his gaze back up at her. "Yeah?" he stumbled.
"Yeah...three years now," a smirk pulled at her cheeks.
"Three years," he exclaimed, loud enough that he practically gave himself away.
"I think he's proposing in the spring."
"Wow, I, uhm," Michael choked. "I didn't know. Congratulations," his voice sounded more hurt than shocked now even though he still gave her the sweetest smile he could.
Michael absentmindedly reached for another piece of chicken he now had no intention of eating. The silence was absolutely deafening.
Camille finally spoke. "Michael."
His gaze slowly rose as he hummed, trying to seem completely unbothered.
"I'm joking."
He sighed, his shoulders finally lowering. "You guys aren't?"
"My God, no! You look like a truck hit you," she laughed.
Michael laughed with her, hinging at his hips as he huffed. "I believed you!"
"I'm honestly offended you believe those stupid tabloids," she crossed her arms, sarcastically annoyed.
"I don't," he tried to defend himself. "I just have seen the pictures."
"The pictures? Of what? Me walking into a premiere with him? Honestly," she continued. "They'd take a photo of me next to a mailbox and try to say we're engaged too."
Michael shook his head, still lightly laughing. "I guess you're right, I just didn't want to assume."
Michael took a bite into the chicken, his appetite magically returning. Their conversation settled again, the comfortable silence returning just as fast as it had left. Camille tore apart the corner of her biscuit while Michael chewed quietly while looking around the set.
"So," Camille nodded through her bite. "What comes after this?"
"After The Wiz?"
"Mhm."
"My album, mostly. I'll go back to LA with Quincy."
"Are you excited to get back into music?"
"Very. You know, I love acting, but I think music will always be my true love. I want to eventually make short films–ones with my music. I got all these ideas."
"Are you worried about not working with your brothers?"
"Well," he thought carefully before answering. "I've always loved what we do as a family. But I think I want people to know what I sound like. I want something to be my own."
"I think people will love it."
Michael looked up, his expression softening. "You think so?"
Camille shrugged like it was obvious. "I don't know what it'll sound like, but if you care about it that much, people can usually tell."
Michael smiled to himself, looking down and grabbing a napkin in front of him. He looked back up, ready to ask her the same. "And you?"
"What about me?"
"What do you want?"
"That's kind of a broad question," she lightly giggled.
"But after The Quiet Between, what kind of roles are up next?"
Camille thought of an answer, some easy, main character she's always dreamed of, but it never came. "I think," she finally answered. "I don't really have a 'dream role.' I want to do everything."
"What does that mean?" Michael laughed.
Camille brought up her hand, counting on each finger. "I want to do a comedy, a romance, a western, a period piece. I don't ever want to get comfortable."
Michael smiled. "I like that."
"Yeah?"
"It sounds fun."
Camille took a long inhale, smiling back. "It should be."
Before either of them had the chance to continue, a distant knock sounded at the door, echoing through the room. They both turned as the metal door creaked open, Vincent peeking his head in before fully stepping in.
"There you are."
Camille looked for a clock somewhere in the room, unsuccessfully looking back at Vincent with an apologetic gaze. "Sorry, we kind of," she paused. "Lost track of time."
Vincent scanned the mountain of takeout sitting on the blanket, huffing a laugh. "I can tell."
They both quietly packed up the food, throwing the empty boxes into one bag and everything uneaten into the other. Michael grabbed the leftovers, walking over to the door with her.
"Do you need a ride?" Camille asked, shoving the bag of trash under her arm.
"No," Michael said. "Bill knows I'm here–my security. I'll have him pick me up."
"Alright," Camille replied, but didn't move. Neither of them really wanted the night to end.
"Can I, uhm, call you?"
"Yeah," she smiled, turning towards Vincent for a pen. She set the trash down, taking the pen from him and scribbling on one of the napkins set on the top of his bag.
"Here," she said, dropping the napkin back into his bag.
"Thank you," he smiled back. "Don't work too hard."
Vincent opened the large metal door, escorting her out as the cool outside air made her shiver. Despite the cold, she still gave him a warm smile. "I'll try."
She shook her head in confusion. "No, Michael. Why are you asking me?"
"I was having fun," Michael replied, a smile painted across his face as he shyly looked back down at the brown paper bag in his arms.
The proposal was so odd that any sort of answer was caught in her throat. She ran through all the many reasons she should say no.
The press would see him go into her car. They had nowhere to eat it, and she sure as hell wasn't going over to his apartment. Fried chicken was probably the weirdest place for a first date. Was this a date? Was he asking her on a date? There had to be some handbook out there that directly stated against two of the biggest entertainers in the world getting fried chicken on a random Tuesday.
Michael interrupted before her thoughts could go any further. "We can have Vinny drive around the back. He can pick me up there five minutes or so after you go in."
He wasn't wrong. It could work. That realization was somehow worse.
She stumbled over her words, trying to form a reply. "Uhm... okay," she nodded. "That could work."
Michael smiled back. "So that's a yes?"
She reminded herself again that she should say no, but somewhere in the last twenty minutes of them record shopping, she decided to stop trying to convince herself she didn't want to.
"I guess I'm getting fried chicken with Michael Jackson right now."
Camille sat for a long moment, just watching him. Waiting for him to take it back. To say that he was just joking and it was utterly absurd to get fast food with someone he barely knew.
"Well, let's go," he urged, his hand pointing at the door.
Camille snapped back. He never said anything against it. She looked past him, back at the front counter. The teenage girls had thought they already left, and continued laughing and talking. She took a sharp inhale in, and finally followed outside, agreeing to his plan to meet him out back.
Vinny stood exactly where she left him, guarding the door, a small group of fans already outside in the snow, waiting for her. Vinny went to bring his hand to her back, guiding her back to the car when she stopped.
"Everything okay?" Vinny asked.
Camille stood on her tiptoes, whispering in his ear. She opened her mouth, looking for a rational way to put it, but closed it again.
"We're... uhm," she started. "Getting fried chicken."
Camille kept smiling and waving, though Vincent's confusion made it increasingly difficult to pretend this was a normal conversation.
He lowered down to her ear. "You're what?"
Camille continued to smile, but just by Vincent's reasonable confusion, her expression slightly faltered, obviously embarrassed.
"Fried chicken," she barely muttered. "With Michael."
Vincent slowly nodded, now leading her back to the car. He decided he could talk further in about thirty seconds in the car when they weren't in front of a mob of people.
He opened the rear passenger door, letting Camille slide in before shutting it behind her. Five minutes later, the car pulled around the corner of the back of the building, Michael already leaning on the brick wall with his hands tucked into his jacket pockets.
Vincent unlocked the door and Michael stepped into the back next to Camille. The car was completely silent for about ten seconds, before Vincent adjusted the rear view mirror, glancing between the two of them.
"...Will one of you explain?"
"Kentucky Fried Chicken. It's two blocks away," Michael chimed in, smiling back at the mirror.
Vincent readjusted the review mirror once, it now fully facing the back mirror, nodding.
"Alright," he stated, focusing back towards the wheel and pulling off of the road.
After the adrenaline had worn off, Camille finally sat in the silence. She was, in fact, hanging out with a random musician and getting fast food as a first date; if that's what this was. She held onto the paper bag in her lap, clutching her finger past the outline of one of the record's corners. The grip itself was enough of an answer to what was running through her head.
Michael noticed her staring out the car window, his gaze falling down to her hands. Her knuckles were practically turning white from her fingers curling around the bag in front of her.
"You'll bend the corners," he said quietly.
Camille blinked, so pulled from her thoughts she wasn't even sure she heard him speak.
"Huh?"
"The records," Michael pointed. "You'll bend the corners if you grip it like that."
Camille let an airy laugh out. "Oh," she croaked, looking down at her hands and now resting them in her lap.
Michael watched as she rested her hands in her lap. Even then, her fingers never quite relaxed.
"I didn't think you'd say yes," he admitted, trying to pull her from whatever thought took her.
Camille took a sharp inhale, moving her head to look back out of the window. She wasn't looking at the city though, and instead at the reflection inside the car of Michael watching her.
"Yeah," she quietly laughed. "I didn't either."
"Well, I'm glad you did."
She smiled, and just within a few seconds, the tension was right back. Before either of them could think of something else to talk about, Vincent pulled into the parking lot. He parked, shifted the car off, and turned to look between them both in the back seat. Their bodies were so far from each other he could've been convinced there was some kind of forcefield separating them.
"So," Vincent said. "What am I getting?"
Camille turned to look at Michael. "I've never been here before, what's good?"
Michael's face lit up. "Seriously?" he asked. He turned towards Vincent again and listed off enough things to feed a family of four.
Vincent nodded, scribbling the order on the back of a receipt before leaving the car to go inside and locking it.
The lock sounded a click after Vincent locked the door behind him.
Camille laughed, and finally broke the ice. "Who is going to eat all of that?"
"I didn't know what you'd like!" Michael laughed. "You'll just have to try everything."
"Everything is literally half the menu," Camille shook her head, her shoulders shaking as she bent over giggling.
"I was hungry."
"You've said that," Camille replied, a smile tugging at her lips.
"I still am."
"Where does it all go?" Camille asked, looking down at his figure.
Michael smiled, glancing down at his own frame. "I dance a lot," he lightly replied.
After they both finished their last huff of a laugh they sat for a second in the silence. Michael scooted closer, just slightly, but enough to snap the tension between them.
"How have you never had Kentucky Fried Chicken?"
"I grew up in Los Angeles," Camille shrugged.
"You are aware there's still fried chicken in LA, right?"
Camille looked back, a small embarrassed smirk on her face. "I've never really had any fast food. My mom never let me," she shrugged, scanning around the parking lot behind the dark tinted glass.
Michael stared at her for a long moment. "Not even McDonald's?"
Camille just shook her head.
"Burger Chef?"
"Nope," Camille smiled.
Michael's eyes widened more and more after each disapproving nod.
"My mom used to say I'd make me fat," she huffed a laugh. "Anyway, we had a cook at home, so it wasn't much of an excuse."
Michael stared in disbelief. Partially from the fact that Camille had never had a real burger or fries, but also that a grown woman would say something like that to her child.
Camille examined Michael's shock, trying to make her previous statement seem less harsh. "No but—It was okay! It's a funny story to tell now. I don't think I could ever complain about having a private chef."
Michael's expression softened. "I don't think kids should have to worry about things like that."
For the first time since getting in the car, Camille didn't have a quick reply. She shrugged, trying to brush it off.
"I survived," she stated, almost matter-of-fact. "Besides, I'm making up for lost time."
Michael titled his head. "Meaning?"
"Meaning I have twenty years of fast food to catch up on," Camille giggled.
"Well, we've got time."
Camille looked over at him, and just smiled. For a moment, it felt like she wasn't being looked at, but instead, just, invited. He looked at her for more than the scrutinizing tabloids, the invasive paparazzi photos, and the drama of her private life. Instead, he truly just wanted to introduce a friend to his favorite fast food. Something in her chest loosened, quiet and unnameable, but just present enough to notice.
"...I guess we do."
"I knew we should've ordered more," Michael nodded thoughtfully.
Camille laughed, really laughed this time, her shoulders bouncing as she bent at the hips. She shook her head, still smiling as she leaned back into the seat. Michael laughed with her, but watching her more than the joke. He noticed this laugh, the one in the back of a car talking about fried chicken, sounded nothing like the faux laugh he'd hear at parties. This one lingered longer; reaching all the way up to the corners of her eyes, slightly wrinkling them.
A quick knock at the glass of the driver's door interrupted their laughter. Vincent pulled the door open, both large paper bags tucked under his arms, the cold December air rushing into the car, carrying the scent of warm biscuits, pepper, and grease. The gleam from outside the restaurant window caught the steam rising from the bags, reflecting a golden glow across the snow for a moment.
Vincent handed the bags to Michael in the back, but paused for a second before he did, glancing between the two of them. Five minutes ago, they'd left enough space for a third person in between them. Neither of them remembered moving, yet somehow, the invisible line between them had snapped.
Vincent climbed back into the driver's seat, shutting the door. The rush of the winter air quickly gave way to the warmth trapped inside the car. He started the car, the orange overhead light quickly dying. He glanced back through the rearview mirror.
"So," he acknowledged. "Where are you eating this?"
Michael didn't hesitate. "34-12 36th street."
Vincent nodded, pulling out of the parking spot.
"Got it."
Camille looked over to Michael. "You're not going to tell me where we're going, are you?"
Michael smiled back, his eyes softening. "It's a surprise."
She held his gaze before a quick laugh escaped. "Alright," she nodded.
Camille settled in her seat, the paper bag of records was now sitting on the floor, replaced by the large bag of the food. Outside, the city blurred in streaks of gold beyond the window.
Strangely, she couldn't remember the last time she was content with not knowing what was next.
Daniel's office had practically become Camille's in the last year.
Between shared calendars, events, and teams, Camille now spent a large majority of her time signing contracts, sitting in meetings, reviewing press, and scheduling appearances in the same office as him, leaving hers barren.
This Tuesday was no different. Camille and Daniel had just finished reviewing the magazine cover they had done together, and now, Camille sat waiting for Vinny to come pick her up.
The room looked exactly the way it always did: uneven stacks of scripts, a coat hanging off his chair, and half-finished paperwork covering most of the chestnut colored desk.
Daniel sat behind the desk, flipping through a stack of paperwork, while Camille occupied the chair across from him, slowly turning side to side despite his previous pleas not to.
The chair creaked under its hinges, and Daniel ignored it the first time. By the second, he finally spoke up, not looking up from the paper.
"Camille."
"What?" She asked, scanning around the room.
"Stop."
She rocked one more time, the chair creaking out again. Daniel groaned, finally looking up through the glasses that sat on his nose.
"Please."
Camille sighed loudly, stopping, then leaning forward, resting her elbows on the desk and picking up random pieces of paper that were sprawled across.
"Please don't mess with that," Daniel said, snatching one of the papers from her.
Camille's jaw dropped dramatically, as if he had just personally offended her. "You know, you really are a control freak."
"And you're nosy."
She narrowed her eyes at him. "I wouldn't say that."
"I'm sure you wouldn't," Daniel replied, lowering his attention back to the papers in front of him.
Camille leaned back in the rolling chair, gazing up at the clock above Daniel's head, reading 11:14 a.m. For about thirty seconds, the office was quiet again.
Outside the room, she could hear distant phones ringing and assistants talking while walking down the hall, holding folders and papers as they passed by the open door.
"How much longer until Vinny gets here?"
Daniel flipped his wrist, glancing down at the golden watch.
"Sixteen minutes."
She groaned, slumping lower into the chair.
Daniel didn't even bother responding. The small smile on his face told her he'd heard enough of her complaints.
A knock sounded beside the open door, Daniel's publicist standing in the entrance holding a manila folder clutched against her chest. She gave Camille a soft, apologetic smile, like she already knew exactly how this conversation was going to go.
Camille rolled her eyes the second she spotted the folder.
The publicist welcomed herself in, lowering herself into the open seat across from the two. "Just give me five minutes."
Daniel finally looked up and smirked, seeing Camille's annoyance. He slid the glasses off his face, setting them upside down on the desk and getting comfortable in the chair, crossing his arms.
"I just wanted to go over our plan for January," the publicist said, sliding off the paper clip from the folder and taking out the contents inside. "A few screenings, press appearances, interviews, just the norm."
"I hate the norm already," Camille retorted.
Daniel laughed, eyeing the papers she was laying across the desk. "Exciting," he said sarcastically.
The publicist slid a board across with a collection of photographs that had been taped together in a rough collage—old Hollywood actors, orange and yellow magazine cutouts, designer advertisements, and red pen marked up along the whole thing.
"This is Interview's markup for the shoot on the 7th."
Camille and Daniel shared the board in the middle, examining it while she flipped through the planner beside her.
The publicist stopped, remembering something mid-thought. "Did you guys approve People?"
"They were all terrible," Camille complained.
Daniel scoffed and handed the woman a paper back of a rough draft of a cover with a photo of Daniel and Camille on the front. "Yes, we did. Here."
The woman took it, smiling, and rummaged through the rest of the papers.
I'll remind you, guys, later, but we have a screening on the 9th, an interview on the 12th," she flipped to the last page, turning her attention to Daniel. "Oh—and Daniel, you'll be in LA on the 14th for the audition."
Daniel only nodded, beginning to clean up his area to leave for the day. Camille leaned forward to look at the planner beside the folder, open to December on the left and January on the right, with only five days crossed out of December.
The rest of the day was free, at least for Daniel.
"There's nothing else for today?" Camille asked.
The publicist gathered her things, rising from the chair and grabbing the folder again. "For Daniel? No."
"And me?"
The woman smiled. "You'll have to ask Evelyn."
She waved, thanking them for their time, and slipped back out the open door.
Daniel grabbed an unstapled stack of a script, hitting the bottom of the table to get all the pages even.
"Vinny should be here."
Camille grabbed her purse, slung it over her shoulder, and stood up. She was smiling, almost subconsciously, lost somewhere in her own thoughts.
Daniel looked up from the script, watching her expression. "Someone's in a smiley mood today."
The comment immediately wiped the smile from her face.
"No I'm not."
"You're smiling right now."
She caught her expression in the reflection of the window, seeing that her smirk had somehow landed right back on her face.
"All I've done is complain today," she continued to try to argue.
"I know."
"Then how am I 'smiley'?" she said, trying to mock him dramatically.
Daniel thought about it for a moment. "I don't know."
He returned his attention to the script in front of him. "But you are."
Camille rolled her eyes, reaching for the office door.
"Bye, Daniel."
"See you."
She almost made it out into the hallway when his voice stopped her again.
"Try to enjoy your afternoon."
She turned and huffed, continuing to leave and just hollering back once she was out of the door.
"You say that like it's a rare thing!"
She walked down the hall, eyeing Vinny at the end, standing next to the elevator. Vinny smiled back at her, hearing their faint conversation from down the hallway. He pressed the button for the elevator, it lighting up before the doors opened. He left his hand out, offering her to step in first.
After verifying with Evelyn, Camille did, in fact, have a free afternoon.
Her first thought was shopping, a pastime she barely had time for these days. Shopping was always difficult for her, though. Vinny would have to ask the owners to clear out every store beforehand, and even then, he still would have to spend the entire visit guarding the door. It wasn't worth the trouble most days.
Camille stared out the car window as Manhattan drifted past.
"Where are we headed?" Vinny asked.
She thought about it for a long moment. Most stores were a nightmare, but a record store was different. Most people didn't expect to see America's Sweetheart shopping at a record store, and if they did, most were too busy walking the streets of New York to care.
"The record store," Camille finally answered.
Vinny smiled back into the review mirror. "The one on sixth?"
Camille nodded and continued to watch the winter scenery of the city. The thing she loved so much about New York in the winter was that no matter how much blue and white was draped over every December, the city never lost its warmth.
Yellow taxis would pass, orange neon signs would flicker, and an open door from a bar would spill the red glow from the lights inside. The city never stayed cold for long.
A little bell chimed above Camille as she stepped inside.
The warm air immediately hit, replacing the winter cold. The store smelled of cardboard and plastic, along with cardamom and cedar wood from a candle in the back.
Rows of records stretched from wall to wall, the colorful sleeves of each album stuffed into bins, alphabetically categorized. The familiar crackle of a record connected to a speaker in the corner accompanied whatever was spinning on a player beside the counter.
The second she walked in, the two employees stopped their banter behind the counter, watching her every move and breath now like she was an extinct animal seen in the wild again.
When Camille first noticed them, she flashed a smile and said hello. The teenagers sat for a long moment, jaws still wide open, not saying anything, before scrambling to welcome her in.
"Could we get an autograph?" the younger girl blurted.
Camille laughed under her breath, nodding. "Of course, I'll sign it at the checkout."
She slipped her hands into the pockets of her large coat, now making her way towards one of the nearest bins, flipping through absentmindedly.
The records flipped past her fingertips, one by one. She'd occasionally pull out a record, examine the cover, and slip it back into the bin. Her favorite part was always browsing, not necessarily buying.
She found herself at a bin with a paper slip titled "A" above. She searched through about four records, finally pulling out Arrival by ABBA. Dancing Queen had always been a guilty pleasure for her.
She examined the record, turning it over to read the track list on the back.
"I didn't take you for an ABBA fan," a familiar voice chimed behind her.
Camille snapped around, immediately recognizing who it was. Michael. Part of her was confused why he was here, but then she remembered the record still in her hand.
"I'm—I'm not," she stumbled, turning to shove the record back in the bin again. "What are you doing here anyway?"
"You do realize this is a record store, right? I should be asking you that."
Camille nodded, trying to seem unconvinced and moving on to her next question. "How did you get past Vinny?"
"I asked politely."
"You asked politely?"
"Yes," Michael said, watching her so intently it almost made her nervous.
Camille backed away, now making it to the "B" section.
"Good to know that's all it takes from my security."
Michael let out a chuckle, looking through the bin beside her for records of his own.
Camille turned, picking up a Billy Joel album.
"You know, most people say hi before judging someone's music taste."
"Hello, Camille," Michael responded, gazing at her like his introduction meant something now.
He pulled out All 'n All from the bin titled "bestsellers", slipping the plastic-wrapped record in between his arm and side, continuing to browse.
"And for the record," Michael continued. "I love Dancing Queen."
"Michael Jackson likes Dancing Queen."
"Camille Beaumont likes Dancing Queen," Michael restated, shrugging with a smirk.
Camille shook her head, returning her attention to the records in front of her. For a while, neither of them said much. They moved through each aisle, occasionally showing each other vinyls and exchanging brief opinions on each one.
Michael scanned each record with insane meticulousness, reading the track list with such intent like there was something hidden within the grooves of the vinyl.
Camille found herself examining him more than the music in front of her. Never in an obvious way, but just enough of a glance that she noticed the soft, unconscious sway he'd adopt when a song came through the speakers he liked.
Once they came to the last aisle, she turned to him, glancing at the albums tucked under his arm.
"What'd you find?"
"Marvin Gaye," Michael said, flipping the record towards her. "And Earth, Wind, and Fire."
"Not bad," Camille laughed.
Michael pointed to the records she was holding. "And you?"
"We got Billy Joel," she replied, lifting and showing it off, then moving to the next. "And Simple Dreams."
"Linda Ronstadt," Michael said, nodding. "Very you."
"Very me?" Camille laughed. "You don't even know me."
"I know you enough."
"Enough from two conversations?"
"Three," Michael corrected. "The album after party, Richard's, and now."
A small smile tugged at her lips. "Still not enough."
They walked together towards the front counter, the teenage girls practically fawning over seeing Michael Jackson and Camille Beaumont casually shop.
They both checked out, signed a few autographs, and sat through about 5 minutes of non-stop questions from each of the girls before finally making it to the door. For fans, they were actually extremely respectful.
They both decided Camille would leave first, Michael following a few minutes later in the opposite direction, so it didn't look suspicious. Camille adjusted the paper bag beneath her arm.
"Well," she contentedly sighed. "Thank you for record shopping with me, even if it was unprecedented."
"Thank you for giving me another chance."
Camille smiled, remembering the promise he made last weekend.
"Bye, Michael."
Just as she turned to grab the door, he stopped her.
"Camille." She glanced back at him. "Actually—are you busy?"
Camille stopped, confused. "I mean, I guess not. Why?"
"I know a really good chicken place a few blocks away," Michael smirked.
The conversation dissolved the second he walked into the crowd. Camille stayed sitting at the bar as he disappeared. She decided not to look around the room and see who he was talking to, but to look straight forward. She ordered a few more drinks as people passed by, some just complimenting her, and others sitting where Michael was to rant for 20 minutes.
Quincy stopped by once again just for a moment before leaving about ten minutes ago, leaving her alone once again, only with the burn of her drinks and the loud talking around her.
Another man sat in the chair beside her not long after.
"You're Camille Beaumont, right?"
Both her elbows perched on the counter of the bar. "Depends who's asking," she lowly laughed.
The man laughed harder than necessary. "I just saw your movie last week."
The bartender set down another drink in front of her, this time a vodka soda. Champagne wasn't strong enough anymore.
Camille nodded while he kept talking, but she was completely zoned out. It was something about a screenplay, something he had a vision for that was "exactly her." Her eyes kept drifting back towards the velvet booths in the back, surrounded by people laughing and talking.
It was honestly a sad sight; she, drunk, sitting at a bar, only talking to the people that would pass and occasionally the bartender. She knew she shouldn't have gone out tonight.
The room had gotten louder now, more people were drunk, and cigarette smoke began to burn the air. She spent so long looking around that she found a clock at the back of the room, barely noticeable unless you were looking for it. Her brows furrowed in a drunken anger when she realized it had been 50 minutes that she'd been waiting.
"Are you listening to me?" the man beside her finally asked.
Camille blinked, letting her eyebrows soften and her smile return.
"Sorry," she laughed softly. "Long night."
The man touched her arm, eyes scanning down from her face now. "You should let me take you out sometime."
Before she could even respond, Evelyn emerged from the crowd like a saving grace.
"There you are," Evelyn smiled at Camille before looking over at the man. "Honey, I've been looking everywhere for you."
Camille sent a thankful look, immediately catching on. "Oh my God," she said, standing from the bar. "I didn't even realize how long it's been, I totally forgot!"
The man looked disappointed but handed her a business card anyway. "In case you change your mind," he said, flashing a smile as Camille backed away.
Once they got back into the crowd, Evelyn stopped and grabbed Camille's shoulder.
"You okay, girl?" Evelyn asked.
"I'm fine."
"You've been sitting at that bar for like an hour. Are you waiting for someone?"
Camille frowned immediately, "It's been like 30 minutes."
"So, you were waiting for someone?"
"No? Why would I wait around for someone I met like 20 minutes ago?" she said, obviously tipsy and bringing the glass to her mouth again.
Evelyn just huffed a laugh at her drunken math. "Why don't we call it a night?" she asked, grabbing her arm and pulling her back towards the exit.
Camille stared back in the same direction where she saw him leave an hour ago, and now it was all full of faces she didn't recognize. She sighed loudly before letting Evelyn take her away.
Michael stood up from one of the velvet booths in the back. It was finally one of his only chances to go back to the bar, as all the now-drunk producers, directors, musicians, and other people he had just met sat around talking to each other.
Just as he stood, his eyes instinctively glanced back at the bar, a routine for him now. He'd been casually checking throughout the night, noticed her still sitting, and continued his conversation. This time, though, she was gone. Only a row of finished drinks sat where she was.
The guy she was just talking to rose from the seat beside her, scoffing before disappearing into the crowd. Last time he looked, he saw them talking. Camille would just flash a fake smile as he'd get closer.
Quincy came up behind him to drag him back to the table before he noticed where he was looking.
"You just missed her."
Michael only nodded and turned back to talk to these industry people, only thinking about Camille when someone would laugh more than necessary or flash some big, fake smile.
"Maybe next time," he thought before letting himself continue with his night.
October 27th, 1977, London, GB
"Camille! Over here!"
"Daniel! One more picture!"
"Camille, who are you wearing?"
"Can we get one together?"
The flashes exploded, practically blinding the two and the whole entourage behind them. Camille grabbed Daniel's arm, walking on the velvet red carpet and past the gold barricade into the theater. Every city said the same thing in different accents.
Daniel leaned down, whispering in her ear.
"They're going to marry us in the next magazine."
Camille giggled, continuing to smile and wave towards the cameras with her free hand. Beyond the paparazzi, she saw screaming fans pushing up against the fences.
By the time they got into the darkly lit building, she could still see the flashes of the cameras even though they weren't there. They had practically burned into her eyes, and she had to rub them just to adjust to the light inside.
Once she could finally see, she examined the room, starstruck. To call it a theater was an understatement. Golden crystal chandeliers hung low, giving the whole room an amber hue. Giant velvet seats sat near the back, and large booth seats with bartenders already walking around were at the front.
Her eyes followed up, looking at the second balcony. Intricate gold trim lined the edges beneath the warm theater lights.
The stage was the most jaw-dropping aspect. Large velvet curtains were closed in front of the stage, standing at probably 20 feet. Gold metal outlined the screen with visuals of waves and circles etched in.
While she stood, staring, Daniel finally brought her back to reality, dragging her to the lobby.
The lobby was much smaller, with groups of actors and industry people standing around in clumps, talking and laughing loudly. Bartenders and ushers walked around in suits and silk dresses, holding platters of champagne. Somewhere in the corner, a live piano was playing.
The second she stepped in, another actress walked up and grabbed her hands dramatically.
"My God, look at you," she said, scanning her from top to bottom. "London is absolutely obsessed with you."
Camille smiled widely. This is what she loved about fame.
"That sounds slightly terrifying," Camille laughed, easing into the interaction with her.
"Not at all, dear. Everyone is so excited."
A platter follows them, the actress grabbing two and handing the other to Camille, taking a large gulp before speaking again.
"I saw Vogue compared you to Audrey Hepburn yesterday," she said, swallowing. "I'm sure most people are just here to watch you."
Camille's smile lowered, just slightly, and she nodded, letting go of her hands. The woman slipped away after someone grabbed her arm, leaving Camille back alone in the loud room.
Before someone came to talk to her again, she thought for a second. She's been to a million of these kinds of events, and yet, since that album afterparty, every single one has reminded her of Michael.
Just thinking about it upset her. Not because she even really knew him or cared about him, but just because in a sea of all these fake industry people, he was the only one who seemed genuinely interested in what she had to say.
"You seem tired." God, she hated that she remembered that.
Before she could think about it for a second longer, another person grabbed her arm and directed her towards a group to introduce themselves to her.
During the screening, Camille sat in the front along with Vincent, her manager Martin, Daniel, and his whole group.
During most of the movie, Camille watched the audience instead of the screen. She wanted to see people's reactions to the art and film she was extremely proud of.
As she scanned around the room, she saw just what she was expecting. Some crying, some laughing, others sipping on their drinks while nodding. What she didn't expect, though, was that a lot of them were looking back at her.
They wanted to watch her. Her reactions. Her whispering to Daniel. The way she laughed quietly behind her hand. Even though she was literally on the large screen right in front of them.
By the time the movie finished and the lights came back on, the theater erupted in applause. Camille stood waving and thanking the audience sitting in their seats, even though now, most of them were giving a standing ovation.
Every single one of their eyes was on her, and when Daniel stood too and gave her a side-hug, the crowd only got louder.
Once the applause died down, people began making their way back to the lobby. Some of the more important people said their goodbyes, air kissing her cheeks before leaving.
The second she had a free moment, she tried to slip out of the theater and into the bathroom.
Daniel grabbed her arm and asked,
"Are you coming to the lobby?"
She flashed him a small smile. "I'll be right there."
She walked out into the hall and stepped into the bathroom. Even the restrooms looked extravagant, with marble countertops and golden sinks. She locked the door behind her and leaned against the wall, taking a cigarette out from her clutch.
She lit the cigarette and just sat in the quiet, the music and talking still coming through the walls of the bathroom.
The silence almost felt unnatural after all the noise. Her reflection stared back at her as the smoke floated around the room. Perfect hair, perfect makeup, perfect dress. Her eyes, though, looked exhausted.
Without even thinking, she instinctively smiled at her reflection. That expression disappeared almost immediately when she realized what she was doing.
A burst of laughter and music echoed faintly through the walls. The afterparty must've already started. She closed her eyes, her head leaning back against the wall.
As she sat and smoked, she heard a muffled conversation outside the door. Although she couldn't hear most of it, she caught her name.
"Camille was stunning,"
"Did you see her with Daniel?"
"I hear they're together."
She rolled her eyes at their gossip, but realistically, that's what the world thought. By tomorrow morning, there would be another article about her.
The large, bold headline with a photo of her and Daniel. An excerpt about her body, her face, her expression when someone asked a personal question. She could vividly picture what it looked like already.
She walked over to the counter, her hand now resting on the marble while the cigarette burned in the other hand.
"You look tired."
She was. She has been. She was exhausted, and he was the only one who pointed it out.
She thought about how he talked about the ending. When she looked around the room today during the ending, most people weren't even watching.
She laughed under her breath, pitying herself.
She took another breath of the cigarette and shook her head, smoothing out her dress and fixing her hair.
As she stubbed out the cigarette in an ashtray and then went to the door to release herself, she only had one thought on her mind.
