Unscripted

CHAPTER EIGHT: Character Date

I told myself it wasn't a date.
Which is probably why I changed outfits three times, stood in front of the mirror with wet hair for an hour, and texted Zoe:
"do i look like i tried too hard or like i'm naturally hot"
She replied:
"you look like a movie star who shops at the farmer's market"
Then:
"you drink yerba mate and write screenplays kind of hot"
I went with light jeans, white sneakers, a soft white blouse with tiny embroidered flowers and a neckline that flirted without announcing. Gold layers. Glowy skin. Beachy waves that definitely did not take thirteen minutes and a curling wand.
I was fastening my necklace when my phone buzzed on the dresser.
Mason: Dinner Friday?
I didn't open it. Let the preview fade, slid the phone under my makeup bag like tucking a thought back into a drawer. My chest did a small, inconvenient flutter I refused to name.
A low engine idled outside. I peeked through the blinds.
Gray Tacoma. And him—soft navy crewneck pushed to the forearms, dark jeans, clean white sneakers, hair shoveled back like his hands had been there a second ago. Boy-next-door who knows exactly what he's doing and pretends he doesn't.
"Hey," he said when I opened the door.
"Hey."
His eyes did one slow pass—blouse, jeans, back to my face—like a breath he hadn't meant to take. "You look... very method."
"Method?"
"Like your character's trying to kill me."
"Maybe she is."
"Kinky."
"Oh my God." I brushed past him, smiling despite myself. He opened the passenger door like it was muscle memory, palm warm at my back as I climbed in.
—
The restaurant was candlelit and low, the kind where silverware sounds expensive and everyone speaks softer like they're protecting the moment. Two girls in a corner booth clocked him; I watched the switch flip—posture straighter, smile sharpened, voice polished. Calum Bennett: on. Then, when their attention drifted, the dimmer slid back down.
"You do this every time somebody recognizes you?" I asked once we ordered.
"What? Become dangerously likable and emotionally unavailable?"
"Exactly."
His mouth tipped like he was amused, but it didn't quite reach his eyes.
We talked in gentle circles until something in him loosened. Oklahoma came out in pieces—wide streets, quiet kitchens, his dad's absence like a stain you can't scrub out. He was eight. Nobody talked about it. "So we just... kept mowing the lawn," he said.
"That's a lot to carry," I said.
"I think I started making jokes so my mom wouldn't cry. Or maybe so I wouldn't."
"Did it work?"
"Sometimes."
He looked down at his plate, then back at me. "I left at sixteen. Greyhound to L.A., couches, sticky floors, bad roles. Just wanted to be seen, I guess."
"You are," I said softly.
"Yeah. By strangers."
I nudged my fork through a roasted carrot, felt the earlier text hover. "Mason asked me out today."
His brows lifted a degree. "Mason. From set."
I kept my tone light, like I'd mentioned the weather. "Mm-hm. I'm not really sure about him."
"You going to say yes?"
I met his eyes. "He's sweet, but... not really my type."
Something eased in his shoulders he didn't name. He let it go, but the air between us thickened.
—
After dessert he leaned in, eyes brighter in the candlelight. "Terrible idea."
"Go on."
"I'm taking you to the worst movie ever made."
"Oh thank God. We were getting dangerously healthy."
He tossed cash on the table and stood, offering his hand like a question. I answered it.
The theater was almost empty. The film was a catastrophe—CGI that looked resentful, a hero named something like Viper Justice. He whispered new dialogue over the real dialogue and I had to press my knuckles to my mouth to muffle the laugh that wanted to misbehave.
He didn't ask if the night should keep going. He just kept driving.
Santa Monica opened like a postcard—neon haloing the pier, ocean breathing in whole paragraphs, salt and popcorn tangled in the air. He bought ice cream (refused to let me pay) and kept stealing bites of mine until his thumb swiped a smear from my chin and lingered a second too long. My pulse went ridiculous.
The arcade burned in red and blue. I beat him at Skee-Ball twice; he accused the machine of bias. He tried to win me a stuffed bear from a claw machine and failed six times in a row.
"You're actually terrible at this," I told him.
"Or maybe I just like watching you root for me," he said, and for once didn't smirk after.
We wandered to the swings where the boardwalk thinned and the night got honest. We dragged our toes, rocked gently, let the chains complain. He was quiet in the way that feels like listening.
"It's nice having someone," he said to the dark, not quite looking at me. "Even if it doesn't... mean much."
"Savannah," I said, not a question.
He nudged a trench in the sand with his sneaker. "She doesn't really know me."
"Do you want her to?"
A beat. "Sometimes I think I'd rather keep it that way."
I told him I didn't come to L.A. to find myself. I came to build her from scratch. He looked at me like a blueprint had finally resolved into a house.
"You already are her," he said.
We swung higher. Jumped at the same time. I landed messy and laughing, hair in my mouth. He stumbled toward me with that half-smile like he kept thinking of something he wasn't saying.
"Careful," he murmured, catching my elbow. We were close enough that I could count the salt beads clinging to his lashes.
"You've got sand in your hair," he said, thumb brushing a curl behind my ear. His hand didn't leave my skin. The ocean filled the spaces we didn't.
His forehead tipped to mine. The moment stretched thin, a held note. Then he kissed me—soft at first, a question. When I answered, the answer deepened. His palm found the small of my back; my fingers hooked into his shirt. The world went quiet except for his breath and the tide and the warm, dizzy way time slipped.
I smiled into it without meaning to. He laughed once—low, surprised—and kissed me again, firmer, like we were done pretending.
His phone buzzed against my hip.
He stilled. Looked down. Jaw set. "It's Savannah."
The sound of her name was a cold tide.
"You should answer," I said, too evenly.
"I don't want to."
"Still."
His eyes met mine, something unreadable flickering there. But he answered. "Hey."
I couldn't hear her words, but his tone shifted—lighter, practiced. "Yeah... no, I'm just out. Uh-huh. I'll call you later."
He hung up, slipping the phone back into his pocket without meeting my eyes. For a moment, neither of us moved. The cold breeze off the water suddenly felt sharper.
"I should get you home," he said finally, voice low.
The drive back was quiet—not awkward, exactly, but full of the things we weren't saying. He walked me to my door, hands in his pockets like they didn't just have a reason to be on me.
"Tonight was—" he started.
"Yeah," I said, because anything more felt dangerous.
He gave a small nod. "Goodnight, Lena."
"Night."
The door shut, and I leaned against it, fingers still curled like they remembered the shape of him. This wasn't fake anymore. And that scared me more than anything.