Her eyes still closed, Sandra stumbles forward a bit when she feels an emptiness in the space in front of her that had seconds before been filled by him. Her hand flies up against her mouth, shock setting in.
"I'm sorry." He yanks on his short strands of hair before throwing his hands down to his sides again. "I'm sorry. That was out of line."
"No it wasn't...you didn't do anything wrong."
He pushes his lips together in a thin, straight line. "I'll see myself ou—"
"Stay!" She grips his arm before he can turn toward the door, trying to hide her desperation. "Please?"
She can see her reflection in his eyes as he pauses, torn between what he should and shouldn't do. He falters; she presses on, holding up the video. "Watch it with me?"
He runs his long fingers across the teeth of his motorcycle key, back and forth and back and forth, his eyes closed, willing himself to feel the scratch of the jagged metal or see the flashes of light behind closed lids, anything to keep her from changing his mind.
He needed to leave. If there was to be any chance of preserving their working relationship, their friendship, he needed to leave.
"C'mon, you got a hot date or something?" she asks with nervous laughter, breaking his stillness. He rolls his eyes but she senses a crack, reaching for his hand then leading him backwards into the living room. "Watch it with me."
The couch feels harder than usual. She sits bolt upright, both hands on her knees, eyes straight ahead.
He slinks into the corner, legs spread, leaning slightly away. His gaze is level, direct and seems to bore into her.
Focus on the movie. The movie. The movie, she repeats to herself, choked by waves of shame and uncertainty.
Phillip: Oh, I tell you. Women are not the sensitive sex. That's one of the grand delusions of literature. Men are the true romanticists.
"Sandy, I think we need to talk about this."
Unflinching, she responds, "No. No we don't, it's fine."
Anna: This is a very diplomatic matter, I don't want you putting your foot in it.
Phillip: I deal with diplomatic matters every day without feet.
The tension is thick as they sit there, her pretending to watch the movie and him not trying to hide that he is watching her. He would start and stop to tell her what he'd figured out about Nathan so many times that night, but unsure of his own intentions he knew this isn't the time. Still, the air is heavy with things left unsaid and when he can stand it no longer, he forces her attention away from Ingrid and Cary.
"Listen. About what happened...."
"Forget it. I already have." she smiles sweetly, hoping he buys it.
As they talk, Sandra tries to control the direction, beating him to the punch of rejection. She fills the air with "letting the characters run their course" and "doing our job so well we fooled them all." He studies her face, carefully weighing every word as she rambles until she is confident she has convinced him he has nothing to worry about with her.
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His voice echoes in her mind as she pulls her bob into two, tiny pigtails. It has been a few days since he'd shown up unannounced, gift in hand. They stood there in her kitchen, her hand on her mouth, his shoved into his hair, staring right through each other. Each apology he offered deepened the nausea she felt in her gut. After convincing him to stay, they finally came to an agreement that neither is at fault and there is no imbalance of emotion to worry about. Jack and Annie had been exorcised. It's time to return to their regular programming, back to their regular lives, albeit with a few more leering eyes in bushes as they walk down any given street.
Dressed in a long, black skirt with a long-sleeved, matching cropped shirt, she is due at Planet Hollywood within the hour for a handprint ceremony with him. The opening weekend revealed Speed to be a surprise blockbuster, successful beyond anyone's imagination. It outsold competing action films, but more surprising is the buzz surrounding Jack and Annie's hidden love story, ignited by the intense on-screen chemistry between Sandra and Keanu. Tonight the studio is donating one of the buses used in the film to the restaurant and they're sending their hot, romantic leads as the face.
He offers his arm as they enter the crowded restaurant, filled with screaming fans. The masses aren't there to see her, though, they want him. This doesn't bother her. She is more than okay playing the supportive role. If she never develops the type of fan base he already has, she'll be content so long as she continues to be paid to do what she loves.
As the hostess leads them through the crowd, the owner of the restaurant is standing at the bar next to a tall, lithe blonde with tanned skin in a long, silky, black dress, her blood-red lipstick reflecting against her blindingly white smile. The bartender taps him on the shoulder, nodding at Sandra and Keanu, who are heading their direction. He clinks his glass of bourbon against the woman's glass of red, picks up the microphone, and steps up onto the small stage against the back wall.
The woman in black rises from the barstool, wine glass in hand, and floats toward a roped-off section near the stage. The drape of her dress hangs from every inch down to her hips where it billows out, revealing her slinky, black stilettos. Her hair is styled in true Hollywood glamour, flying high and straight back behind her as though she has a fan following her every move. And each step she takes is echoed by her pert handfuls, whose gentle sway laid bare the lack of anything between her and the silk of her dress. She takes her seat in front of the stage, her neck lengthened, a single, French-manicured finger tracing the rim of her glass as she waits for the show to start.
"Here we go," Keanu whispers into Sandra's ear.
Every time they do one of these events together, he spends more time trying to make her feel at home than he does charming the ones signing the check.
"Ladies and gentlemen, here they come, the Speed lovebirds themselves, Keanu Reeves and Sandra Bull-Lock."
Keanu takes one step back, away from Sandra, making a sweeping gesture toward her before clapping. Bewildered, she looks behind her to see who he's referring to, finding no one but the ecstatic patrons cluttering the tables. High-pitched screams persist, but he continues to act as though everyone is waiting on her. She takes the owner's hand and carefully steps up onto the stage where he plants a sloppy, closed-mouth kiss directly on her lips. She recoils in the most lady-like way possible.
"Whoa there, hello to you, too."
She looks to the floor for Keanu, missing him as he bounds onto the stage, laser-view stuck on the owner and an expression she's never seen before. She twists to step between the two men, one hand gently on Keanu's stomach, small tickle of her finger to signal to him that she has it under control. She offers a small nod and he transforms in a second, putting on that mega-watt smile, charismatic mode ignited. The unobservant man hands his microphone over to Keanu, who turns to address the crowd. He immediately brings the attention back to Sandra who stands there, arms crossed over her chest, watching his performance and thinking: How can he be so unaware of the effect he has on all of these women? Hell, all these dudes, too?
After a short question and answer session with the owner, where he describes the "dead-man's stick" prop from the movie that he holds in his hand, Sandra and Keanu make their way over to an area lined with flashing cameras, where two framed squares of wet cement await their newly-famous hands.
"Ugh, this is sticky!" he spoke under his breath to Sandra, whose hands are held firmly pressed into the wet concoction by her publicist.
"That's what she said," she cracks back at him.
An hour passes and the official event is over. The two of them stand around, answering a few more questions and signing autographs for fans. Keanu excuses himself to retrieve Sandra's bag. When he returns, he remains to the side, watching admiringly as she's laughing, entertaining the leftover crowd with her pithy one-liners.
"Are you surprised by the response to Annie and Jack's charming romance?" a lingering journalist asks him, off record.
He laughs with delight. "Not at all, she's very charming."
"Annie?"
He steals a secretive look at Sandra, "Yeah, sure. Annie."
He hands her bag over and places his hand protectively on her lower back, thanking everyone for their support as he guides her toward the exit where their separate drivers are waiting, when a tanned, well-manicured hand stops them in their tracks, pressing fleshy fingertips into Keanu's chest.
"Leaving so soon, handsome?"
"Keanu, Sandra, I can't imagine you don't already know, but this is—"
"I'm Sharon. Sharon Stone," the thirty-seven year-old starlet purrs, extending her hand to Keanu, palm down for him to kiss. He does as expected and then it's Sandra's turn. She leaves her hand outstretched but barely acknowledges Sandra's existence, her eyes caressing Keanu with hungry, invisible fingers. "You have time for me to buy you a drink? To celebrate your success, of course."
"Umm," his voice is flat, followed by a long pause, shrugging half-heartedly. He looks to Sandra for an escape as Sharon studies him like a hunter tracking her game.
Sandra averts her eyes, clutching one arm with the other, as a knot grows harder in her stomach. She offers a polite but ingenuine smile, reaching for the purse Keanu still holds in his hand and taking one step to the side, his fingers trailing across her back as she separates herself. "You know what? I'm gonna head home. I'm beat."
Keanu moves out of Sharon's reach, taking a step toward Sandra. "I'll...share a ride with you."
"Don't be silly, I'm fine."
"I'd like to—"
"No. No, you don't have to be bogged down by me. Stay. Have fun, dude."
Her head aches with the poisoned dart of second-guessing as she squirms out of his visual embrace, moving further away from him, gripping her stomach with both arms. She casts a glance over her shoulder right before walking through the door of the restaurant and sees he is still watching her, oblivious to Sharon drizzling her hand down his chest to his abdomen. She flashes another plastic smile and tosses out a cheesy salute before turning back around and committing to putting one foot in front of the other, walking out the door.
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* Planet Hollywood event is real, all else is fiction.