A whistle of wind blows the napkin out of Bill's hands as he tries to carry two Polish Sausages wrapped in greasy red and white checked paper across the street. He whips his head to the left, watching the napkin dive and jump with the brisk gusts of air, following it with his eyes to be certain he can retrieve it. He grins when it lodges itself into a hedge, leaning over to grab it with one hand while balancing both sausages in the other.
Success!
Clutching the napkin, he turns toward his destination.
Sandra has her back against the newsstand, bracing herself as she continues to page through the gossip magazine in her hand. Her face blanches and her eyes dart rapidly back and forth, as she reads and rereads the lines on each page.
Bill drifts slowly toward her before picking up his pace as he sees her fall into what he could only describe as a state of despair.
But at what?
Her head starts twitching as though she wants to shake it in rebuke but cannot seem to make it fully move. Her brows draw together, weighed down in disbelief. Like a movie playing in reverse, moments flash by deep within her mind's eye.
What is going on?
Bill is about three feet away, studying her face, when the magazine slips from her hands, landing face up in a melting pile of snow, blackened from the smog of the city.
Her fingers splay across her face as if it were a dam holding back a flood of vomit.
The wind tosses the cover up and down off the rest of the magazine, and Bill's eyes widen when he sees Keanu's printed face flapping upon the cover. He snaps his head back up to see Sandra staring thru him with glassy eyes. Taking one last glance at the magazine, he grabs her hand, ushering her away from the rest of the group without so much as a goodbye.
They walk in silence, wet fire brimming her eyes and threatening to spill over. A quiet snuff escapes her, then she sniffs again, louder this time. The leak is unstoppable, now, stinging the wind-slapped skin of her cheeks as it falls. Bill touches her arm but she turns away, coughing to clear her voice. She snorts one more time, and then nothing. By the time they reach her place, she still hasn't said a single word.
No sooner had they entered her front door than the phone started ringing. It may as well have been silent, though. Sandra is staring out the large picture window, watching a fog hanging close to the Chicago River and hugging herself tightly. He dives for the phone, quickly lifting it, then hanging it up without a word. He then takes it off the receiver before returning to her.
"Sandra," he starts, unsure whether to offer a hug or quietly leave her in peace. "Sandra? Sa-Sandy, would you like me to stay?"
She continues to stare through the glass, offering no sign she could even hear his voice.
He crosses the room and lays a hand on her arm, squeezing gently. "Sandy? Sandy, I can stay if you like..."
She didn't move for four hours after he left. She stood against the wall of her kitchenette, pulling her dark mohair cardigan closed around her, and just continued to stare. The shrieking alarm of the unhooked phone had long since gone silent, and her toes were growing numb pressed against the edge of her boot, but still she stood and stared. As the sun drifts down beneath the horizon, she can no longer ignore the empty darkness of the room, so she forces herself away from the wall. She forces herself down onto a chair where she carefully forces each boot off of her now red, swollen toes. She forces herself to rise again, then she forces herself to put one foot in front of the other, slapping the wall to turn on the amber lighting. Entering the bathroom, she forces herself out of her tight jeans, then pauses as she looks at her reflection in the mirror.
Raising her hand, she presses her hair out of her eyes, digging her shortened nails into her scalp. The sharp sensation causes the muscles along her spine to contract in reaction, and she relishes it. She is still alive, dammit. This is nothing she can't deal with.
There are worse things than this, she reminds herself. Wash your damned face and move on.
She raises one arm and presses her nose into her pit, inhaling sharply. Not bad, but not good either. She needs to wash more than her face.
Turning the hot water faucet on, she reaches for the tray on the shelf above the bathtub, grabbing a lighter and lighting the small candle before pouring some bubbles into the now steaming water. She pulls her tendrils back into a high, messy bun and steps into the tub, settling down deep into the water.
~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*
Back in the far reaches of the Napa Valley hills...
They are still smiling as they enter Saint Helena Inn, arm-in-arm, laughing and chatting about their day. They walk up the stairs and Keanu bids her goodnight, turning to go down the hall toward his room.
Once inside, he pulls the folded letter out of his pocket:
Now then, I believe you had some ideas for how to soothe my Chicago chills? I will need to hear more about your plans before I'm able to accept or decline. I'm sure you understand...
He leans back, bathing in his memories of her, grinning as he pictures her in his shirt. And nothing else. She is all he wants, all he can think about, and he cannot wait to wrap this film and see her again.
Knock, knock.
He opens the door to find Aitana, wearing the same flowing, satin white gown she was in the night he found her on the balcony. In one hand, she holds two glasses by their stems, in the other, a bottle of Pinot Noir.
"Nightcap?" she offers, blood-red lips matching the blood-red wine.
"Aitana." It was a statement more than a greeting. He pauses, then, carefully weighing his words before saying anything else. "What, um..." he pauses again, blinking a few times, "are you okay?"
The hair pins are out of her hair, and her raven strands curve down around her face, accenting her jaw line. She lowers her head for a moment. She wasn't expecting him to sweep her up into his arms like he had on set in their stage bedroom, but she had hoped he'd be a bit more...excited. Or at least a bit less withdrawn.
"Yeah, yes. I'm fine. I was just..." She held up the bottle. "I'm sorry, can we set this somewhere?"
His mouth curved into an unconscious, hollow smile, a smile of courtesy. "Of course." He takes the bottle from her hand and looks quickly around him, setting it on the small desk near the door. "Ahem," he slaps his palm across his chest as he forcefully clears his throat.
She watches him shift his weight from one foot to the next. She has never seen him look so...awkward. Not that she knows him all that well to say for sure that this is unusual behavior, of course. She is starting to sense that she knows him even less than she'd previously thought, like she misread entirely what she thought were clear signs. In one hand, she still has two wine glasses dangling from between her fingers by the stems, and suddenly it feels as though each is a ten pound weight she is desperate to make disappear. She sets them down herself, moving her now curled hands to her stomach, scanning the room, anything to prevent looking at him. That's when she notices the folded up lined paper and what appeared to be a printout of a photograph with moody lighting. She leans forward in space an inch or two, tilting her head to one side.
He follows her motion, his eyes landing on Sandra's letter that he'd set down at the same time he'd set down the wine bottle. With a quick, shallow breath, he remembers the photoshopped picture enclosed in the letter, the one with Sandra's head, and...
Aitana's body! Omigod, no.
He dives forward, snatching the letter off the table. If she hadn't noticed it yet, she certainly notices it now, he realizes. No matter, there's no turning back now. He turns on his heel and, with two large strides, he is at his nightstand, opening the drawer and shoving the letter in, before pushing the drawer shut with a thud.
Real smooth, he chides himself, slowly spinning back to face her...
~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*
Sandra's whole body feels heavy. She has toweled off, thrown on some sweats, and her freshly shampooed hair is now pulled into a low, messy ponytail. She holds a small glass of whiskey in her hand. Who is she kidding? It is not small, it is no longer full, and it is not even her first since she'd gotten out of the tub. Rather than the numbness she was hoping for, though, every strand of hair feels like a piece of lead pressing down against her head. It is the strangest sensation: chills on her arms, hot flashes in her chest, pain at her temples and the feeling you get in the pit of your stomach right before the biggest dip on a rollercoaster, when if you were given the opportunity at that moment you most certainly would choose to get off. But rollercoasters come up after they go down, and this weighted feeling isn't likely to ease anytime soon.
She knows she shouldn't have fallen for it, believed everything is as it seemed. She knows she shouldn't have trusted. She knows she should get up right now and go for a run, or eat something more than the handful of saltine crackers she'd eaten since she'd seen that magazine at the newsstand a few days ago. She feels exhausted, yet unable to sleep, not sure if she'll sleep ever again.
Don't be ridiculous, she tries to tell herself. It's not like she'd spent four years investing in this one. In him. Shake it off! she continues to berate herself. What does it matter anyway? Her mother is right, the only person she can truly count on is herself. Who cares what he is doing or with whom?
I wonder what he is doing, though, right now?
She jolts as though someone had snuck up behind her when she hears a soft knock on the door. A grimace creeps across her face as she takes a moment to ground herself in the present. She'd almost blurred out the phone call she'd made.
What time is it?
She pulls her clenched hand off of her stomach and turns her wrist over. Nine o'clock. How did she miss the the sun setting?
Knock, knock, knock.
She opens the door to see Bill standing there, hands in his pockets, concern etched onto his face. She holds the door open, watching him as he eases his way in, unsure what he will find. Closing the door, she spins to see him standing in the middle of the room, his hands now perched onto each hip as he looks at her expectantly.
He is handsome, she thinks, taking him in. Funny. Kind. Corny, but kind.
"I'm glad to hear from you," he begins, "we were worried...I, was worried. Are you okay?"
Suddenly she springs forward, grabbing his arm and pulling him into her, smashing his mouth hard with hers. It is a rigid kiss, with tears falling from her eyes.
He wants to kiss her back. Oh how badly he wants to kiss her. He has thought about it for weeks now, but...not like this.
"Sandra, I can't." Breaking from her embrace, he's almost surprised to hear the words as they leave his mouth. "I can't."
She hangs her head to one side, pursing her lips unable to force out any sound. The heater kicks on, shooting a warm gust directly into her face, and she is suddenly aware of her wet cheeks, laying her hand against them. What the fuck is this? She wipes off the wetness and squares her shoulders. When she feels another tremble threaten her chin, she chews on her lip.
"I can't," he continues when she pulls on his hand in protest. "It's not right. This isn't what you need right now. It's not what you want."
The angriest laugh explodes from her now.
He squeezes her hands reassuringly. "You are going to be okay. He is an idiot and will regret this forever, I promise."
~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*
Keanu settles into the armchair in the corner of his room. In his lap lay a pen and several sheets of lined paper.
Dear Sandra,
That was some editing you did there. I think that photo might be a framer. I could hang it up over the mantlepiece so everyone can see. Now that would make for a great conversation piece, don't you think?
I'm only kidding. Kinda...
"Keanu? Ke-ah-nu!"
Knock, knock, knock, knock, knock.
"Keanu! I know you're in there, open up!"
The sing song voice behind his closed door announces the arrival of Aitana. Again. He sets the paper and pen down on the table next to the armchair and rises, a bemused smile pouring over his face as he opens the door.
"Hello. Again." He places a kiss on each cheek, then steps to the side to allow her entrance into his room.
"Okay, we're going out. Everyone will be there." She moves across his room, throwing herself down in the armchair.
"Everyone?" he repeats, one arm across his stomach, his chin resting on his hand.
"Yes!" she exclaims, her gaze landing on the papers next to the chair, "everyone."
"And who exactly is this...everyone?" he waves his hand around in the air as he moves across the room, his eyes dancing.
"Oh, you know..." Aitana leans over the end table, fingering the papers he'd laid there.
Keanu playfully slaps her hand away from the half-written letter, snatching it back and giving a fatherly look of warning.
She laughs. "Everyone. At least, everyone who isn't..." she motions up and down the length of him several times, "dead already. C'mon!" She jumps from the chair, wrapping her arms around his. "You're not dead yet, come out with us already."
A week has passed since Keanu and Aitana had had their heart-to-heart. He'd decided to open up to her that night when she'd entered his room, wine glasses in hand, cloaked in hope and vulnerability. He owed her an explanation, he owed her some honesty. At least, that's what he told himself as he opened up, his emotions pouring out of him like the fine wine she'd later use to toast him. It would ease the sense of rejection, he'd reasoned, if she saw it wasn't a rejection of her, but rather, an overflow of new feelings for someone he'd met before Aitana had even known he existed.
So he talked.
He shared.
He even found himself giggling as he opened the drawer next to his hotel bed, revealing a stack of neatly folded letters.
At that point, she not only forgave him, she grew invested in him. In him with her. With Sandra.
He let out a huge breath without even realizing, as he embraced speaking freely, without constraint, about the one who he'd had a hard time getting out of his mind. He explained how it built, little by little, starting with respect and friendship before it grew into so much more. He explained how he'd slowly made it clear to every other woman that he was no longer available, not because she'd asked him to or they'd agreed to, but just because he wanted to. He told her how Paris seemed to accelerate things and how hesitant she'd been to relent up to that point. And he told her that letters were how they continued to connect while they were off filming separate projects.
He'd picked one up at that moment, a wistful smile escaping as he carefully uncreased the folds. *"A letter is different than an email or even a phone call, you know?" His fingers caressed the indentations on the page as he spoke. "It's something from you. There's a different kind of intention with a letter."
"Stooohp," Aitana urged at the time, "you're too much. You're too...she's got you in the palm of her hand, Keanu Reeves!"
They'd ended that night with a friendly kiss on each cheek, and a reminder from Aitana that just because he's in love--
"I didn't say that..." he opposed
Throwing her hand up, she made it clear that she was speaking and she would choose the words. "Just because you're in--" she pauses to give him the most knowing of side eyes. "In serious like, that doesn't mean you have to slink away to the background, never to live life unless she is by your side."
As she left him, she informed him she intended to make it her second job to convince him to come out with the rest of the cast and crew. At the same time every night since then, she shows up at his door to see if that night was the night.
"**There's no reason you can't come out and have fun with the rest of us while you're here," she proffers on this night, not terribly surprised when he turns her down yet again.
"Alright, soso de cojones, have it your way."
He laughs as she mocks him. "***Old balls," he mumbles, "I'm not that much older than you."
She shrugs and spins on her heel, walking alone toward the door. "If the cojones fits..."
"Get outta here. But be safe, okay? Don't wander off alone."
"Yes, father, yes. Don't worry." Her back still turned, she salutes him as she closes the door behind her.
He sank back into his armchair with a deep sigh of contentment. Reaching for the collage she'd sent him, he gazes at her face, then closes his eyes. He can almost smell her vanilla scent again. This project cannot end soon enough. He wants to lift her into the air and spin her around. He wants her on the back of his bike, her arms wrapped tight and her body pressed against him as they fly through Topanga Canyon again. He wants to open the bottles of wine he's been collecting while in Napa and share them with her.
He wants to share everything with her.
He's hooked on her, and he knows it.
~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*
*Paraphrasing of one of Keanu's quotes on letters.
**He didn't want to go out with the cast during the filming of this movie.
***Aitana did refer to him as "old balls" in Spanish because he never wanted to go out.