"Well, this certainly did come as a surprise," Susan Specks said, flipping through a portfolio of pictures. "I don't remember this concept being pitched to me."

The offices of the Brooklyn Editorial were bustling with a subtle excitement, nobody at their desk for longer than five minutes at a time. People were chatting in every corner, rushing about papers, and taking phone calls left and right. Even with Susan's door closed, I could see the chaos from behind the window blinds. [y/n] herself was somewhere on the second floor, locked inside a darkroom as she processed the remainder of her camera's film.

The "best takes" of the photoshoot were in Susan Specks hands, flipping between each other as she surveyed them. While I hadn't seen them in full yet, I'd gotten a sense of what they were—candid, unposed pictures of myself. The idea was different from anything an editorial was used to seeing. Photos of such nature should belong in a scrapbook or on someone's mantelpiece.

But somehow, [y/n] made them work.

"I like this one," Susan said, holding up a frame of me nearly getting pummelled by a bicycle. "Might be a little too reckless for the public's tastes, though."

I smiled. "She called that one a test shot."

"Did she?"

"She called all of them that, actually."

Susan mumbled something to herself, setting the portfolio down in front of her. I found myself nervously waiting her response. While the pictures themselves were good, Susan was a businesswoman. She saw numbers in places we saw portraits. She also saw profit. And while the concept of having a more "natural" editorial was unique, it was a risk.

"Scandalous or not, the Brooklyn Editorial isn't going to have a problem selling copies," she said, clasping her hands together. "I just want to make sure this is what you want."

I furrowed my brows. "What do you mean?"

"Be honest, Mr. Connor. These photos aren't on the same standard as that of Vogue. They lack the professionalism of a Hollywood star's photoshoot. They risk being 'too natural' and 'lacking effort', and to be honest, you aren't looking into the camera for any of them."

"You think it's a bad idea?"

"No, no," she said, clearing her throat. "I just need you to understand the risk."

"Ah."

"If you want to jumpstart your career here in America, is this the image you want introduced to the nation?"

She placed her fingers on top of the portfolio, spinning it around to face me. There, on top of the pile of photographs, a single picture caught my eye. I was sitting on the cliff, my expression joyful, and my gaze shifted to the right of the lens. I remembered the moment it was taken. I'd decided [y/n] reminded me of New York in the Fall. The smile on my face was soft, but matched the shine in my eyes. I looked happy; I looked entranced.

Maybe it wasn't the standard for photos in the country, but there was a realness to the image that made me swell with curiosity. It sparked a thousand questions: why was I smiling? What was I wearing? Who was I staring at? And while I knew the answer was her, I couldn't remember what I was thinking.

"Yeah, you're right," I said. "It's unconventional."

"It is."

There was only one answer to the question of if the photos were a good idea, and what I said next could alter the course of my life completely. If I took the risk and it backfired, I'd be three steps back from my dreams. If it worked out, I'd be three steps closer. This was my one chance to show Hollywood who I was and I couldn't screw it up.

I'm impressed, [y/n] had said to me. For a second you looked like a different person.

I could show them Kit Connor, the actor, decked out in expensive clothes and studio sets. Or, I could show them Kit, wearing nothing but his clothes and the expression of a conversation gone by.

Somehow, only one of those options felt right.

"I'll take the risk," I said, standing from my chair. "I trust it."

And like most risks, the moment seemed to fly by in an instant. Susan nodded her head, and the deal was done.

➵

"You see this, Harrison?" I said, stepping onto the balcony. In one hand was a pamphlet of paper and in my other was an espresso. "This is a script."

[y/n] was standing on a yoga mat, her arms outstretched above her head, and her legs planted in a wide position that didn't seem comfortable in the slightest. It had been a few weeks after my meeting with Susan and the looming date of the magazine's release started to close in on me like a cardboard box. I'd like to think we were both nervous to know the outcome of our experimental interview—but if she was, she didn't show it.

"A script, is it?" She asked rhetorically, bending to one side.

"Y'know, the thing actors get when they act?"

"Does that script say Hollywood on it?"

"Well, no."

"Forget it, Kit Kat."

I watched her bend her knees into a squarish position. "No script says Hollywood. And by the time the editorial releases, maybe I'll finally get you to believe that I'm an actor."

"That's if the editorial does well."

"You don't think it will?"

"I think it deserves to," she said. "But in the business, you can never really tell."

I opened my mouth to respond, but was cut off by the sound of my landline ringing from inside the flat. I motioned that I'd be back, disappearing into my living room and searching for the phone.

"This is Kit Connor speaking," I said, picking it up.

The voice on the other end was familiar. "Kit! This is your agent, Dan."

"Dan! How are you?"

"Good. Great, even. I have some news for you."

"Hit me."

"I sent a couple producers the early draft of your editorial, and two of them just sent me a fax this morning. They want you to audition for their new blockbusters."

I could barely keep the phone secured in my hand at the news. My heart was skipping in excitement and my palms were sweaty and jittering all over the place. Daniel must have noticed my loss for words, because he followed up with something else.

"I've already mailed the scripts to you. When you get them, read through them all and call me back."

"They liked the editorial?"

"Obviously. They said they wanted fresh talent, and you were perfect."

"Ok. Ok. Thanks Dan."

"Are you breathing, Kid?"

"I think so."

Setting the phone down—or slamming it, I couldn't be sure in the haze of things—I ran my hands through my hair and tried not to scream in joy. The worries I'd had about the editorial becoming rubbish at the bottom of a bin were gone. Clearly, even if the general public didn't love it, two blockbuster producers did.

Exhaling a breath, I returned to the balcony with a smile on my face.

"You look cathartic," [y/n] said when she saw me. "What happened?"

I wanted to tell her, but there was something creeping up my spine as soon as I opened my mouth. This was such a rare opportunity, and I didn't want to jinx it. Of course, I trusted her, and it had nothing to do with anything negative, but this was the one risk I didn't want to take.

"Furniture company called," I lied. "I'm getting my new carpet in tomorrow."

"How lovely."

If she didn't believe me, she didn't show it. She only sat in her yoga position, letting the sun bask down onto her shoulders like a warm pool of honey. The silence hang heavy in the air, until she snapped her head towards me and brushed back her hair.

"I have a proposition," she said.

"Hit me."

"I'm going clubbing tonight. Come with me."

"Clubbing?"

"Yeah, the places where you dance and drink to music—"

"I know what a club is, thank you."

"Are you coming or not?"

The whole idea was abrupt and unusual, and I hadn't expected such a thing to come out of the woman's mouth. She didn't seem like someone who'd go clubbing. Back in Britain, I was known for having a good time, but here the words "good time" seemed to have a different meaning. Clubbing in America was a terrifying thought.

Being trapped in a room with hundreds of American strangers was a deterrent alone.

"Yes or no?" She asked.

There were two thoughts in my mind, the first being: "Sure, I'll go."

The second?

I need to buy a new carpet.

➵

The Rock Days night club was located next to a laundry mat, a giant painted sign on the brick walls and a horrendously long line running from the front door.

"Are you sure you don't want to go somewhere else?" I said, turning to look at the woman beside me.

[y/n] shook her head. She'd done her hair up in some sort of curly look, and while it looked as hard as a rock, it made her look almost like a different person. She had a frilly white skirt on, a low-cut orange top, and boots that went up to her knees. She was exceptionally good looking this evening, though I didn't want to say it out loud.

"Ye of little faith," she said, grabbing my hand.

I tried to not make my surprise visible. Sure, she'd shaken my hand before, but this time she was holding it—tightly. I thought my fingers might snap off if she didn't let go.

She led us to the front of the line and straight up to the security at the door. Everyone in line glared at us, so I opened my mouth to protest, but I was curious as to where she was going with this.

"Hey Jack," she said to the bouncer. "He's with me."

The burly man at the door nodded his head. "Alright."

"Thank you!"

"You have a great time, Miss Harrison."

What the—

"Are you a regular here, or something?" I asked, being dragged into the building.

She took us down the stairs. "Not really."

"So how?"

"How did I get in, you mean?" She laughed, letting go of my hand. "I did an editorial on this place when it first opened, and now it's one of the most popular nightclubs in Brooklyn. Owner said entry, drinks, and music requests are all free for me now."

"You're joking."

"Do I look like I am?"

Winking at me, she scurried off into the nightclub and disappeared into the large crowd. The place looked like an old ballroom, with a dance floor in the centre, a bar on the other end, and tables and chairs littered on the edges. It was loud, almost too much so. With her gone, I almost felt stranded. Abandoned, even.

But then she reappeared, grabbing my hand for the second time that night.

"Let's dance," she said.

"I don't like dancing."

"Why not?"

"Never found it interesting."

"That's because you've never danced with me before." She grinned. "Try not to get tired, Connor."

In truth, I wasn't impartial to dancing, I was just nervous to dance with her. She was in her element, she was in her home city, and she was confident about everything she did. Something about seeing her in the way made me feel strange inside—as if she was a stranger I'd never met before.

"Hey," I said over the music.

"Yeah?" She yelled back.

But before I could say another word, another man came up from behind her, tapping her on the shoulder. She turned to look at him, and he held out his hand. I watched, awkwardly, waiting for her response.

She took it.

My first reaction was to pull her back, but I stopped myself. It didn't make sense why that irked me—why seeing another guy dance with her bothered me. She and I were barely friends, and we'd spent more time arguing with each other than bonding.

Shaking my head, I left the dance floor and made a beeline for the bar.

"Just a pint," I said.

Sitting on an empty stool, I peered back into the rest of the nightclub, searching for her. She was still dancing with that man, her white skirt swirling around her thighs as she danced, and her hands high above her head. At one point, the man placing his hand on her hip, pulling her closer to him.

I drank my beer with bitterness, wondering what she'd do next.

To my surprise, she slipped away, pointing towards where I sat at the bar. Giggling, she ran up to me, placing her hands on both of my knees.

"Funniest thing just happened," she said. "That guy, the guy I was dancing with? He works for The Times. Said he's a big fan of my editorials."

"I'm sure he is."

"He wants to give me a tour of the place tomorrow."

"Are you going to go?"

"Hell no," she laughed. "He's a handsy pighead who smells like he hasn't showered in years."

"Sounds like your type."

"Shove off. You know nothing about my type."

"Scrawny poets who think they'll be the next Poe?"

"Pass."

"British men from Liverpool who play in a band?"

"Close, but no. I only like George Harrison." I set my beer down, but she swiped it out of my hands. "Can I have some?"

"Sure, whatever."

"What's got you all wound up?"

"Nothing."

"Sure doesn't seem like nothing." She took a long sip of my drink. "Jealous of Mr. New York Times?"

I glanced back at the dance floor, where the handsy pighead was already dancing with another woman. "I'd never be jealous of that sod."

When she pulled the drink away from her mouth, I noticed a white streak of froth lining the top of her upper lip. She looked as if she had a thin Mustache.

"Hey," I said.

"Yeah?"

"You've got a bit of..."

"What?" She beamed up at me.

It occurred to me how rarely I'd seen her smile—truly smile, with all her teeth, and her crinkled eyes. It made me wonder why she'd chosen to smile like that now, right here, and at me. Even with the froth on her mouth, I realised how beautiful she looked when she beamed like that.

"Just above your lip." I muttered, barely loud enough to hear.

She ran a finger above her mouth, completely missing the fizz. "Did I get it?"

"No. More to the left." She tried again. "No. To the right now."

"Are you pulling my leg?"

"I'm not."

"There's nothing on my mouth, is there?"

Taking matters into my own hands, I took her wrist and set her arm back down to her side. With my other, I placed my palm on the bottom of her face, using my thumb to get the froth off.

"There," I said. "You're welcome."

But I didn't move my hand. It lingered on her face, almost as if I was unsure whether or not to let go. The reasonable thing would be to, but I couldn't bring myself to do it. She was staring up at me, her eyes wide and shining in the dim light, and she almost looked like she wanted to rest her head into my palm.

"What are you doing?" She asked.

I retracted my arm. "I don't know."

"You're not going to turn into another Mr. Handsy, are you?"

"God, no. That would require me being attracted to you."

"Well, are you?"

I scoffed. "Not a chance, Harrison."

"Good," she said, patting my face. "I only like actors."

Returning to the dance floor, she disappeared into the crowd of people. Without her there to keep a conversation, I felt as if the night was pointless. I wanted to speak with her, to dance with her, to argue, or sing, or do anything at all.

But I stayed on the stool, watching from afar.