A wild heat burns across his expression, but is banked so quickly that I almost think I imagined it. Now when I look, I see only a blank stoicism. And yet there remains an intensity to him, the illusion of motion even though he has stopped dead still on the staircase.

His eyes are locked on mine, and I stand motionless as well, unable to move. Almost unable to breathe.

“Jackson,” I say, but I am not sure if I have spoken aloud or if his name has simply filled me, as essential as oxygen.

We hold like that, time ticking by, the world around us frozen. Neither of us move, and yet I feel as though I am spinning through space and hurtling toward him. The illusion terrifies me, because right then I know two things—I want desperately to be in his arms again, and I am absolutely terrified of the collision.

And then, suddenly, the world clicks back into motion. His eyes hold mine for a split second longer, and in those few brief moments before he turns away, I see the flash of cold, hard anger. But there’s something else, too. Something that looks like regret thawing under the ice.

I realize that my limbs will function again, and take a step toward him, knowing that this is my chance. For the project—and for something deeper that I do not want to think about because opening that door scares me too much.

But it doesn’t matter. Not my fear, not the project.

Because Jackson doesn’t look at me again.

Instead, he strides right by me, never looking back, never even slowing. And I am left to watch him pass, as anonymous as all the other women who stand there and look after him with longing.

three

What the hell had I been thinking?

The man had flatly declined a meeting with me. Had I really believed that once he saw me in person everything would change? That he would rush over, take my hands, and ask me how he could help?

I didn’t believe that, no. But damn me, I’d hoped it.

It had seemed so simple in theory. Not easy—nothing about seeing Jackson again is going to be easy—but by the numbers. I could do it, especially because I had to do it.

But I’d choked.

Instead of taking the straightforward approach—find him, talk to him—I’d frozen. Instead of moving in, I’d let him pass me by.

Shit.

I’d miscalculated everything, and whatever slim confidence I’ve been clinging to has been thoroughly and dramatically shattered.

I see Cass across the room laughing with a woman in a short, tight dress and sun-streaked blond hair. She glances my way, and I see her brows lift slightly in question. Need me?

I shake my head and smile. Cass broke up with her longtime girlfriend five months ago, and has been pretty much off the market since. If she’s connecting with this woman, no way am I going to mess up her rhythm.

Besides, it’s time to bite the bullet. I came here to pitch a project, and I’m damned if I will leave without giving it a shot.

Jazzed from my mental pep talk, I start off in the direction in which he’d disappeared, only to be waylaid by the announcement that the film will begin in fifteen minutes, and guests should start making their way toward the theater.

The announcement pretty much destroys any chance of getting a spare moment with Jackson. For one thing, I’m certain he must have some sort of man-of-the-hour thing to do onstage before the film starts. For another, the crowd has become so thick that I have no choice but to be swept along with the throng.

I allow myself to become part of the surge, making peace with the realization that I am going to have to either find Jackson right after the screening or wrangle my way into the after-party—a perk that my invitation doesn’t include.

Black-clad ushers who are probably USC film students direct us out of the multiplex and over to the original Chinese theater. It is one of my favorite places in Los Angeles. I used to escape here as a teenager, losing myself to another reality hidden in this exotic venue. It’s been recently remodeled, but unlike the shining modernism of the ballroom we have just left, the lobby of the Chinese theater still has a bit of camp, with statues brought from Beijing and Shanghai, ornate ceiling tiles and fixtures, folding screens used as wall decorations, and lots of red walls and carpets.

Once inside the theater, though, technology rules. The IMAX screen is huge and state of the art, and I can’t deny the thrill of knowing that I’m about to see both Jackson and his work splashed larger than life in front of me.

I grab an aisle seat in the very last row, figuring that I’ll have the best chance of extricating myself from the crowd and finding Jackson if I can get out the door quickly once the film is over. The theater isn’t completely full, and there are five or six seats between me and the next person over by the time the lights dim. I can’t help but be relieved. I’m on edge and antsy, battered by memories that are butting up against me, pushing and prying and trying to break free. I’m tired of fighting them. After the film, I can be strong again. But for the next seventy minutes, I want to lose myself to the past, to Jackson, and to the soaring images of the world that he has made.