The air in the car was so thick you could practically cut it with a knife.
Link gripped the steering wheel with one hand, rubbing his temple with the other. The highway ahead was just a gray-white streak, blurred by the morning fog. The soft strains of old jazz on the radio were barely audible, almost swallowed by the wind.
Russell Crowe, in the passenger seat, had his eyes closed, his breathing deep and heavy. It looked like he was asleep, but that labored rhythm felt more like he was struggling to suppress something intense.
"I need to go to New York," Link said.
Russell responded with a grunt.
Link glanced over. The actor's face was as taut as a bowstring, his jawline slightly trembling.
The car pulled up to the hotel entrance in Princeton. Link handed him the room key.
"Get some rest."
He paused, lowering his voice: "Remember, you're not Nash right now."
Russell's eyelids flickered. He didn't turn around, stepping out of the car with a gait so stiff it was like walking on broken glass.
Link watched him go inside, then spun the wheel, hit the gas, and merged onto the highway toward New York.
As the wind rushed in, he felt a sudden, profound sense of isolation.
He could get the actors into character, but finding their way back to reality? That was a journey they had to take on their own.
---
An hour and a half later, Manhattan. The Waldorf-Astoria's hallway lights shone with a gentle, golden glow.
As the elevator doors opened, Link saw her.
Cameron wasn't in a gown; she was wearing a white cashmere sweater and jeans. Her blonde hair was loose and flowing. The whole look was light, like a ray of sunshine.
She hadn't waited in the lobby. She was standing right by the elevator, and the moment she saw him, her eyes lit up—a light as bright as the sun, almost scorching.
She ran over and threw herself into his arms.
The mix of sunshine and perfume instantly chased away the cold, sterile air he'd carried back from the mental hospital.
"I thought you weren't going to show up!" Her voice was muffled, her face buried in his chest.
Link chuckled, patting her back.
"No way."
They went into the room and ordered room service.
Cameron sat cross-legged on the sofa, nibbling on a slice of cheesecake, pointing her fork at him.
"Fess up," she said, half-squinting. "Were you having a good time chatting with your 'Beautiful Mind Miss' while I was gone?"
*Here we go.*
Link took a sip of his coffee; the bitterness tasted like metal.
"I was," he admitted openly. "We were discussing the script. She's a very professional actress."
Cameron stopped moving her fork. She didn't say anything.
The low hum of the air conditioning unit suddenly became deafening.
"She's pretty, right?"
Link nodded: "Yeah, she's pretty."
Her blue eyes widened slightly.
Link sighed, put down his coffee, and leaned forward.
"Cameron."
"She's an iceberg, the kind you keep in a museum, the kind you can only look at through glass."
He smiled. "And you? You're the sun, the kind that can melt an iceberg."
Cameron froze for a few seconds, then a blush slowly crept up her face. She looked down, poking her plate with her fork, muttering, "Smooth talker."
But she couldn't hide the small smile playing on the corner of her lips.
Crisis, temporarily averted.
Link leaned back into the sofa, just about to breathe a sigh of relief, when his pocket big-brick cell phone rang.
The name on the screen made his heart clench immediately:
Jennifer Connelly.
Cameron's peripheral vision caught the name, and the smile slowly drained from her face.
Link felt the collar of his shirt tightening around his neck. He picked up the call right in front of her.
"Hey, Jennifer."
"Link, sorry to bother you." Her voice was cool and clear. "I wanted to discuss Alicia's scene. The script says she 'chooses to wait' after Nash is sent to Trenton, but I feel like—that's too passive. She's not waiting; she's *fighting*. She'd be researching, challenging the whole medical system, trying to prove her husband isn't crazy."
That sheer passion came through the phone like an electric current.
Link smiled. "That's a great idea. We should meet up to talk."
"I'm at the coffee shop downstairs in the Waldorf-Astoria right now."
Link's back instantly felt clammy.
He looked across the table. That slice of cheesecake had been completely annihilated by the fork.
"I'm at the Waldorf, too... I'll be down in half an hour."
"Perfect."
The call ended.
The room was so quiet you could hear breathing.
"Go ahead," Cameron finally spoke, still not looking up.
"Don't keep your Iceberg Miss waiting too long."
Link stood up, feeling like a bomb disposal expert stuck between two landmines.
"I'll be right back."
He got to the door, his hand on the doorknob.
"Link."
He turned back to face her.
Cameron walked closer and straightened his slightly crooked collar. Her fingertips were cool.
"Come back soon. I'll wait," she said, then rose up on her toes and gave him a soft peck on the lips.
Link exited, closing the door gently, and let out a long, slow breath.
The elevator chimed, "Ding," as the doors opened.
He froze.
Standing in the elevator was a person in a black turtleneck and jeans, holding a script.
Jennifer Connelly.
She was about to go upstairs to her own room.
She looked up, saw Link, and paused. Then, a flash of understanding crossed those dark, obsidian eyes.
They stared at each other, one inside the elevator and one outside.
Just then, behind Link, the hotel room door that had just closed clicked open again from the inside.
Cameron Diaz peered out, holding his jacket, a sweet smile on her face.
"You forgot your..."
The words died in her throat, the smile freezing instantly.
The 23rd-floor hallway of the Waldorf-Astoria.
The air was colder than a Siberian winter.