Spy for a Spy Deleted Scene
This scene originally appeared in Spy for a Spy. The scene itself is still there—Talia and Danny discussing wedding plans while eating cookies—but Talia’s motivations and concerns have changed, as did Danny’s response. So here’s what it looked like originally!
I wasn’t planning on going to Danny’s house tonight, but even making such headway with Samir isn’t enough to totally dispel the things Brand said to me this afternoon.
I hate, hate, hate that he can still crawl under my skin and set up a sick amusement park.
“So how was dress shopping? Wasn’t that tonight?” Danny’s attempt to distract me from my distractions instantly kicks up my frustration.
“It was supposed to be during lunch.” I.e. when I was with Danny for his polygraph. I break a chocolate chip cookie in half with a satisfying snap.
Danny’s lips tug at a frown, but he takes half of my cookie without a comment. “Did you talk to your mom?”
This time, I just shoot him a glare and snag my cookie back. My insane schedule and my mom’s inability to talk about anything but herself have basically killed every conversation we’ve had in the last three years. Somehow, fighting over my wedding doesn’t seem like the best way to end the succinct streak.
“Have you done any of the stuff girls are supposed to have planned from the time they were ten?” He’s smiling, he’s joking, but by the time I was ten, my mom was halfway to her second divorce in as many years. I never kept a scrapbook of wedding ideas or dreamed of the perfect dress or imagined all the attributes of my one true love. Instead, I kept a mental list of why and how I would never get married.
Danny knows this is hard for me — it’s not easy for him, either, since he almost married a certifiable psycho a couple years ago — but tonight I do not want to be pushed. “I’m sorry, I just came here to get my mind off work for a while.”
“So our wedding counts as work?”
I don’t like that little note of worry in his voice, but I’m not sure how to take back what I’ve said. “It counts as stress, right?”
“And it would be less stressful if we actually got something done.” He steals another cookie from my hand. As if the package isn’t right there. “Like picking out a dress. Or what state we’re getting married in.”
With how spread out our families are, there’s no good place to get together. At least we don’t have to figure out the venue — as Mormons, we’re getting married in a temple. Advantage? It’s cheap (read: free). Disadvantage? We could get married anywhere from Montreal to Manila.
I pluck the cookie from his fingers. “How about a ring?” I’m shooting for teasing, but my tone misses critical humor mass and nicks the sarcastic artery.
“I told you, they’re all the same to me.” He pulls up a stool next to me at his counter and takes the cookie again.
I hold out my now-empty hand to say see what I mean?, but apparently he doesn’t. “Anything you like is fine,” he says. “I just want to get something done.”
“So pick out a ring.” I turn my tone teasing, lean in like I’m going to kiss him, and without taking my eyes from his, I yank the cookie away.
Or not. Danny doesn’t let go, but tilts his head closer to mine, toying right back. “Pick out a dress.”
I inch toward him in slow motion, ready to distract him from my cookie for real now. “Then you choose where to have the wedding.”
I wait for Danny to give in, close those last few millimeters (and give me the prime cookie-snatching opportunity I’ve been waiting for) — because somewhere inside, I have to show him I can keep up, I can hold out, I’m strong enough to withstand even this temptation.
But Danny’s not budging either. All the flirtation in his eyes melts away, leaving behind the same steel I’ve been trying to cover with cuteness.
“Are you stalling?”
His quiet question cuts our connection faster than a pair of wire nippers. I don’t realize at first that I’ve turned away.
“Danny, I —” I’m not that smart? I’m not the only one who can’t make choices here? I’m already coming so far to even say yes to you that I deserve some slack? I place my palms on the cool granite of the counter and stare at my hands. “Of course not. Why would you even think that?”
Danny sets the cookie aside — I’m only realizing now that I surrendered it — to take one of my hands. “I don’t mean anything, I just want to be sure. To know you’re sure.” He finally interlaces our fingers and pulls me closer to wrap his arms around my waist. I hate feeling like my arms are being restrained behind my back, even if it’s just Danny, but I fight down the plans to panic and hold his gaze. “Don’t go freaking out on me again. Or flaking out.”
“Are you kidding?” I force out an incredulous laugh. But it isn’t funny at all. I won’t let that happen again. I can’t. I can’t lose him again. I’ve promised myself that I would never, never, never spy on Danny, but I can’t help tuning into the CIA’s set of people reading skills (and maybe a little spy intuition) to try to reassure him. Focus on his eyes, but not too intense (freak him out, hello?). Slide my hands out of his and up into a loose hug. Keep my voice measured and steady and normal. “The past is over.”
There was supposed to be more, a whole speech or something, but the next words come shuddering to a halt in my brain. The past is over with Brand, too, no matter how much he hurt me. And yes, of course, we should be able to work together like adults. Like he said. Somehow I’ll have to find a way to trust him again, like I trusted Will.
Danny picks up his half-full glass of milk. “To the future,” he toasts.
I grab my glass to clink against his and we both take a sip.
I need to tap into my spy intuition with Brand, too. I need to be objective. If he’s right, if I’m letting my personal feelings cloud my judgment, any decisions I make about Samir or any other agents could be compromised. Brand’s a CIA officer, my boss, an experienced spy.
So then why can’t I make myself trust him now?