We both crack up laughing, and, leaning one hip against the vanity, she swivels my chair around to face her. “We got a few minutes to spare. Tell me how good it was.”
“It was like Drake’s the-best-you-ever-had sex. It was like Idris-on-a-cracker sex. It was like… if-your-favorite-vibrator-was-a-great-listener-and-sparkling-conversationalist-and-cooked-you-dinner-and-made-you-feel-like-the-only-girl-in-the-world… sex.”
“Shut your mouth.” Takira’s eyes stretch wide. “Our grumpy director.”
“Gets really ungrumpy, yeah, but shhhh. We’re keeping it quiet until after the movie wraps.”
Takira turns my chair back around and starts brushing my hair again. “Just be careful with that heart of yours. Remember the last time you were gonna make a career decision with a man in mind?”
“Ugh. Don’t remind me.”
“It’s in my BFF job description to remind you.” Her face softens, sympathy in her eyes. “I’m sorry it didn’t go well over Christmas with your sister.”
“It’s alright.” I force a smile. “I didn’t expect all my problems with Terry to be solved just like that, but I also didn’t expect it to be this hard. I guess we’ve waited too long and let it get too bad. I’m not sure what it’ll take to repair things.”
“Well, you know I’m here for you.” She pats my shoulder and winks. “Whatever you need.”
Takira and I tell each other everything, and I’m sure I’ll be ready to talk more freely about Canon soon. It’s not just our self-imposed muzzle order that keeps me reticent. The time we spent together, the steps we took forward, were precious to me. I want to keep it as just ours for a while.
I’d thought it would be hard not having contact with Canon, gettingback to the set and pretending we aren’t together while we’re working. I underestimated Canon’s near-obsessive focus.
And my own.
This is the role of a lifetime, and when I step on that set, I give it everything. Kenneth continues providing most of my notes, but on the rare occasion that Canon delivers feedback himself, it’s with the same firm thoughtfulness he shows every other actor. Even though I miss him, we both do our jobs with the same professionalism we demonstrated before we went away together. I’m living off our few text messages and phone calls, but not much contact so far.
I don’t know if I got soft or spoiled or what over the holiday break, but by the weekend our first week back, I’m done. I can barely move or keep my eyes open. When the car drops me off Saturday evening, everything aches. We adhere to a blended production schedule. French hours when possible, grind it out when necessary. We have five days of shooting and a day built in for rehearsals. That leaves Sunday as my only day off.
So I can’t wait for Sunday, and I have every intention of sleeping until noon.
For this reason, I ignore my phone when it rings at eight o’clock in the a.m., and drift right back to sleep.
“Hey.”
I bat one hand at something tickling my nose.
“Neevah, wake up.”
Another tickle.
I crack one eye open and bring the object of my disruption into focus.
“Canon?” I croak, because you gotta croak at this ungodly hour.
“It’s nine o’clock,” he says. “Not ungodly.”
“Am I talking in my sleep?”
“You’re talking. I’m not sure if you’re asleep. Your eyes are open.”
“They are?”
“Do you see me?” he asks, amused indulgence in his voice.
I pull my pillow over my face. “Not now I don’t. How’d you get in?”
“The usual way. Unlawful entry.”
I poke my head out from under the pillow and stare at him.
