“Kind of,” she admitted, the clatter of glasses and muffled voices in the background immediately giving her away. “What’s up?”
“You said that you finished your story. Are you going to send it out?”
“Maybe,” she said curtly. I could hear the hum of a blender whirring and the hiss of a soda gun in the background. “I haven’t decided yet.”
“What’s stopping you?” I asked, hoping to draw her out.
“Nothing,” she said. “Hey, can we talk later? Someone just?—”
There was a loud crash on her end, followed by her muffled voice. “No, Trevor, the keg goes on the dolly, not your shoulder. It’s not CrossFit.”
Another voice chimed in, faint but distinct: “Marie Antoinette, I swear, if you call me Cinderella one more time…”
A sharp bark cut through the chaos, and someone shouted, “Why is there a dog in the kitchen? Who brought a dog in here?”
“Sorry, Luke,” Anna cut in, sounding exasperated. “I have to go. We’re short-staffed, and someone just spilled grenadine all over the napkins. Again.”
“Yeah,” I said, trying to keep my disappointment in check. “Sure. Talk later.”
The line went dead before I could say goodbye.
I stared at my phone, the silence in the trailer settling over me like a heavy blanket.
She was pulling away. Maybe this was what I got for thinking I could have both her and my career.
I’d opened up more to her than I ever had with anyone. I’d told her about my mom leaving, about the nights I spent wondering why the people I loved most seemed to reject me. I’d let her see the parts of me I usually kept hidden, trusting her with the pieces I was afraid to show the world.
And now? It felt like those pieces weren’t enough. It felt like I wasn’t enough. But maybe, I thought bitterly, that wasn’t a shock. After all, when had anyone ever stayed with me?
I tossed my phone onto the table and picked up the script, forcing myself to focus on the lines. But the words felt heavier with every page I turned.
“Luke,” a PA called, her voice strained. “They need you on set. Gerald’s, well, he’s pacing. With the megaphone.”
I groaned, dragging myself up. By the time I stepped onto the set, Gerald was mid-rant, waving the megaphone like a conductor directing an off-key symphony.
“Luke,” he shouted, even though I was only a few feet away. “Darling, sweetheart, you’re killing me. And not in the emotional, award-winning way that I want.”
I sighed, stepping into position. “What do you need, Gerald?”
“What do I need?” he repeated, lowering the megaphone to clutch his heart dramatically. “I need you to dig deep, to channel grief, despair, heartbreak. Right now, you’re giving memeh. And I cannot work withmeh.”
I clenched my fists, frustration bubbling under the surface. “I’m trying,” I gritted out.
“Trying isn’t good enough,” Fargo shouted, flinging his arms like someone swatting a swarm of bees. “This isn’t community theater, Luke. You’re not playing Tree #2 in a middle school musical. We needemotion!”
From somewhere behind the monitors, a crew member stifled a laugh, and Gerald whirled on them. “Do you think this is a joke? Do you thinkartis a joke?”
I rolled my shoulders, taking my mark. Gerald’s eccentricity was infamous, but today he had taken it to another level.
“Okay, everyone, places,” Gerald shouted into the megaphone again, though no one had moved. “Let’s try this again. And Luke? Give meOscar-bait tears,or so help me, I’ll send you back to the student-run ditties of Brown’s Production Workshop.”
I should have known better than to let my guard down and fall in love. Now, all I was doing was proving I wasn’t enough. For Anna or this role.
As the assistant director called for another take, I planted my feet and gripped the script tighter. I would get through this, one way or another. But it felt like the things I cared about most were slipping further out of reach.
47
ANNA
