“Yeah, well, at least you’ve made it,” I shot back. “I’m stuck, trying to keep my head above water, and you’re halfway across the country telling me I’m not trying hard enough.”
His breath caught, and then he replied, “I can’t understand why you can’t come to LA.”
“What did you expect me to do, Luke?” I said, my voice shaking. “Drop everything?”
There was a pause, just long enough to hurt, before he replied. “You’re stuck, Anna. Stuck in that bar, stuck in your head, stuck in your own pity party,” he said, his words turning sharp. “And you want to blame me for leaving? Maybe you should look at yourself. Ask why you won’t leave New Orleans.”
He made it sound so simple, like moving was just a plane ticket and not an unraveling of my entire life. He didn’t understand that leaving wasn’t just hard for me, that it felt impossible.
I was angry that he still didn’t get it. That he refused to hear me when I said no, when I said I wasn’t ready.
I wanted to tell him that I wasn’t trapped here—I chose this city. I stayed because it’s the one place that feels like home, because I know what it means to lose everything. But the words wouldn’t come. My chest was tight, my breathing shallow. Fear and anger tangled until I couldn’t tell which was which.
One beat passed, then another. When Luke finally spoke again, his voice was quieter, but it landed like a blow. “Maybe this isn’t working.”
I froze, the words slicing through me. “You’re right,” I murmured, though every part of me wanted to scream the opposite. “It’s not.”
Neither of us said anything else.
The call ended, and I sat there staring at the phone, my heart pounding in my chest.
I’d always known it could end this way.
But knowing didn’t make it hurt any less.
48
LUKE
The phone was stillin my hand, my call with Anna barely disconnected, and already I was second-guessing everything I’d just said.
Maybe this isn’t working.
What in the world had I been thinking?
I’d wanted her to fight for me, but she didn’t. She didn’t even try.
I dropped the phone on the table and leaned back against the trailer wall, staring at the ceiling. The conversation played on a loop in my head, every word cutting deeper.
I didn’t call her every day because I had to. I called her because I wanted to. Hearing her voice was the only thing keeping me sane.
But it wasn’t enough for her. I wasn’t enough.
It wasn’t like I’d hidden anything. She’d seen me. All my flaws, my doubts, the cracks I kept hidden from everyone else. And what did she do with that? She decided the real me wasn’t enough to fight for.
I shoved the script off the table, letting it fall to the floor. I remembered the director’s notes from earlier: “You’re holding back, Luke. You’re not connecting.”
I was holding back. But what good had it done to open up? It had only left me exposed, raw, and now alone.
I rubbed a hand over my face. My chest tightened, and for a moment, I thought about calling her back. Apologizing. Telling her I didn’t mean it.
But then what? More silence? More excuses? More refusals to ever come to LA?
I glanced down at the script, the pages splayed across the floor. One of the lines stared back at me, underlined in red ink by Gerald Fargo himself:“A hero doesn’t quit when the world falls apart. He fights harder.”
I barked a humorless laugh, shaking my head. A hero fights harder. Sure.
But I wasn’t a hero.
