By the time we had to shoot the sidewalk scene mid-afternoon, they had to set up barriers to keep the crowd away from the film equipment and all of us in the shots.
We had a dinner break at seven, just as Jean Pierre had promised, and I was ready to sit down for a little bit. The makeup on my face felt heavy and thick and my armpits and waistband were damp, but at least the temperature had cooled a bit as the sun had slowly sunk. Even though this process was far more enjoyable than the first big video we’d filmed, I was physically more tired.
But I couldn’t complain. While we got to eat and rest, Jean Pierre and his assistant director were viewing the dailies, not even taking a short break.
The models all looked reluctantly at the bountiful table full of a variety of premade sandwiches and salads—coleslaw, macaroni and potato salads, and even a tossed green one. There was also a platter of veggies and dip, and the models seemed to be eyeing it, wondering how many calories a few carrot and red pepper sticks would equate to. From where the guys and I sat eating at another table with a couple of crew members, I realized that it wasn’t that the women didn’t wantto eat—but it seemed like they were all afraid of being judged by the others.
Cy said, “This has been pretty interesting. I can’t wait to see what it looks like when it’s all put together.”
Zack nodded. “Yeah. I get why they picked Jean Pierre to direct.”
One of the crew members across from us said, “This is my third project with him. He’s a bit of a perfectionist, but it pays off in the end. You’re in good hands.”
And, almost as if they’d wanted to solidify theperfectionisttitle, the assistant director appeared at the table and said, “Braden, Cyrus, we need to get some more shots of you by the bus.”
“Can we finish eating?” Cy asked.
“We’re losing light. If we can’t get the shots we’re looking for, we can do it tomorrow, but Jean Pierre wants to get a couple of specific shots right now. Please come with me. Mark, Jenn, Emmett, we need you guys too.”
Braden gave me a wilting look, making me realize that I wasn’t the only one feeling the weight of the day. But he forced a smile and squeezed my hand as he stood and followed Cy and the assistant director.
For a bit, I watched them across the way as I ate half my sandwich. Although I couldn’t tell exactly what they were doing, it looked like they were trying to get more up close shots of both guys, and I figured it was because of how they’d been filming earlier. Zack and I had been in the foreground, possibly blocking out both guys.
The crew who’d remained at the table were chatting, and I shifted my gaze to Zack. He was eating slowly, and it seemed like his hand, holding a fork, was slightly trembling. But I couldn’t be sure. I asked, “How are you doing?”
I’d expected a lot of what I’d seen all day—a smile, enthusiasm, and good vibes—but what I got was something completely different. “I kind of feel like a bug under a microscope,” he said quietly, and I had no doubt he was dropping his voice so the crew wouldn’t overhear us. But they were all engaged in their own side conversation, one of them talking about his experience onset of a TV show that had been filmed in Vancouver last fall and all the mishaps they’d had, thanks to an overzealous director. The other crew members kept asking the storyteller questions, and it was as if Zack and I didn’t exist in that moment.
Which was exactly what my friend needed.
“Yeah, I hear you. At least it’s just till tomorrow. We’ll be heading back home before you know it.”
“If I can make it.”
“Hey,” I said, touching his shoulder. “What can I help with?”
He blew out a soft breath and, for the first time in ages, I knew he was being genuine and honest with me. Maybe now we could get to the bottom of all his issues. I just felt like if he could let it all out, it would be a good start to healing. Losing his father last year followed by losing his grandpa—the man who’d been like a real father—was a huge part of what was going on with him. I didn’t have to be a psychiatrist to make that diagnosis.
“You can’t, Dani. But…it helps knowing you care.”
I rubbed his shoulder as if emphasizing his words. “Ido.”
“I know.” He looked up from his plate and straight into my eyes—and I felt almost winded by how open and raw his expression seemed…like he had that night in the hotel in Florida when we made love and woke up the next day as a couple. That same night he’d actually been completely honest with me, confessing that he was hurting, sharing his insecurities and grief with me, even for just a brief moment.
“So tell me how me and the guys can support you.”
He raised his hand to cross his chest and placed it on mine, the one that still rested on his shoulder, and he squeezed it. “I’m trying…” he started, then let out a sigh. “I’m having a serious problem with—”
“That wasn’t so bad,” Cy exclaimed as he plopped back down on the bench next to Zack.
Zack dropped his hand and turned his head, immediately putting the usual figurative mask he wore back on and delivering a smart ass comment with ease, as if he and I hadn’t been talking. “Did you need acting lessons?” I removed my hand from his shoulder, knowing already that whatever window had opened between us a moment ago had been slammed shut with the arrival of our other guitarist.
Not seeming to notice that he’d interrupted an intimate moment, Cy shook his head at Zack’s remark and took a bite out of his sandwich. “Man, I’m already a consummate professional.”
“Did they get the shots they needed?” I asked.
“I guess, but Jean Pierre said we might need to redo them in the morning.” Cy took a bite of his sandwich. “God, I hope not. This makeup is driving me crazy.”
“Yeah,” Zack said, nodding his head.
