“It’s calledb-roll. It’s secondary footage for ambiance and environment, it doesn’t actually propel the story forward, so I don’t know. What’s there to see in Stockholm?”
“A bunch of pretentious bullshit,” he drawls.
“Perfect, you’ll fit right in. You won’t even need the disguise.”
“I do,” he says with a grimace.
“More than LA?”
“In LA, I can go for a run without anyone asking for a photo.”
“God forbid the Monarchs do well and people start recognizing you in the grocery store.”
His mouthtwists, like it’s the worst possible scenario. “Let’s get this over with. I have recaps to watch.”
With that, he shoves his hands into his coat pockets and starts off down the cobblestones, the cool breeze ruffling his hair. I trot after him, having to work to keep up with his long stride.
Fall is in full swing in Stockholm. When developing scripts, I’ve always found it difficult to imagine the foreboding chill of Halloween in the air, or the ominous crunch of a leaf underfoot when I’ve only ever lived in Southern California. Fall in Stockholm is beautiful. The trees are golden brown and the air is brisk, so much that I end up shivering, but I’m not going to give Falkenberg the satisfaction of being right about my wardrobe. It reminds me of LA in the way that everyone looks too well-dressed and attractive for their own good, except instead of drowning in Main Character Syndrome, everyone seems like they’re doing their best to avoid human interaction.
Walking around Stockholm with Falkenberg is oddly peaceful. Here, I have no desire to think about my failing career and my joke of a director’s reel, the dagger of rejection still sitting at the top of my inbox because I can’t bring myself to archive it yet. I don’t think about doors closing in LA. For once, I don’t want to think about the future at all. Right now, I’m just a person in a city, snapping flicks of things I like. I’ve missed using a camera. I’m so used to directing now, I’ve almost forgotten what it felt like to operate a lens.
“What’s this place called?” I say when we come to a copse of well-kept trees, surrounded by cafes and restaurant terraces.
“Kungsträdgården. It’s a tourist trap. Every restaurant you see is committing legalized robbery.” With that, he takes a seat on a bench under a tree, crossing his arms over his chest to wait. I’m not sure what crawled up his ass today.
“Literally or figuratively?” I say.
“This is Sweden, Hearst. Figuratively,” he says.
I take a seat on the bench next to him. To my surprise, he doesn’t scoot away from me. “You really never go out in LA?” I uncap my camera lens and begin rolling, pretending to be transfixed by filming, but I’m unjustifiably interested in his response.
“I avoid it at all costs.”
“God, you really hate having fun. It’s like you’re an eighty-year-old man trapped in a twenty-something’s body.”
“Yes, you’re well acquainted with my body now, aren’t you, Hearst?”
My mouth falls open. I can’t believe he just said that. He doesn’t look at me at first, but when he does, it’s accusatory.
“Shut up. I didn’t ask for you to answer the door shirtless.”
“But you didn’t complain when I did.”
“I save my complaints for HR,” I say.
“I’ll make sure it never happens again.”
“Good,” I say, hoping he hasn’t noticed my blush.
He nods.
I’m going to have to take extra care to edit the audio out of the footage I’ve just captured before it ever gets into the hands of an editor. I’m pretty sure whatever the hell just passed between us was some kind of flirting. My father hearing about me flirting with his players would make my head combust, Cronenberg-style.
There’s a coffee stand nearby, and Falkenberg orders us two cups in Swedish. It’s a pretty, musical language—effeminate, even. Everybody sounds oddly cheerful when they speak it, including Falkenberg, which I find entertaining—especially when he returns to our bench with a grouchy expression, passing one of the cups to me. When his fingers brush against mine, a jolt of electricity skitters over my skin.
“Now, I owe you a beer and two coffees,” I say.
“I know. I’m keeping track,” he replies with a smirk.
