I’m not even halfway through my first day and I’m already hiding things. It’s just sushi. Just one tiny white lie about preferences. But it feels like a preview of the next few weeks.
The afternoon stretches into more whiteboard scribbles and card-shuffling. We start roughing out where the season might land, throwing “possible midseason twist” up on the board and starring it twice. Rebecca keeps us moving without steamrolling anyone, firm and excited and exactly the kind of person you want in charge of your dreams.
By five, my brain feels like someone scraped it out with a spoon, in a good way.
“Okay,” she says, dropping the marker and clapping her hands once. “Fantastic work, everybody. You all showed up, you played nice, nobody pitched a talking cat. I’m thrilled. Same time tomorrow.”
There is a shuffle of laptops closing and chairs scraping. Everyone starts gathering their things, tossing out goodbyes and see you tomorrows.
“Natalie?” Rebecca says. “You have a minute?”
I have a moment of panic. She knows.
Maybe my blazer shifted wrong when I reached for my water. Maybe I touched my stomach one too many times. Maybe the chicken bowl gave me away.
“Yeah, sure,” I say, hoping my voice doesn’t give me away.
Rebecca sits back down, but she’s more relaxed now, oneankle resting on the opposite knee. “I just wanted to check in without five people staring at us. How are you feeling after today?”
“Good,” I say, honestly. “Tired, but good. It was incredible, actually. Getting to hear everyone bounce off the pilot, start building it out. This is…yeah. It’s everything.”
Her mouth tips up into a smile. “You did great. You jumped in, you weren’t precious about your own pages, your ideas tracked. That’s not always a given with first-time creators.”
“Thank you.” My throat goes a little tight. “And thank you again for taking a chance on the show.”
She waves that off. “The show’s good. That part was the easy decision.”
I want to print that sentence out and frame it.
She hesitates for a beat, then folds her hands on the table. “One more thing. This job gets intense. The closer we get to production, the crazier the hours get. Things blow up, you’re rewriting on set, life keeps happening anyway. If there’s ever anything you need from me, flexibility-wise, I want you to know you can say it. Conflicts, family stuff, mental health days. I’d rather know and work with it than have someone burn out quietly in a corner.”
On the surface, it’s thoughtful. Generous. The kind of thing people brag about in interviews when they talk about “good showrunners.”
But all I hear is: “Do you have anything I should know about that might make you a problem when we’re in production April through August?”
I grip my notebook a little tighter. “I really appreciate that,” I manage. “Right now I’m good.”
“Good.” She smiles, all warm sincerity. “We’re lucky to have you. Go home. Turn your brain off for a few hours. You earned it.”
Traffic on the way home is its usual mess. I barely notice. My brain loops the same beats: Four months until production. April through August. “If you have any conflicts.”
By the time I stumble through my front door, my whole body feels like I’ve been standing under fluorescent lights for ten straight hours. I toe off my boots, peel off the blazer, and trade my outfit for leggings and one of Jake’s T-shirts, the soft gray one that mysteriously never found its way back to his drawer.
It falls over the curve of my stomach and I try not to overthink how much that comforts me.
I pour a huge glass of water, flop onto the couch, and open my laptop. There are already three emails from FlixPix. One is calendar invites for the week. One is notes from Rebecca recapping the day.
The third has the subject line that causes my anxiety to spike again.
From: Rebecca Sullivan
Subject: Production Timeline & Availability.
I click.
Hey team,
Quick reminder that production is scheduled from early Aprilthrough August. We’ll need all hands on deck during that time. It’s long days on set, rewrites, last-minute changes—it’s intense, but it’s also the best part.
