He swirls the liquor in his glass. “When I wroteMask of Sin, I holed myself up in my friend’s guesthouse in Ojai for six weeks over the summer. Gracie was nine. She stayed with Cat, and they’d come visit on weekends. She still maintains that that was the best summer of her life, which honestly hurts my feelings, but damn if it didn’t prove to both of us that it’s possible to be a good parent and also an artist.”
I love the way his eyes light up, the same way they did years ago when he got animated about David Lynch or whetherThe Godfatherwas overrated. It’s only when he shifts his weight in his seat that I see a question in his smile and realize I’ve been silently staring at him for a little too long.
“I like seeing you this way,” I explain. “Talking about what you love. I’m a little jealous, actually. I want to feel that kind of drive again.”
“You can. But you might—you might have to start taking some risks. I know you’ve made plenty of great art since having Emme. But I also get a sense that she might be your excuse to stick with what’s comfortable.”
“Did you feel that way? Before you wroteMask of Sin?”
“I did, to be honest. I was getting to a point where I was just coasting, taking on projects I didn’t believe in. Keeping my eyes on my bank account. I was providing security for Gracie, but I hated what I was ultimately modeling for her—what it looked like to give up on what you love.” He sighs. “Honestly, the entire process of writing that screenplay was pretty painful. I hated it, at thetime. I was totally alone, writing without a partner like I had for previous projects, worrying about my kid. And the potential for failure. And the distinct possibility that I was suffering from delusions of grandeur. But I would still take all that existential angst over the pain of not doing it.Nottrying.”
“You stopped making excuses,” I say.
“I did.”
“And that’s how you won a fucking Oscar.”
Reid drops his head and laughs. “That, and the three hundred other people who made that movie come to life.” His eyes soften as they search mine. “You know, I remember the way you were when you were with your camera. It’s like you became more of yourself. More confident and self-assured. More graceful, if that’s even possible.”
“Clearly you’re not remembering the time I face-planted outside St.Dymphna’s in my platform Mary Janes.”
“Oh, I remember that. I also remember that you got up and immediately took a photo of your skinned knees. Hottest thing I’d ever seen.”
I laugh. “I always felt like a braver version of myself behind my camera, when I was young. I kind of used it as armor. Like it could offer me access to people I would never be bold enough to approach on my own. But I wonder if as I’ve gotten older...” Something clicks for me. “I wonder if I’ve been using it more like a shield so people can’t accessme.” Clarity builds inside me, like all the fragments of my anxiety have fused together to create a single, fortified force of will. I know that if I don’t say yes to this job, that if Iwere to see another photographer’s credit on this project, I would forever be haunted by what I chose not to do.
I look up at Reid. “Three months away still feels like too much.” But as I say the words, the pieces begin to snap into place. “Maybe I can float doing the portraits here and following one band on tour for a month.”
“If they want you enough, they’ll make concessions. If not, at least you’ll know you tried.”
“Between James and my parents, I can figure out a situation that Emme’s OK with.”
“If Emme is anything like my daughter—and I’ve started to get the sense she is—she’ll be more than OK with that.” One corner of his mouth tugs up into a smile.
I groan, pressing a hand to my forehead, starting to process that I am actually going to say yes to this.
“It’ll be great, Lili. If we don’t do things like this now, when will we?”
“You’re talking about this gig, right? Nothing else?” I bite back a smile.
“Of course. What else could I possibly be talking about?”
We share a charged look, and his eyes go sharper, clearer—set with determination. Anticipation. I watch his chest expand and fall beneath his shirt, and I’m overcome with a need to press my palms against it, to count the heartbeats beneath it.
When the tension pulls uncomfortably taut, I force myself to try to loosen it. To keep us talking for as long as I can stand. I wave my hand toward the window, gesturingat the city pulsing beyond it. “So what does Gracie think of all this?”
Reid sighs, runs a hand through his hair. “She loves it. She asked if we can stay an extra couple of days.”
A bubble of hope. “Can you?”
“We can’t, unfortunately. I’m in preproduction for a movie. Table reads start on Tuesday afternoon, so I have to head straight to the rehearsal space after we land.”
“Can I get the elevator pitch?” I ask, and I’m rewarded with that look again, the one that sets his eyes on fire.
“Four estranged siblings reunite to stage an intervention for their youngest sister, a tech billionaire struggling with an opioid addiction, but their secret motivation is to secure their places in her will,” he says. “The schedule’s nuts, but one of the perks of the award”—he rolls his eyes exaggeratedly—“is that I get to work with people who are the best at what they do. And the studios trust that we won’t entirely screw things up. The lead’s the oldest brother, and they cast Jack Felgate. He’s very British, has that effortless, approachable charm. It’ll make him a good villain.”
“You’re filming in the UK?”
“Georgia, for the tax breaks.”
