I nod my head up and down, faster than I can actually process the question.
"Secondary. Character. You get that? Do you understand what I'm saying to you, Mr. Parker? Can you do this?"
My head bobs up and down like one of those dashboard dogs, the motion automatic and meaningless. A tiny smile tugs at the corner of my mouth despite myself. There's something about Gary's frantic energy, his wide-eyed intensity that reminds me of my mother back in Fairbanks, her hands on her hips as she lectures me about leaving wet towels on the bathroom floor.
Gary's face tightens, not amused by the smirk that's somehow found its way onto my lips. The absurdity of it all has actually helped calm my nerves. Laughter really is the best medicine, but Gary probably doesn't give a damn about my feelings. He just wants to get this over with so he can go home to his empty apartment and stare at his own reflection, wondering why he chose this life.
The vinyl of the chair sticks to my bare forearms, the makeup caking my skin feeling thick as clay. Each minute ticks by with excruciating clarity, the sound of the wall clock echoing like a drum in my ears. They've left me sitting here alone for nearly an hour now, the buzz of the film crew's conversations growing more agitated as time stretches on.
This delay with Vince, it doesn't feel like some clever Hollywood ploy to test my patience. It feels like something has gone genuinely wrong, like the production is fraying at the edges. My fingers trace patterns on the wooden table, the grooves and imperfections becoming familiar territory in this unfamiliar world. The anxiety that had momentarily subsided under Gary's bizarre antics begins to creep back in, wrapping around my chest.
I try to focus on the script in front of me, the words blurring together into meaningless black squiggles on white paper. The green screen behind me glows with an eerie light, casting my shadow long and distorted across the floor.
In this moment, I'm painfully aware of how out of place I am. I'm a yoga instructor turned potential game show announcer, sitting alone in a studio that feels like it's slowly coming apart at the seams.
My eyes dart toward the studio entrance for the hundredth time, expecting to see some sign of Vince, but there's nothing. Just the same crew members exchanging worried glances, the same cameras sitting idle like dormant giants.
I can't shake the feeling that this delay is more than just an inconvenience—it's a bad omen, a sign that I should have never come here in the first place.
Chapter 1
The Audition
Andrew
"Alrightthen,let'sgo!"Gary's voice cracks through the air like a whip, one finger jabbing upward as he shoves crew members into position. "Where the hell is Vince?!" The words explode from his mouth, aimed at no one in particular yet somehow managing to hit everyone. He scans the sea of bodies scrambling around us, his face a perfect mask of annoyance and agitation. I watch him, and I know, with a certainty that settles deep in my bones, that this chaos is his element, his personal brand of heaven.
A grin spreads across my face despite myself, the corners of my mouth tugging upward in a way that feels foreign afterhours of rigid tension. Gary, with his wild gesticulations and perpetually frazzled energy, cracks me up. There's something about the way he moves through this chaos like a conductor leading an orchestra of madness, his dark blue eyes darting from one crew member to another, his mouth firing off orders without pause. It's mesmerizing, really. I find myself wondering, not for the first time, if I actually want this role just to keep watching him, just to see what he'll do next. Gary's alright, I decide, as he nearly collides with a lighting technician while yelling into his headset.
It takes me a moment to realize when Vince has actually arrived in the studio, because he always seems to have at least four people circling around him. Like a diagram of a molecule, or one of those solar system models from grade school, Vince is always at the center of his own universe. The crew members orbit him, their movements precise yet frantic, like satellites caught in his gravitational pull. Even Gary's manic energy seems to align with Vince's entrance, his voice suddenly calmer, his movements more purposeful.
Vince arrives looking like he just stepped out of a magazine, except for his feet. His tailored pants hug his hips perfectly, the white dress shirt rolled precisely at his elbows to reveal forearms that look like they were carved from marble. But then there are the shoes—a pair of beat-up white Chucks, the rubber at the toes splitting like old banana peels, the fabric faded to something that resembles dirt more than white. I find myself staring at them, this strange juxtaposition of polished perfection and comfortable rebellion. He probably chose them because no one will ever see his feet on camera, and comfort trumps aesthetics when you're sitting for hours under hot lights.
That thought hits me like a revelation. A damn good one, actually.
I shift my weight, my leather dress shoes squeezing my feet like vices. The sweat pooling in my socks makes a squishing sound with every tiny movement I make. I'd trade my soul for those ratty Chucks right now, for the freedom of my toes wiggling in open air instead of being suffocated in these torture devices masquerading as professional footwear. Vince might be the star, but in this moment, he's also the smartest man in the room.
My thoughts drift to my feet, to the disgusting swamp that must be brewing inside these leather prisons. Sweat-soaked socks squelch with every minute adjustment of my position, a symphony of moisture and discomfort that only I can hear. It's a special kind of neurosis, I suppose, to be simultaneously obsessed with order and completely gross.
And then I realize I'm still slouched in this chair, my spine curved like a question mark. My right leg bounces up and down, a frantic metronome counting out the seconds of my misery. Each twitch sends vibrations through the floor, through the table, through the very air around me. It's supposed to be a coping mechanism, this rhythmic motion, a way to bleed off the excess anxiety that threatens to drown me. Instead, it's just another performance, another mask in this city of masks.
My spine snaps straight as if pulled by invisible strings, my attention yanked back to the present moment. Vince is walking toward me, each step measured and deliberate, his shoulders back like he's carrying the weight of his own importance with ease. The way he moves through the studio space reminds me of a lion surveying its territory—confident, assured, completely at home in this environment that feels like a foreign country to me. His stride is casual, almost lazy, but there's an undercurrent of controlled energy there, a coiled readiness that suggests he could spring into action at any moment.
He isn't the one on trial here, hasn't been sitting in this chair for what feels like an eternity, sweat pooling in places I didn't know could sweat. He has no reason to be nervous, no reason to feel like an imposter in this world of lights and cameras and judgmental glances. But his confidence still strikes me, hits me like a physical blow to the chest.
On second thought, 'strikes me' isn't quite the right phrase for what I'm feeling as he approaches. It's too gentle, too literary for the raw, visceral reaction coursing through my veins. He actually intimidates the hell out of me. With each step he takes closer to our table, I can feel my carefully constructed composure crumbling, piece by painful piece.
It isn't just his chiseled jawline or the way his dark hair falls across his forehead in that artfully casual way that probably takes hours to achieve. It's not even the fact that when I stand up to shake his hand, I realize he's a little taller than me, and I'm already taller than most guys. It's everything about the way he carries himself, this impossible aura of effortless confidence that seems to radiate from him like heat from a fire. Every gesture, every micro-expression feels calculated yet natural, as if he was born knowing exactly how to navigate this world of cameras and scrutiny.
His hand grips mine firmly, not too hard, not too soft, just the perfect pressure that says "I'm in control here." I wonder what it's like to live like that, to move through life without the constant self-doubt that gnaws at me like a hungry dog.
His confidence is otherworldly, a language I've never learned but find myself desperately wanting to understand, even as it completely mesmerizes me.
I self-consciously rake a hand through my hair as I push my chair back and take his hand, shaking it. His grip is solid and assuring, and I make eye contact just like I know I'm supposedto for a good first impression, but I also somehow forget how to breathe. Nobody's perfect.
"I'm Andrew." The words tumble out of my mouth before my brain has time to process the thought.
Wait—am I Andrew?
