“I have a minute,” I say as I sit down on the edge of the bed.
“I wanted to call.” He pauses. “I owe you an apology. I've been sitting with this since Wednesday, and I realized that waiting to say it wasn't doing either of us any good.”
I don't speak. I let him say what he called to say.
“The way we handled things,” he says. “Sending you home. I want you to know that the decision came from a genuine desire to support you, not from any concern about your ability to do the work. You've been running this production at a level that I don't think we fully appreciated while it was happening.”
He pauses again, and this one feels different. “That's actually the other thing I wanted to say.”
“Okay,” I say.
“We're struggling,” he says quietly. “Without you on set. I don't mean that as pressure. I'm not calling to ask you to come back. I just wanted you to know. The shot list confusion yesterday. The prop issue this morning. Things we never had to think about because they were already handled.”
He pauses and starts again. “We didn't realize how much of the floor you were holding together before any of us got there in the morning.”
The words are honest, and that's what makes them land the way they do. He means every one of them. There's no performance behind this, no political maneuvering, and no attempt to manage me. He called because he felt bad and wanted to make it right, and now he's telling me the truth.
“I appreciate that,” I say, keeping my voice level.
“I hope when things settle down, when you're in a better place,” he continues, “there's a path back. You're exactly the kind of coordinator we want on every production. That hasn't changed.”
The phrasing lingers after he says it. When things settle down. When I'm in a better place.
“Thank you for calling,” I say. “I mean it.”
Then I hang up.
The phone sits on my knee. I look at the blankets across from me, that cream and soft gray and pale blue.
We didn't realize.
I sit with that phrase for a minute. He didn't realize until I was gone. Nobody noticed the work happening until it stopped. They sent me home because they were trying to protect me, because my designation changed and suddenly I was something that needed protecting instead of someone trusted to run the floor. I know the intention was good, but I keep catching on the outcome. I was removed, and now he's calling to tell me they didn't realize what I was doing until I wasn't there to do it anymore.
I get up from the bed.
I don't consciously decide to. I just find myself standing and then pacing from the bed to the window and back again. I should be getting ready for a shower, but instead I reach for the nearest blanket and smooth it even though it doesn't need smoothing before tucking the edge beneath the corner of the mattress.
I move to the other side and straighten the fold in the heavy blanket, pressing the seam flatter than it already is.
When I come around the foot of the bed, I see Adrian's hoodie draped over the chair. I pick it up and pull it to my face, breathing in his scent.
What if every set is like this from now on? What if I walk onto a new floor six months from now and the first thing everyone sees is my designation?
I pick up a pillow from the foot of the bed and add it to the pile near the headboard. Then I reach for the soft throw Bash used on the couch when he fell asleep watching that terrible reality show. It's somehow ended up on my desk chair. I don't question how it got there. I just carry it to the bed and spread it across thetop blankets. My hands keep moving. I straighten one corner, tuck in an edge, and pull the second-heaviest blanket closer to the center.
By the time the door opens, I'm still standing at the window with the sleeve of Adrian's hoodie pressed against my face.
I turn and see Elias. His gaze sweeps over the room in a single pass taking in the room.
He steps inside and closes the door behind him. His movements are unhurried, and he stops a few feet away. “What happened?” he asks.
“Nothing. Just a phone call.” I lower the sleeve from my face. “I'm fine.”
He doesn't move. He just watches me and waits. “Talk to me,” he says.
I open my mouth and close it again. “The director called to apologize,” I say finally. The words sound flat even to me. “He said they didn't realize how much I was handling. He said the set is struggling without me.” I press my lips together. “He meant every word.”
Elias waits.
