Matt rushes in almost an hour after call time, apologizing over and over as he’s ushered to wardrobe and makeup, Dave’s assistant following close behind. I snort. There’ve been days when I wandered onto set five hours late, cocaine still on my nose. I didn’t need to work to live back then.
I’ve already eaten breakfast and waited for another hour in my trailer before hair and makeup came. That’s the one thing I’ll probably never get used to, no matter how long I’m in this industry. How many fucking hours I have to sit around doing nothing. The standins help the crew make sure the lighting and blocking is as planned, and when they’re done, it’s like we’re all waiting for someone else to say it’s time to begin.
We’re about to start a new scene. Monica and I sit at a kitchen table. Her black hair is pulled into a messy bun, shadows painted under her eyes. Mrs. Evans is the overworked, exhausted mother. She always has time for her son, who has been too afraid to really open himself up and risk falling in love. Figuring out any of my characters’ relationships with their mothers is probably the hardest part of the job, since I’m not sure about my own relationship with my mom. We barely interact. If I ever disappointed her, she didn’t show it. Just left the discipline to my dad.
She wasn’t always so cold. I have memories of her smiling as I opened presents, of sitting with me by the pool of my dad’s mansion. Looking back now, I understand why I’d find her crying in the bathroom sometimes. Whenever I visit her in Florida and open the cabinet over the bathroom sink, it’s filled with prescription pills. Sometimes I think she hated my father as much as I do. At least she figured out how to escape him. I’m mad that she didn’t take me with her.
Monica’s character isn’t anything like my mom, even if Monica herself tends to be cold and distant. Mrs. Evans is loving and comforting. The mother I wish I had, I guess.
“Quiet on set. Take one. Action!”
She puts a hand on my arm. “Quinn, the one thing I wish I did when I was young was follow my heart. No matter what.”
God, these fucking lines. I ignore the corniness and focus. I have trouble meeting her eye. It hurts, that her character is so supportive of mine. It always hurts, just a little, whenever I see parents who love their kids, on-screen or in real life. I never had that. Why not?
“You really don’t care that Riley’s a guy?”
“Why would I?” Her smile is warm. “Do you love him?”
“Yes.”
“Does he love you?”
“I think he might.”
“Then that’s all that matters.” She even has tears in her eyes. My mom half stands and wraps her arms around me. I let myself think that she really is my mom, saying the words I’ve always needed to hear. I swallow. It’s hard to keep the tears from coming. I roll my eyes. It pisses me off, it really does, that I feel so sorry for myself. But it doesn’t stop the dramatic, lone tear from rolling down my face.
Dave’s voice echoes. “Cut!”
I wipe my face with a palm impatiently. Monica purses her lips as she sits back into her chair. “You wet my shirt, Gray.”
“Sorry. I’ll try to aim my tears better next time.”
She glares at me. Monica doesn’t like many people. Bitter, I think, that she never got her due as an actress with so much talent. I try not to take it personally.
Dave ambles over. “That was pretty good. Possibly a little melodramatic, though.”
“I agree.”
“Let’s try another take.”
I nod. Monica and I run our lines again, and though I feel emotion well up, I try to feel more comfortable with her. Trust that she really means what she says. Envision that maybe, one day, I could have someone like her in my life. Someone who cares about me, even when I mess up. The smile I give is genuine this time. Dave says that was the better take. Rare to see a smile on my face, I guess.
*
Monica and I are finished for the day, so I’ve got my next scenes with Matt. When I’m leaving set, I see him with the stylist, who is giving instructions to the assistants. But Matt’s gaze is on me. He realizes I’ve caught him staring. Again. He practically jumps and turns away, blushing. Interesting. Okay.
Same set, different scene, much earlier in the timeline of the story: I’ve invited Riley over to discuss the project we’re being forced to work on together. I don’t love him yet, but by this point, Riley and Quinn have a good amount of sexual tension. We constantly fight about the book’s direction. Riley considers himself to be commercial, popular, more of a guilty pleasure sort of romance writer, whereas Quinn is a snob about his craft and writes literary books that win a shit ton of awards but almost no one reads or buys. When we’re both done with hair and makeup, cameras in position and sound ready, I lean against the counter while Matt awkwardly stands in the middle of the kitchen, looking out of place and uncertain. Not sure if he’s just acting that one.
This is the first scene we’re shooting alone, just the two of us together. It made sense production-wise, but it’s taking a second to adjust to what I’m supposed to be feeling about him. Condescension. Frustration. Attraction, and anger that I’m attracted to him.
Matt isn’t exactly my type. He’s shorter than me, with a smaller frame. I usually go for guys like Briggs: taller, bigger and stronger, a jerk in and out of bed. Mattie is unbearably wholesome. Like a live-action version of some cartoon character that’s filled with an overwhelming amount of innocent joy. Some people just don’t have any childhood trauma, and it shows. I’d feel like I’m dirty, somehow, if I even considered fucking him.
Mattie takes a deep breath and gathers this look of determination. Something tells me he’s struggling, too. Trying to find even an inch of attraction for me. Organic chemistry can be hard to get on-screen, but I’ve always been good at setting aside my own feelings. Just pretend it’s Briggs, standing in the kitchen with his arms crossed, smirking down at me.
“Take one. Action!”
“Commercial is always better,” Riley says. He gestures in frustration. Unnecessary hand movement. I haven’t seen Riley gesture in many of the scenes I observed before this one. “What’s the point in writing a book if no one is even going to read it?”
I sneer. “So you’re willing to forgo your dignity for a few extra reads?”
Riley glares. “Try a few extra thousand. I’m a bestselling romance author for a reason.”
This hits a nerve. Quinn works hard and is particular about his craft, but he hasn’t hit any bestseller lists before, something that he’s wanted for some time now. “I’m not going to become a sellout and write the sort of book everyone will like just to hit the bestseller list. I have my craft to think about.”