“You didn’t lose control. You lost yourself. It’s what you have to do with this kind of work. It demands it of you. You are stepping into shoes that walked a hard road. Prejudice, disrespect, heartbreak—that was all part of Dessi’s life. But so was joy and lots of good. Over the course of this movie, you will absorb the full arc of her existence. Great actors inhabit the character, sometimes so much that the line between fact and fiction, them and you, blurs and you feel everything. That’s what you’re experiencing.”
Using the tissue he plucked from my vanity, he gently wipes at the corners of my eyes then at the heavy grease paint smeared on to darken my skin. With each swipe away of the offensive makeup, my breath comes easier, my heart settles into a more regular rhythm.
“I’ve actually asked Evan to bring a therapist on set for you guys.”
“You have?”
“We should have from the beginning.” He shakes his head, leaving his hand to rest at the curve of my neck. “I was trying to think of everything and missed maybe the most important. Taking care of my actors.”
“You have taken care of us. Bringing in a therapist—that’ll be great.” I place my hand over his at my neck. “Thank you.”
He looks down to where our hands rest together. I jerk away.
“So,” he says, clearing his throat. “Lawson was on set today.”
“From Galaxy? From the studio?”
I’m glad for the subject change, but I tense again because the studio execs rarely visit. Lawson Stone would choose today, one of the most challenging scenes of the movie.
“Yup. You know what he said to me after he saw you in that scene?” Canon tosses the paint-stained tissue into a nearby wastebasket.
“What?” Dread and anticipation make my voice tight.
“He said, ‘Well, you were right. You found the perfect Dessi.’”
That startles a relieved sound from me that is half-laugh, half-sob.
“Scenes like that cost you.” Canon takes my hand and squeezes it, looking into my eyes and letting me see the truth, which is rare for him. “You paid the price, but it’s worth it. It will be worth it. You’re doing a fantastic job.”
My heart races but not with doubt or fear, but because I don’t think he realizes he took my hand again. He’s caressing the ink scribbled along my thumb. My breath shortens, huffing past my lips in pants. The scent of him floods the air around me. Earthy and clean and rich and masculine. His pupils dilate and the fullness of his lips thins into a line. He drops my hand abruptly and stands.
“Canon, I—”
“I better get back out there.” He turns and is out the door before I can say anything else. Before I can ask him if I’m imagining this; if I’m alone in this growing awareness, or if he feels it, too. I keep slamming the door on my feelings, but there is a persistent tap, tap, tap constantly tempting me to open it.
Daring me to find out what’s on the other side.
24
Canon
“This is a waste of time,” I tell Monk.
From Evan’s balcony, we watch a roomful of partygoers in costume.
“Hey, you might be the big-shot director,” Monk says.
“Might be? Brothah, I am.”
“But Graham knows how to keep up morale. The cast and crew have been working hard. Throwing this party was a great idea.”
Graham asked Evan and me about planning an 80s-themed party for Halloween, which Evan agreed to host here at his huge house stuffed into the side of a mountain overlooking LA. The view alone is impressive, much less the minimalist décor and sapphire-colored swimming pool. I think everyone from the cast and crew is here, most costumed with some nod to the era.
“If it’s such a good idea,” I say, “then why didn’t you dress up?”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Because I don’t need parties to boost my morale. These spirits stay high.”
“You been by yourself brooding out on this balcony all night. If this is cheerful, I’d hate to see you down.”
I sip my Macallan and drink in the night air, refreshing after being inside with that crowd. Monk’s right. I’m in a mood. I don’t want to acknowledge to myself what’s causing it because that would mean acknowledging other things best left alone. Things that would distract me and just all-around not be a good look. Still, despite my best intentions, my gaze wanders back inside to Evan’s living room and finds Neevah. Every time I’ve seen her tonight she’s been dancing, but now she’s laughing with Trey, her hands animating whatever story she’s telling. One of the grips is trying to push up on her hairstylist, Takira. From the look she’s giving him, seems like he might be tapping that sooner rather than later.
“Everybody thinks they’re already fucking,” Monk says.
“I don’t know.” I set my drink on the balcony ledge and roll a cigar between my fingers. “Takira seems to be holding out a little while longer.”
“Not Takira. Neevah and Trey.”
My grip tightens around the cigar. I’m still and hot, like a wick trapped in the wax of a burning candle.
“What did you say?” I slow the words so Monk can have no trouble understanding them.
He looks away from me and to the crowd, his expression intent. I follow the direction of his stare.
Verity. Of course.
I snap my fingers in his face to regain his attention.
“Man, don’t be snapping at me.” Monk turns to me with a scowl. “I ain’t no damn dog.”
“How else do I get your attention,” I ask, tipping my head toward Verity, “when she’s around?”
“I ain’t thinking about that girl. She can do whatever she damn well pleases.”
The Monk doth protest too much.
“And I’m sure she will, but you mentioned something about Neevah and Trey.”
“Oh, yeah.” He looks back to the spot where Verity stood a moment ago, but she’s not there anymore. “They’re probably sleeping together.”
I don’t mean to harm the cigar, but it snaps in my hand.
“You alright there, Holt?” Monk’s alert stare shifts from my face to the crushed stogy.
“I’m cool.” I toss it over the balcony into the yawning canyon below.
“Oh, good. ’Cause for a minute there, I thought you might feel some type of way about Trey fucking our sweet ingénue.”
“Stop saying that.” I grit my teeth and try to regulate my uneven breathing. “I stay out of my cast’s business.”
“Right. Right.” He taunts me over the rim of his drink. “Well, here comes some cast business now.”
Takira and Neevah head toward the balcony, fanning their faces.
“Whew,” Takira says breathlessly. “Lawd. I need some air. All them bodies. It’s hot in there.”
“Who y’all supposed to be?” Monk asks, gesturing to their color-coordinated outfits.
“Sidney and Sharane from House Party,” Takira rolls her eyes. “We realized too late that movie was made in 1990.”
“It released in 1990,” Neevah corrects. “So it was probably made in 1989. So we’d be alright on a technicality.”