He stares at me. “I honestly have no idea how to respond to that.”
I close my eyes as another piercing wave of aches and throbs surges over me. “Nothing. Just ignore me, mostly. If I need anything, I promise you, I’ll let you know. You don’t have to tiptoe or whisper or sit in the corner in silence or pray for the next six hours. You can talk to me, you can watch TV, make phone calls, recite lines…whatever. I just won’t be very good company, is all.”
“I should go over the script,” he says.
“If you have an extra copy, I can read for you, or something.”
He smiles at me, but it’s faint and sad. “For right now, I’m still just reading it a billion times. I’m not at the stage of memorizing or blocking or anything.”
“I have zero clue how you can memorize a whole movie.”
He laughs. “Oh god, you don’t. For one thing, the script changes constantly, especially once filming has started. Scenes change, things get cut and added, and usually this goes on the whole time you’re filming. So basically, I read the script a bazillion times, until I’m familiar with it. I couldn’t recite it off book as if I was onstage in play, but I know the plot progression and the characters and such, to the point that I’m familiar with the various sections. Then, once filming starts, I’ll memorize the part we’re filming. Also, you don’t usually film in chronological order. Like, what you’d see as the opening scene we may not film until the very end. How they determine what gets filmed when is something even I’m not entirely sure of. Set and location availability, costuming, crew needs, a whole slew of factors, probably.”
“That makes sense.”
He retrieves his script from his bag and heads toward the bed, intending to sit on it, then halts. “I’ll, uh, sit on the couch.”
I wriggle to the side of the bed. “No, sit with me. Please?”
“You’re sure?”
I nod. “I don’t want to be alone.”
Moving gingerly, he settles onto the bed, props a pillow behind him, wiggles a few times, and then the only sound is the occasional rustle of paper.
“Is that for Singin’ in the Rain?” I ask, after a few minutes.
“Mmmmhmm.”
Slowly, I roll so I’m facing him. I have to rest for a moment, breathless from pain. I don’t think he can tell, though—I’m good at keeping the pain off my face unless it’s really, really bad. “Can I see it? I’ve always wondered what a real movie script looks like.”
He hesitates, then extends it to me. “Not really supposed to let this out of my hands, but I don’t see what it would hurt to let you look at it. Just don’t steal it and sell it on the internet, ’kay?” He says this last part with a smirk, making it a joke.
“Yeah, I’m gonna just jump up and go sell it to my secret contact in the paparazzi.”
He arches an eyebrow. “Hey, you jest, but this would be worth a fortune to the right person.”
I take it from him—it’s kind of anticlimactic. Just a stack of regular old printer paper, old school typewriter-style font. The only interesting thing about it is the formatting, and the fact that Wes has written all over it in red ink, making notes on lines, usually to emphasize a certain delivery, or a pause or inflection. I flip a few pages, taking care to not lose his place, scanning the dialogue—which is intimately familiar to me, as it’s one of my favorite movies. It doesn’t look like they’ve changed it too much, just updated it in places to sound more modern, but the best lines remain unchanged.
I hand it back.
Doze for a while, slipping in and out of near-sleep. I hear him set the script aside. I think he’s on his phone.
Eventually, boredom overcomes the pain, which is duller, now, less sharp, and more of a slow, deep, dull ache than the lances of raw agony that it was at the beginning.
I open my eyes and move to something akin to sitting up—reclining, sort of. He’s got AirPods in and his phone held landscape in one hand, watching something. When he sees that I’m awake, he pauses what he’s watching and removes the earbuds.
“Hi,” I say.
“Hey.” The phone goes off, and he slides the AirPods back into their case. “Feeling any better?”
I nod. “A bit, yeah.”
“Good, that’s something at least.”
I hear his stomach growling. I frown at him. “You haven’t eaten anything, have you?”
He shrugs. “I’m okay.”
“Wes, come on.”
He sighs. “I didn’t want to leave, and if you’re not feeling well enough to eat, it seems rude for me to.”
I shake my head and roll my eyes. “I get how you would think that, and I really appreciate that you’re thinking of me that way. But you need to take care of yourself. You need to sleep, and eat, and do work stuff. I can’t be your whole life, when I’m sick, and you can’t get so focused on me that you’re neglecting yourself.” I take his hand. “Caring for an invalid one-oh-one, Wes: you have to be well enough to care for your patient. If you’re sick, you’re not the caretaker anymore; you become the patient.” I squeeze his hand. “Now, order a pizza or something.”
He sighs. “Options are kind of limited, so I guess I will.”
I laugh. “You sound resigned.”
“I’ve been dancing hours a day every day for months now, so when it’s time to start learning the choreography, I’ll be a decent dancer and not just a newbie. And let me tell you, dance is a hell of a taxing sport, so my nutrition has had to be spot on.” He laughs. “Meaning, I don’t really eat pizza, normally. It’s not exactly good fuel for an athlete.”
“I guess I can appreciate that.”
“But like I said, options are limited, so pizza it is.” He pulls out his phone and locates a place that delivers, calls in an order. When they ask for a name, he hesitates.
I get his attention and point to myself.
“Jo,” he says, finally.
Order placed, there’s an awkward moment of silence.
“So, um. I…” I sigh, hating this part. “I need some help.”
He tosses his phone onto the bed. “Anything.”
“It’s going to be weird and awkward. But I need you to help me to the bathroom.”
I never dressed after last night, so I’m still naked except for my underwear. I’ve been covered by the blankets thus far, having been too weak to move much more than rolling from one side to the other. Now, however, I have to leave the bed and traverse the room. Weak, shaky, nauseous…and basically naked. Now that the heat of the moment is long passed, I’m far less confident.
Wes, bless him, finds my tank top and hands it to me, and then is polite enough to turn around. His thoughtfulness in this makes my throat tight.
“I’m ready.” Still weird, being in panties and a tank top with a relative stranger.
I have to remind myself that last night was real, and it happened, and there’s no reason to be embarrassed or feel awkward.
Yet, I do.
He stands in front of me. “Okay, how do you want me to help you? Carry you? Help you stand up?”
I’m dizzy as I move to sitting on the edge of the bed, feet on the floor. Brace my hands on my knees, breathe through it. “Just…just a minute. Need to catch my breath.”