Twenty-Five
Colin
“They’re ready for you, Colin,” Amy says, peeking her cute little red head into my trailer.
“Thanks, babe.” Fuck. I didn’t mean to call her that. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I inhale deeply, place my script on a table, and follow Amy toward the set. If she noticed my endearment, she’s pretending she didn’t. Which works for me, considering I’m about to shoot the toughest of my three speaking scenes—my dramatic death—and I can’t let myself lose focus right now.
We’re shooting on the “firing range” set this time, where poor Private Sherman will die after his former best friend, Private Hawkings, makes a tragic mistake. As it turns out, my best friend did, indeed, swipe my lucky penny. Not out of malice, but to help me get past my stupid superstitions. Oops.
I won’t find out what Private Hawkings did before dying in his arms. But the audience will, when Private Hawkings tearfully admits what he did later on, in a dramatic scene with Seth’s character—and then, for the rest of the movie, tries desperately to atone for his sin.
“This scene is part of your gray matter, at this point,” Amy whispers as we walk toward the firing range set. “There’s nothing more you could have done to prepare. You’re ready.”
As usual, she’s read me like a book and knows exactly what to say to reassure me. “Thanks,” I choke out, my voice tight. “Yeah, I’ve got this.”
Amy brushes her arm against mine as we continue walking. And I’m grateful. Surely, she knows I’d love to hold her hand and squeeze it right now. But what professional actor would do that with his PA as he heads to set to shoot his biggest scene? I’m not a kid being dropped off at nursery school, and Amy’s not my mommy. Under the circumstances, she’s chosen the perfect way to touch me.
Shit.
I’m nervous.
Thankfully, Gary told me not to stress about the stage directions in this scene. Particularly, the part of the script that says “Private Sherman sheds a tear” as he delivers his last line to Private Hawking. Gary said tears aren’t necessary to convey intense emotion. And that’s a mighty good thing, because I don’t think I’ve shed a single tear since my parents’ divorce when I was a kid.
“You ready?” Gary, our director, says, as Amy and I reach the set.
“Ready.”
“We’ll film your close-ups first, Colin.”
“Sounds great.”
Rob, the actor playing Private Hawkings, appears and we exchange brief words before Gary begins explaining what he wants from us. He explains the explosives and special effects that will be used later, when our stunt doubles perform this scene after we’re done. And, finally, Gary asks if we have any questions.
“Not me,” Rob says.
I look to the spot where Amy said she’d stand and find her face. Instantly, calmness washes over me. “No questions from me,” I say, returning to Gary’s face. “I’m good to go.”
We practice the blocking a few times, choreographing how and where I’ll fall when I’m hit in the chest by friendly fire. Gary explains we’ll redo portions of the scene again, from a wider angle later this afternoon, at which point the frame will clearly show my bloodied, ragged torso. But for now, Gary says, we’ll do the scene in close-up to capture my face.
“Got it,” I say, my stomach flip-flopping.
Rob and I get our guns from the prop master, take our marks, and wait. And then wait some more. And when Gary eventually calls “action,” off we go, performing our choreographed moves, as rehearsed.
Thankfully, I don’t mess anything up. At the exact right spot, Gary calls out “explosion!” for now—his voice to be replaced by an actual explosion, later—and I react accordingly, jerking back and clutching my chest, before falling to the ground, exactly as rehearsed.
Gary says everything was great, but let’s do it again. So, we do. Four more times, until Gary confirms he got everything needed from that particular angle. Moving on. It’s time for me to say my lines, in close-up, while dying on the ground.
Cameras are quickly set—two handhelds, plus one hovering above me. Gary says we’ll capture Rob’s face in close-up next, but for now, this run-through is all about Private Sherman’s emotions as he says his dying words.
“Stand by!” the assistant director yells, and I try to get my mind right as I wait. I try to imagine what it’d feel like to know, for a fact, I was dying. To know my life force was rapidly draining out of my body and I had mere seconds left to live. I think about knowing I’ll never see my family and friends again. I think about the things I’ll miss out on because I’m dying so young. No wife. No kids. No more Amy.
What?
Amy.
Amy.
Amy.
She’s my dying thought.
My only dying thought.
I’ll never get to have a future with Amy.
What the fuck? I’m supposed to be thinking about my parents’ divorce right now! That’s what my acting coach told me to do, after we talked about various emotional triggers in my life. But out of nowhere, as I look into Rob’s blue eyes, I see Amy’s green ones. I’m going to lose my chance with her, forever.
“Action!” Gary says, prompting Private Hawkings to frantically shout his line.
Tears prick my eyes as my best friend holds me and I choke out my last words on this earth. I tell Private Hawkings to find the girl I love back home and tell her I love her. Tears flood my eyes. “Tell her to get married and have babies and live a long and happy life,” I manage to say, struggling to get the words out, as tears roll down my cheeks. “Tell her not . . . to live the rest of her life . . . in love . . . with a dead guy.”
Twenty-Six
Amy
“What an adorable house!”
As Colin parks his Range Rover in front of it, I’m looking at a small, ivy-covered home in North Hollywood that’s enclosed by a rose-covered white picket fence—a house owned by none other than Keane “Ball Peen Hammer” Morgan and his wife, Maddy. We’re visiting the couple on our way home from Colin’s third day of shooting, after being invited to come meet the newest member of the Morgan clan: little Billie Morgan.
As it turned out, Maddy went into labor the night of Laila’s birthday party, mere hours after we hung up from that FaceTime call at Dax and Violet’s. And now that the exhausted new parents have made it home from the hospital with their bundle of joy, they’ve invited Keane’s little brother, Dax, and his two best friends to come by.
When Keane and Maddy’s front door opens, we’re greeted not by Keane or Maddy, but by a strikingly handsome hottie with ocean-blue eyes and charisma for days. A man who looks like an older, tattooed amalgam of Keane and Dax Morgan, albeit with slightly darker hair than both of them.
“What are you doing here, Ryan?” Colin blurts, confirming my suspicion. Colin wraps the hottie—Ryan Morgan, I presume—in an enthusiastic hug and the two men laugh and pat each other’s backs.
“I’m in LA for business—getting stuff lined up for another bar location,” the man replies enthusiastically. “I figured I’d come meet my baby niece while I’m in town. Someone’s gotta sit Keane down and explain the daddy gig to him, or that poor little girl’s gonna grow up thinking he’s nothing but a Jungle Gym.”