"Under normal circumstances, yes, I—"
"Why aren't circumstances normal, Michael?" With everything else going on, I really don't want any more surprises. I'm trying to fight off the feeling of dread in my gut.
"Dwyer said that she's been trying to get a hold of you for two days to go over things for the new script and she hasn't heard from you. Made her a little nervous, so she called me to make sure that you were going to show up to shooting tomorrow. I swear, Peter, if you did something—"
"She thinks I'm not coming in?" The dread pools in my stomach and stays, cold like a rock. "Of course I'm coming in. I've just been off the grid. I needed some time without everyone in my head, you know?"
There's a short silence. "That's it?"
I huff a laugh, "Yeah. I've been kind of avoiding my phone. Just letting my thoughts be the only ones for a while."
"Okay." There's a sigh, but this one is a sigh of relief. I'm used to Michael overreacting, but it still makes me roll my eyes. "I'll let her know. And in the future, if you need some personal time, at least let me know first so I can cover your ass and not get it from your directors."
"Sure," I lie. Like hell am I going to tell Michael whenever I need space to mull over a personal problem. Some parts of my life are still mine. Or they should be. "I'll see you tomorrow?" There's no way in hell Michael would call me about this and then not show up to set to verify. His paranoia works in my favor most of the time, so I don't mind.
"Count on it," he says before the line goes dead.
That really wasn't what I expected. So Amber hasn't been calling because she wants to talk to me. She's been calling because she wants to make sure that I'm not going to walk off set and leave the show hanging. Even with everything that's between us, I'm stunned that she thinks I would do that. If that's really what she believes, then she really doesn't trust me. At all.
I need a new plan. This plan is how to work with her while forcing myself to keep my distance. Because losing her twice is enough. If I let myself get close one more time and she's not ready, my heart won't take it. I know it won't.
So, new plan. Cool and professional and distant, with the best performance that I can possibly give. I hop down off the hood and into the driver’s seat. Time to work the hell out of my script. When I used to do theater, I would make hundreds of notes about motivation and character.
Over the years I’ve learned to do it a lot of it in my head, but not now. Not only will it help distract me from the pain that’s hovering at the edges, but also it will give me something to focus on during the shoot.
I know I’m going to want to follow Amber with my eyes and more. I’m the moth, and she’s the flame. It’s going to take time for me to train myself out of the habit.
That pain flashes out, and for a second, I can’t breathe. This feels worse than I ever imagined it could. I shut off the possibility of a life with Amber a long time ago. Having that hope come back and then—
I’m driving down this road and it feels like I’m cutting my own heart out. But I can do it for her. I’ll give her what she wants, because all I’ve ever wanted is for Amber to be happy. And if this is what it takes, then I can do it, even if it kills me.
5
Amber
Past
I feel like I've been waiting for hours for them to call my name, even though it hasn't been. It feels like that because we got here early and I've watched at least ten other kids get called in and then come out. All artsy kids like me. I've gone into the bathroom three times just to make sure that I look okay and not like a total crazy person. I'm sure mom would be teasing me if she didn't already know that I was crazy nervous.
All the fidgeting I would normally do, I can't. I can't pull my sleeves down over my hands cause that will mess up and wrinkle my shirt. I can't bite my fingernails because of the shiny clear manicure I got before coming down. I can't scream and cry like a toddler because I'm in a room full of strangers. Okay, so I wouldn't normally scream and cry but I'm nervous enough that I'm tempted.
After the car ride where all I thought about was how I didn't want to be in New York, the nervousness took me a little by surprise. But there's nothing I can do about it now. I'm here. It's about to happen.
I glance up at the clock on the wall. I swear it's standing still. Five more minutes and I'll be called in. Holy shit. They're going to notice how much I'm sweating. They're not going to let me in because they're afraid I'll just leave sweat stains on everything. I'll be known to the admissions team as 'that sweaty one.'
Stop it, Amber. You're being ridiculous.
As if my mother can sense it, she reaches over and places her hand on top of mine. "It's going to go great."
"You don't know that."
"Of course I do," she says, winking. "I know everything."
I laugh in spite of my nervousness, which is exactly what she's aiming for.
A woman in a sharp suit steps out of one of the offices. "Amber Dwyer."
My stomach plummets to my feet and I think that I'm going to pass out, but I pick up my folder and head toward her. I hear Mom's whisper behind me. "Knock 'em dead!"
I was expecting something other than a fairly plain office that looks like every other office in the history of time. Maybe part of me expected there to be electrodes that I'd be hooked up to in order to make sure that I was giving the right answers. That it would look more like an interrogation cell than an office. But it's just an office. Desk, two chairs in front of it, some degrees and photos hung on the wall.
The most notable part of the room is the view from the window down onto the New York City street. But we're not that high up, so I wouldn't label the view as impressive. The normality of it all calms me a little. I'm not totally together, but at least I'm not completely freaking out.
The woman closes the door behind me as I take a seat. "How are you today, Amber?" she asks.
Honesty. Always go with honesty. "Nervous."
She chuckles. "You're going to be fine. If you end up studying with us, I'm sure you'll find that the interview is probably the easiest part of this degree."
"I look forward to that."
She smiles while she opens a plain folder in front of her. "I see that this is a deferred application from last year. What happened?"
"It was a medical deferment," I swallow. "I have an arrhythmia. Bad enough that I had to have pacemaker surgery, physical therapy, and recovery."
"Wow," her eyes go wide. "They mentioned it was a medical deferment but not the actual problem. How are you feeling now?"
"Really good. I'm eager to be at school and doing something besides just worrying about my heart. But I have my current medical records with me," I say, opening my own folder and handing her the papers. "Along with a signed statement from my medical team that I'm healthy."
She takes the papers and glances over them. "Thank you. I asked how you're feeling because our program is strenuous. Any degree in the arts is, but it's long hours and lots of work. Are you sure you're ready to take that on?"