Grayson’s words run on a loop through my mind for the rest of the day, and the night, and the following morning. The longer I let them simmer, the more I’m able to twist them like an LA yoga teacher. He was just trying to get in my head, make me feel like I’m the one who’s doing the harm here, when really, he is the one to blame. He is the one putting in zero effort, from the moment we sat down for the first read-through. I don’t have anything to feel guilty about. At all. In fact, the more I stew on the tension in the wardrobe room, the less responsible I feel.
He should be the one apologizing tome.
I take that energy with me during one of my rare afternoons off, deciding to hole up at the coffee shop from our first day and start work on my next project. For some reason, I’m really feeling an enemies-to-lovers storyline right now. Emphasis on the enemies. I order myself a latte and settle into one of the cozy chairs near the fireplace. Just an as outline starts to take shape in my mind, my phone dings with a text.
Liz:Don’t hate me.
Liz:I know you’re going to hate me.
Liz:But you also have to trust me.
My brow scrunches in confusion as I wait for another set of blinking dots to appear, but Liz’s ominous warning doesn’t come with anything further. That is, until my email pings and I see there’s been a change to the filming schedule. All of our scenes for the next two days have been cleared, making way for us to devote the next forty-eight hours to one tiny little five-minute blip in the movie. A tiny little five-minute blip that’s actually quite pivotal. A tiny little five-minute blip I’m now kicking myself for including.
The sex scene.
Why the fuck did I write a sex scene?
Oh yeah, because when I wrote the screenplay for this movie, I had no intention of acting in it. And once I decided to take the role, I was planning on playing opposite an actor who I genuinely like and respect, not the egotistical asshole responsible for practically ruining my life.
Okay, that’s dramatic even for me. The greatest struggles I’ve faced in life certainly have nothing to do with Grayson fucking West.
But still. He totally ruined it.
I pick up my phone and punch in my passcode to respond to Liz.
Me:Seriously? WTF.
Liz:I know. But you’re going to have to trust me.
Liz:I’ve been watching the dailies and your scenes with Grayson... they’re not good, Em.
Me:That’s certainly not my fault.
There’s a long pause before I see the typing dots appear.
Liz:It’s not entirely your fault, no.
Hmmm... is it just me, or does that make it seem like it’s kind of my fault?
Liz:But it doesn’t matter who’s to blame. The scenes aren’t working, and if they don’t work, the movie doesn’t work.
Liz:And so we have to try something different.
Me:Something different like making me get naked with GRAYSON FUCKING WEST?
Liz:Yes.
Liz:Trust me.
I throw my phone down on the table with a grunt. What the hell does she mean it’s not entirely my fault? It’s not my fault at all. I’m showing up every day and pretending to like his stupid, hot face, which, quite frankly, I deserve another Oscar for. He’s the one who can’t seem to find a single hint of emotion anywhere in his dialogue—perfectly written dialogue, I might add. Although that’s not entirely true, because he seems fully capable of delivering the full range of emotions with the rest of the cast. And even if our terrible scenes were my fault—which they’re not—how is forcing the two of us together in close proximity with no clothes on supposed to make anything better?
Liz is so lucky she doesn’t live with me anymore, becausea move like this would have totally warranted Kool-Aid in the shampoo or hot sauce in the toothpaste in our younger days. Maybe even a demotion from best friend to casual acquaintance.
“Can I assume by the steam coming out of your ears that you saw the schedule change for the next couple of days?” Jenna approaches the table cautiously from the café counter, like I might jump up and bite her.
I bury my face in my hands. “Oh my god, this can’t actually be my life right now, Jenna. How did I end up in this position?”
She slides into the chair across from me and takes a long sip from her mug. “Only one position? If I recall, the scene calls for several different positions. Him on top, then you on top, then you on your side... you’re a very creative writer, Emmy.”
