The man himself saunters into the dining room at the exact minute the read-through is supposed to start. It takes him another two minutes to pour his coffee and take his seat.
Because I know Liz, I can tell how pissed she is by the set of her shoulders. But I also know she’s not the kind of director to make a scene on the first day, in front of the whole cast.
“Thank you so much, everyone, for being on time.” Passive aggression is more her style. At least, for the first offense. “I’m happy to see everyone made it safely. Hopefully, you’ve all familiarized yourselves with the schedule. Today is mostly for getting settled, feeling out the material, and then the real work begins tomorrow. So, let’s get to it.”
Before we turn to our scripts, we take a minute to go around the table and officially introduce ourselves and our characters. It’s slightly less painful than a junior high class on the first day of school, but only slightly. Luckily, it’s a small group, so it goes fast.
And then, we dive in.
The movie opens with me and Jenna in our characters’ PR firm, lamenting how hard we’ve been working and discussing plans for my upcoming vacation. If friendship chemistry is a thing, we’ve got it, our lines zinging between the two of us like we’ve been buddies for years. When the scene changes to one with Grayson and the actor playing his brother, I let out a small sigh of relief. That wasn’t so hard. Liz catches my eye and gives me a subtle wink.
“Nailed it,” Jenna whispers, nudging my elbow.
I flash her a quick smile before turning my attention back to the script. I’m so dialed in I don’t even hear how Grayson’s first scene goes. What feels like mere seconds later, the pages flip and it’s time for the all-important meet-cute. The first time Grayson and I will interact on-screen.
I deliver my line with perfect inflection.
Grayson delivers his with... nothing. Monotonous, completely flat, worse than those apps that try to talk you to sleep, nothing.
My eyes drift across the table, watching him read from the screenplay like it’s the phone book. Practically of its own volition, my head turns slightly toward Liz. Not enough to be blatant about it, but enough so I can take in her reaction.
Her lips are pursed so tightly they’ve turned a soft shade of purple.
Jenna nudges me softly, and I realize it’s my line again. I fumble this one, but my stumbling still has more emotion than anything coming out of Grayson fucking West’s mouth.
The scene drags on interminably. It’s only a few pages, but I swear it takes us an hour to read. Liz reads the setup for the next scene, between Grayson and the woman playing his mother, and it’s like a damn switch flips. He suddenly sounds like a man who knows how to act.
This maddening, insulting, mortifying pattern continues. Every scene Grayson and I read together, he’s robotic and stiff and nothing short of terrible. In the blessed few scenes he has with other actors, he sounds like an awards-season contender. The longer the read-through goes on, the more obvious it becomes. To the point where the rest of the cast makes it known—shifting in their seats and swapping WTF looks with one another whenever we start another scene together.
And oh, the flashbacks. It’s like I’m right back on set all those years ago. Not in those blissful first two weeks of rehearsal when everything between us felt amazing and natural and like we were born to play opposite one another. But to all the scenes we shot after the disaster, where we could barely look at each other, let alone deliver our heartfelt lines with even a hint of emotion.
I assumed Grayson was enough of a professional by now to put aside the bullshit and focus on the work, but you know what they say about assuming.
By the time we make it to the end of the reading, my nerves are completely shot. I’m an anxiety trifecta: sweaty, nauseated, and unable to catch my breath. I push back my chair and bolt from the room, not caring how unprofessional I might seem—nothing short of burning down the inn could lower me to his level at this point. Taking the stairs two at a time, I sprint to my room, slamming thedoor closed behind me and collapsing into one of the armchairs.
But someone, presumably Linda, has been in to stoke the flames in the fireplace, and the heat is too much. I stumble over to the window seat, pressing my forehead to the cool glass. My skin burns with humiliation, so much so that I’m surprised I don’t fog up the window.
Liz either knows I need a few minutes on my own or she’s busy trying to salvage the travesty of the first read-through. In either case, by the time she pushes through the door and crosses over to me, I’ve at least regained my breath and have managed to settle the spinning teacups in my stomach.
She sits across from me on the bench seat, pulling her legs into her chest.
“Lizzie, I—”
“Nope.” She holds up her hand to stop me from speaking. “You’re not quitting. I’m not replacing you. This is going to be fine. He’s being an ass, but it’s just a read-through. It doesn’t really matter.”
“Except for the fact that he made me look like a complete idiot in front of the entire cast.” I don’t realize until that moment just how much the approval of my peers meant to me. That if they felt I could do this, I might actually believe it myself. I chance a glance up, meeting her big blue eyes. Big blue eyes full of resolve and maybe the slightest hint of pity.
“The only one who looked like an idiot was Grayson.” She reaches over and squeezes my arm. “I know this is not how you wanted today to go. But you need to shake it offand do whatever you need to do to get in the right headspace for tomorrow.”
I shove my hands into my hair, barely managing to keep from pulling it out. “Remind me what we’re working on tomorrow?”
“You know what’s on the schedule.”
Right.
The meet-cute.
Of fucking course.
