Page 3 of Burn the Script

Heavy feet pound the metal steps before the door to my trailer crashes open. All members of the production crew have been informed that the red flag in my window means do not disturb. I’m not surprised when Maisy Donovan appears and points a disposable mascara wand at me like it’s a sword.

“Stephanie’s getting on my last nerve. You swore none of these newbie actors would be divas, but she keeps telling me how to do my job.”

“Her name is Sarabeth, and she’s not a newbie. She starred in commercials.”

“Whoop-dee-fucking-doo. She earned a paycheck. Spending her money on luxury makeup doesn’t make her an expert in bronzer application.” Maisy’s hazel eyes track my hand when I place my phone face down on the table. “You’re looking at pictures again.”

I shrug and fold my arms over my chest, leaning back in the worn, vinyl bench seat. The trailers I’ve rented are the cheapest in Austin, Texas, where I’m getting ready to direct my first film. We’re reaching the end of the pre-production phase, and the actors are rotating in and out of Maisy’s trailer this week for costume fittings and hair and makeup trial runs.

She plops down on the other side of the booth. Her black leather jacket and brown curls with magenta tips give off an edgy vibe that contrasts with her petite, five-foot frame and delicate features. Even the scowl on her pixie face is cute, but I would never tell her that again. She didn’t speak to me for days the last time.

“Why are you torturing yourself?” she asks.

“He’s the one doing all the torturing.”

I glance at my phone and tighten the grip on my biceps. Over twenty thousand photos exist in my camera roll. Revisiting the moments when Miguel smiled at me might seem like a punishment, but the photos keep him close.

The ones of our lazy days lounging by the pool are my favorites. He’d wear a shirt because he’s afraid of sun damage, and I catered to his every need. Snacks, sunscreen, margarita refills, a towel…he never had to ask for anything. I spoiled my prince, took care of him and loved him. My love wasn’t enough.

“It’s been a year, Maisy, and not a single word. I’m finally living my dream, and he should be here. Without him, all this”—I wave at our surroundings—“has no luster.”

“Your shiny prince.”

“My shiny prince,” I say with a sad smile. “I never should’ve let him leave.”

She lays a hand on the table but doesn’t reach out, not that I expect her to. Maisy is stingy with her affection. Where my tan is on loan from the sun, hers is natural, inherited from her Black father and white mother, and reminds me of the golden shore at my favorite Costa Rican beach.

I miss the beach. I miss him.

“You’re old enough to know you can’t dictate someone else’s choices. There’s such a thing as free will,” she says.

I’m thirty-one, but who’s counting? And I disagree with her implication that I’m controlling. Yes, I’m driven in my career and prefer being at the wheel in that regard, but I’m laid back in my personal relationships. I want the people I care about to be happy. Life’s too short to be weighed down with worries, which is why I confront and fix minor problems before they become major ones.

The only unresolved problem is the gaping hole Miguel left in my chest. The night he left, I thought his need for space would be temporary. That he’d return in a week or two, and we’d work things out. He blocked me from contacting him instead. Still, nothing could convince me we’re over for good.

I relax my shoulders and sit taller. “You’re right. If I’m patient and stay away a little longer, he’ll cave and reach out first.”

“That’s not even close to what I said.”

Her phone vibrates, and she wrestles it from her coat pocket, eyes growing in size as she reads a message. It’s from Miguel. My gut and her effort to shield the screen tell me as much. Sometimes, I get jealous because she has an open line of communication with him, but I’d never ask her to choose between us.

After she tucks the phone away, she nibbles on her bottom lip, frowning at the variety packs of potato chips stacked on the counter behind me. Emotions rarely filter to her surface, and the internal battle playing out on her face has my heart ticking faster. When her indecision has gone on too long, I snap.

“Spit it out. Is he hurt? Sick?”

She closes her eyes. “Miggy went on a date.”

“Excuse me?” My shrill voice is as rigid as my spine. Shooting to my feet, I pace the narrow walkway, fingers stuffed in my hair. “No. No way. Absolutely not. He can’t do this without speaking to me first. He owes me that much, at the very least.”

The notion of Miguel seeing other men twists my stomach into vicious knots. First, he threw away the beautiful life we built together. Now, he wants to move on without giving me closure? None of it makes sense.

My pacing halts, and I glare at the parking lot through the cheap, cracked blinds. Forget waiting for Miguel to come around. His time is up.

As I rub the onyx pendant hanging from my neck, a plan forms in my mind. This weekend, I’m flying to LA for meetings disguised as parties. I’ll go to him while I’m there, beg him to look me in the eye and either declare we’re over or give me another chance.

My plan has one major flaw. I have no idea where to find him. His cousin won’t reply to my texts, and the private investigator I’ve used in the past could take too long to gather intel. But there’s someone else who could help.

When I spin around, Maisy waves the mascara wand in a circle. “I don’t like the look on your face.”