Page 46 of Burn the Script

“I’m starting to think you injected a tracker into my neck.”

When he looks up, the forced smile betrays his exhaustion. “My life would be a lot easier if I had. Do you have plans tonight?”

“You could’ve texted me that question, saved yourself the airfare.” Lifting the food container in my hand, I say, “I have a date with enchiladas, a needle, and a pair of trousers. Another boring, quiet night in. You’re welcome to join me.”

He takes the container and sniffs it while I unlock the door. “Are these your aunt’s enchiladas with the arbor peppers?”

“Árbol. And yes.”

“Sweet,” he whispers, counting them through the clear plastic.

We kick off our shoes, and he drops his backpack on the floor, stacking his hat and sunglasses on top of it. I reach up and ruffle his smashed hair to knock the strands loose.

“Do you need to get some work done?” I ask.

“Yeah, but I can do it later at home.”

“No.” My biting objection makes him flinch. “The movie’s important, Graham. Do your thing, and I’ll do mine.”

He sighs but relents, setting up a workspace on the coffee table. I pop our dinner in the oven and recite the Wi-Fi password to him three times. With the food reheating, I scurry to my bedroom and change into a soft blue tank top and sweatpants cut off below the knee.

Back in the kitchen, I fix our plates and drinks. “What are you working on?”

“We shot this morning, and I need to finish reviewing the dailies. Couldn’t get through them all on the plane.” His frustrated tone indicates there’s more to the story, but he’s not one to voice his complaints. I’d have better luck scaling a high-rise with socks on my hands and feet.

“If you need to get anything off your chest...” My offer trails off when I turn around.

He’s wearing earbuds and has his nose six inches from the screen. I slide his meal next to his laptop and scarf down my dinner while standing over my sewing table. The wool trousers from a resale shop were tailored for someone taller. Soon, they’ll be custom fitted to me, once I decide if I want to add embellishments or restitch them with a different color of thread.

Graham remains focused on his task, oblivious to the snips, whirs, and sewing playlist coming from my corner of the room. The twentieth time I glance at him, he’s twisting the hair near his temple. I set the trousers aside and refill his water.

“Thanks.” An attempted smile fails to reach his eyes as he removes the earbuds.

“You’re having headaches again. Do you still take pills? Are they in your bag? I’ll grab one for you.”

He slumps on the sofa while rubbing his eyes. “I stopped taking them because they upset my stomach. My doctor thinks I should get tested for glasses. She also suggested Botox injections.”

“But you haven’t made those appointments.”

My statement garners no response and doesn’t need one. Graham has appointment anxiety. He hates making them and going to them. I used to hover like a governess until he’d pick up the phone or go online to schedule a haircut or flu shot because he’d keep putting it them off. Eventually, I took over the job.

I stretch out on the chaise end of the sofa and pat my thigh. “Come here.”

He lays his head in my lap, hands resting on his stomach. The second my fingers run through his hair and my nails drag over his scalp, he lets out a full-body sigh.

“Filming just started, and you’re not taking care of yourself. And I’m not talking about yoga or whatever you’re doing for exercise. I’m talking about sleep. All this travel between time zones will catch up with you, and I don’t want to be the reason you’re distracted from making the best film possible.”

“I think I had panic attack on the first day,” he says.

My hand stills. He may not complain, but unlike me, he’s brave enough to speak his truths out loud when we’re alone. This one is worrying, because the last thing I’d ever want is for Graham to suffer with recurring panic attacks or crippling anxiety.

“Have you had others?” I ask.

“No. It didn’t last long, but I was scared. After everything I’ve sacrificed to get here, what if I fail?” His tired eyes wander upward, looking lost even when they connect with mine. “I can’t do this without you, Miguel.”

“Yes, you can. You already are.” I scratch behind his ear, near his hairline. “When I helped launch the collective, you were in Italy and called every day to encourage me. I needed that because I shut down from stress, but you’re different. No one has to push you into action. You take the initiative, get things done, and do them well. So, no, you don’t need me. And you won’t fail.”

The music continues playing while I treat him to a soothing head massage, one of many I’ve given him over the years. Somewhere along the way, my lap became his favorite pillow, and I miss holding him like this.