Page 92 of Burn the Script

This week has been reminiscent of the ones after Miguel walked out on me the first time. I’ve had no appetite, no sleep, and no peace of mind. The only difference is having something to focus on besides his absence.

We haven’t spoken. He asked for space but didn’t set any ground rules about communication, so I’m waiting until he contacts me. We’ve come full circle.

A hand touches my arm. I drag my fingers down my face and look at Kristen. She’s been eyeing me with concern since we returned to the set on Monday.

“I’m sorry to pry, but are you okay?” she whispers.

I answer with a vigorous nod, but the honest truth leaves my mouth. “No.”

She checks her tablet and tips her head toward the exit. “Follow me.”

I toss my headset in a chair and trail behind her, dragging my feet. Outside, the brisk air and sunshine bring some relief. I’m able to get my emotions in check during the brief stroll to the trailer she shares with other team leaders.

“Have a seat. I’ll make some tea,” she says.

I slump on the bench seat while she brews water in an electric kettle and opens a tin of leaves, putting the tea bags in my pantry to shame. My head lolls on my shoulders as I watch her precise movements. They’re natural, like making tea is a ritual instead of a chore.

After pouring the steaming water over the leaves, she sets the cups on the table and claims the opposite seat. “I joined this project because of how you treat people. Every day, I’ve watched you inspire and encourage the team while it’s clear you’re struggling. And I shouldn’t have waited until the last week of filming to ask if you needed help.”

“Trust me, I’d be worse off without you. This production would’ve fallen apart, but you’ve kept it running. I’ve been distracted from the jump.”

“Is there anything else I can help with?”

My throat aches from bottling up my complaints all the time. I want to confess everything, but betraying Miguel in any way would make me feel worse. However, Kristen has worked in the film industry long enough to understand the burdens it creates in relationships. Maybe she has thoughts on the bigger problem I’m facing.

The tea remains neglected as I rub my onyx pendant between my fingers. “Fame could cost me the person I love most. They’re afraid of the media’s attention.”

She considers my dilemma for a minute, sliding a finger along the rim of her mug. “Many people want their fifteen minutes of fame. Not me. The thought of going from obscurity to living under a microscope is daunting. If he’s afraid and needs time to consider it, then at least you know his intentions are pure if he stays with you.”

I grip my necklace tight, pulse racing. Did I slip and mention a him? Before I can run through my previous statement, Kristen smiles. It’s timid and the first one I’ve seen from her.

“The trailers aren’t soundproof, and you keep the volume loud on your video calls. But don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me.”

Well, I’ll be damned. Miguel wasn’t exaggerating about my carelessness, not that I had dismissed his claim. I’ve caught several of my mistakes in the past, but how many went unnoticed by me? And how many were noticed by others? At least I can trust Kristen with my secret like I’ve trusted her with my production.

“Thanks, Kristen. I appreciate your discretion. And for the record, I’ve never doubted his intentions. Not once in five years.”

Her eyes go wide, lips parting on a soft gasp. I laugh at her shocked expression. The permanent vise loosens around my chest, and I keep laughing. Blame sleep deprivation or the taste of freedom, but I come unraveled, right there in Kristen’s trailer, feeling a thousand pounds lighter when we head back to set.

Friday, March 3rd

Eight weeks ago, I stood in this spot and soaked in the thrumming energy of a fresh-faced production crew busy at work. Now, the activity in the soundstage carries a different buzz, laced with exhaustion but teeming with anticipation. A few whispers here and there. Folks antsy, shifting on their feet. Expectant eyes are aimed in my direction, tracking the woman beside me.

Kristen cups her hands around her mouth and yells the words we’ve been waiting to hear all day. “That’s a wrap!”

Cheers, claps, and whistles. Hugs, handshakes, and slaps on the back. The jubilant cacophony sounds like it’s coming from a much larger crew.

It’s over. Principal photography is done. Next up, the cutting room…California…home. If I’m lucky, Miguel.

My emotions are running rampant, fighting for their place in the pecking order. Satisfaction and gratitude are the ones I cling to as I move to the center of the room, waving my arms to get everyone’s attention.

“Thank you all for the hard work and talent you’ve brought to this production. Many of you have spent time away from your families, loved ones, and fur babies, and I truly appreciate your dedication to this film. We’ve made a great movie. Each of you should be proud. I’m certainly proud of what we’ve accomplished. And while I’m sad to see it end”—I pump my fist in the air—“let’s strike and go home!”

Another round of cheers rings out, along with plenty of tears from the young actors huddled off to the side in a group hug. I shake hands and give parting words of gratitude or wisdom, when asked.

I’m glad we kept the production simple and even more grateful for Kristen’s organizational skills. The trailers and equipment will be hauled away before the weekend is over. It’ll be like we were never here.

Maisy approaches, smirking like she knows something I don’t. “You left your phone in my makeup chair.” Handing it over, she gives me a side hug. “Proud of you, G. We all are.”