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Wearing one of his new shirts, he headed out into the cold with his beanie pulled down low over his hair to walk the few blocks to a Mexican place on Second. Wes was already there, seated at a table in the corner.
He waved Chris over. “What’s up, buddy? How’ve you been?” They gave each other a handshake and hug, and they quickly caught up before Dante Salvo, the director of The Gilded Cage, walked in a few minutes later. In his late forties, Dante had cut his teeth as a young indie filmmaker, known for impactful yet low-budget hits. Ever since one of his films had premiered at Sundance over a decade ago, his budgets had steadily increased. This historical drama would be his biggest film to date.
Chris and Dante had already had a few phone conversations about the script and their ideas for Roy; however, he’d told Chris he was still considering another actor. These next few days would make or break the decision to cast him.
After a three-hour dinner, Chris was pretty sure he’d won Dante over. As long as the reading with Ruthie—who was the actual star of the film; this was her character’s story, after all—went well, he’d have it in the bag. To celebrate, Wes treated him to a round of drinks at a blues club in Harlem, but when they left the bar after midnight, a paparazzo showed up. Wes had warned Chris someone would be there outside to meet their end of the bargain, and it wasn’t bad until two women showed up out of nowhere, drunk and in his face, asking for pictures. He struggled to break free of what felt like tentacles around his neck and escaped into a waiting car.
As soon as the door to his suite closed, he had his phone out, dialing Bronte. It rang a few times before she picked up.
“Hey, baby,” he said.
“Hey.”
“You sound tired. Did I wake you up?” He toed off his shoes and flung them toward his luggage, then finagled his shirt and pants off with one hand, keeping the phone connected to his ear with the other.
“Yes, but it’s okay.” Her words were distorted through a yawn.
“Big night out?”
“Oh yeah. Leftovers and a Downton Abbey marathon.”
“I can’t believe out of all the content there is in the world, you watch the same show on repeat.”
“It’s my self-care, but I don’t want to talk about that. Tell me about your night. How’d it go?”
He flopped on the bed in his underwear and T-shirt. “Really good. Dante and I get along really well, and he agreed with almost everything I said about Roy’s character and his backstory. I ended up telling Dante about my parents since, you know, Roy doesn’t have his family either.”
“Really? Wow.”
“I love the way he talks about using physical space, and he said he’s not big on marks and relies heavily on his DP to—”
Bronte yawned again. “DP?”
“Director of photography. Why don’t you go back to sleep? I’ll talk to you later.”
“No, no. I’m awake.”
He closed his eyes, picturing her all snuggled up in bed with the comforter pulled up to her chin and her cell phone at her ear. “Barely. I bet your eyes are closed, and you’re lying on your side in the fetal position with the pink-stripe pajamas on.”
“The green plaid.” The covers rustled on her end. “How is it?”
“How is what?”
“How is it you’re one hundred miles away, but it feels as if you’re right next to me.”
That was exactly what it felt like. Like they were two sides of the same coin. He knew her better than he knew himself. “I don’t know. Maybe we were just meant to be.”
