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“Are there any graphic sex scenes in this?” Gwyn whispers to me.

I laugh. “Sensuality, no sex.”

Mason throws an arm around me. “I have a cameo, and our characters fuck,” she says, straight-faced.

Charlie just opens his mouth slightly. “I—I’m pretty sure you guys are invalidating my sex scene…”

I turn to Gwyn, who’s just been staring in horror at us. “It’s about sex workers, but no, no on-screen sex. Promise.” I swear, for all that Gwyn is an LGBT+ champion ally, she’s as prudish about my work as my parents are. Still there to support every second but doesn’t want to see her sister simulate sex. Like, I get it, but also weak.

Charlie squeezes my shoulders as Mason and my family take their seats. “How you feeling?”

That pang does hit. Something about Charlie knowing everything just gets me. “Trying to focus on the positive.”

“The film’s incredible, and I’m not just saying that because I’m second-billed.”

I smile and kiss his cheek. “I can’t wait for people to fall in love with you again.”

He smiles back. “I love you, Sulls.”

“I love you too.”

Minutes slip away. Charlie and I take our seats, him offering me a worn box of Sour Patch Kids I can only assume he kept from the airport. I decline, but after I give my brief introduction, having a piece of candy to suck on while I wait for my heart to slow down turns out to be lifesaving.

I lean my head on Charlie’s shoulder as the movie plays. Try to zone out and not focus on the laughs or gasps I hear as it plays. In fact, I do a pretty bang-up job not looking at myself as I watch, especially considering I’m already semi-self-consciously worried that being my own director made me the film’s weakest link. I focus on Charlie, on the other wonderful queer people who weave this film’s fabric. I even think about Luna, how infectious her energy was on set. How it reflected what she was going through, how she was discovering her own sexuality as we made this film together. We’ve never really spoken about it, but I’m tempted to get her thoughts during the after-party tonight. We hugged on the way in, and she, Romy, and Wyatt picked seats somewhere toward the back.

Shit. I did this. I found this incredible, poignant, funny, fresh script. I had a vision in my head and turned that vision into a reality. It’s a real feature-length film that was deemed good enough for Cannes. A full house of industry people and movie lovers from all over the world are watching it right now. If all goes well, I can look up at a billboard while driving along the 405 and see the movie I made advertised to local moviegoers. My unabashedly queer, unabashedly anti-police, unabashedly rebellious movie. Watching it is like falling in love with my own work, falling in love with myself all over again.

And when the credits roll, the room bursts into applause. I force myself to rip my eyes off the screen and look at the audience around me. People on the edges of the front row are standing up. My family stands. Mason stands. Charlie stands, forcing me to my feet as he slams his hands together. He looks me right in the eye too, mouthing, You’re amazing, as the applause plays to a crescendo around us. My insides gets looser, but it doesn’t quite bite the edge off the nerves that are still wriggling inside me in anticipation of the Q&A.

“And we welcome back to the stage, executive producer, director, and star of Oakley in Flames, Valeria Sullivan!” the emcee says.

Charlie lets go of me, I take one last deep breath, and step into the lights.

I take my seat in one of the little director’s chairs they have set out. Three in total, quickly filled by Charlie and Mason, costar and EP who made this movie happen. It feels strangely like the three of us have sat down in my living room late at night/early in the morning after some other fancy Hollywood event. If we just had margaritas, it truly would be just another riff session between the three of us. But no, I’m looking out at the audience, past my family and the smattering of familiar faces. There are so many faces I don’t recognize. Faces who came to see my film and enjoyed it without knowing me. It’s kind of incredible.

No, it is incredible.

“Congratulations to all of you,” Victoria, the French butch lesbian emcee, says.

Another round of applause swells around us. There’s only one mic (always a technical glitch), but it doesn’t even faze me.

“This movie is so fun, isn’t it?”

Mason takes the mic. “In the worst way possible, of course.”

The audience chuckles.

“Let’s talk about that. This film has an undercurrent of something very sinister and dark from queer history. Queer sex workers in this story, like Charlie’s character, really exist. Disappearances like Eddie’s are ripped from the headlines. What drew you to the subject matter, and then how did you choose to speak on it?”

I take the mic. My heart is beating hard, but for a moment, I feel like I’m back in a college classroom. Talking up here, it’s a giddy sort of déjà vu. Big themes and creative vision flow so seamlessly from my thoughts to my lips. Everyone in this audience paid to hear me talk and I’m finally confident enough to give them their money’s worth.

“I think the tragic part about what queer sex workers go through is that it’s not ripped from the headlines. No one in the general public really knows about these people’s vulnerability. I wanted to do my part to bring that to light. And with this script in particular, I was drawn to the bond of solidarity that formed between my character and the character of Leon. This idea that these male strip clubs heavily discriminate based on cis-ness and race and are horribly sexist, yet when one of these ‘privileged’ white cis gay men goes missing, only a queer woman and a trans man love him enough to find him? I loved the focus on the marginalized within an already marginalized community through our protagonists, and I loved that the film showed the kind of love and connection that can exist within these fraught spaces. Especially because these characters are facing an external enemy that kind of hates them all in the same way.”

“Plus, you know, mysteries are fun,” Mason says, taking the mic from me.

I laugh along with the audience. “It was also fun. The dialogue was whip-smart. Getting those deadpan deliveries has been the most fun thing I’ve done as a director so far.”

“I like the idea that you’ll never actually improve and that will remain your best moment,” Mason teases. I give her the lightest push on the arm.