Page 10 of Flipping the Script

FIRST READ

Her fingertips found the brass compass at her throat, the familiar weight grounding her as she navigated between thick cables snaking across the floor.

She'd been on countless sets, but this one felt different—more charged with possibility and terror in equal measure.

The script pages in her bag seemed to rustle with their own anxiety.

"Solen!" Marcus's warm voice cut through the ambient noise of equipment and crew chatter. He approached with his characteristic unhurried stride, reading glasses dangling from their chain and a genuine smile creasing his weathered features. "How are you feeling about today?"

"Like I'm about to perform brain surgery with oven mitts," she admitted, then immediately regretted the confession. Professional confidence, she reminded herself. Fake it until you feel it.

Marcus chuckled, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "That sounds about right for a first table read. The good news is that everyone here wants you to succeed." His eyes crinkled at the corners. "Well, almost everyone."

Solen followed his gaze to where Quinn sat at the large conference table, surrounded by what appeared to be the contents of a small office supply store.

Color-coded pens lay in perfect rows beside multiple copies of the script, each bristling with carefully placed sticky notes.

Her leather-bound notebook lay open, revealing dense handwriting that looked more like architectural blueprints than casual notes.

Quinn's wire-rimmed glasses caught the overhead lights as she made another notation, her movements precise and economical. She wore a navy blazer over a crisp white shirt, her dark hair pulled back in that same low bun that Solen was beginning to recognize as armor rather than mere style choice.

"She looks like she's plotting world domination," Solen murmured.

"Quinn approaches every project like she's defusing a bomb," Marcus said, affection clear in his voice despite the words. "It's actually quite admirable once you get used to it. She cares deeply about the work."

Caring deeply—that Solen understood. The difference was that Quinn's caring seemed to involve spreadsheets and contingency plans, while Solen's more closely resembled free-falling and hoping for the best.

As if sensing their attention, Quinn looked up from her notes.

For a moment, their eyes met across the bustling soundstage, and Solen caught something unexpected in that sharp green gaze—not the criticism she'd braced for, but what might have been curiosity.

Or possibly indigestion. With Quinn, it was hard to tell.

Marcus guided her toward the table where other cast members were already gathering.

The supporting actors chatted easily among themselves, scripts open and coffee cups multiplying like rabbits.

But Quinn remained in her organized bubble, occasionally glancing up as if cataloguing each person's approach to preparation.

Solen claimed the empty chair to Quinn's left, dropping her bag with perhaps more force than necessary. A few of Quinn's perfectly arranged pens rolled slightly out of alignment.

"Sorry," Solen said, though she wasn't entirely. "I'm not great with spatial relationships before coffee."

Quinn's lips quirked upward—barely perceptible, but definitely there. "I brought extra." She gestured toward a thermos that probably cost more than Solen's monthly coffee budget. "Fair warning: it's strong enough to wake the dead."

"Perfect. I've been running on fumes and anxiety since five AM."

"Only since five?" Quinn poured coffee into a second cup she'd apparently brought for exactly this purpose. "Amateur."

The unexpected teasing caught Solen off guard. She'd prepared for intense professionalism, maybe some passive-aggressive comments about script adherence. She hadn't prepared for Quinn to be almost... playful.

Marcus settled into his director's chair, the kind with his name embroidered on the back in understated lettering.

"All right, everyone, let's make some magic.

" His voice carried easily through the space, drawing conversations to a natural close.

"Before we dive in, I want to say how excited I am about this project.

Quinn has written something special—a story about finding unexpected connection in the most unlikely circumstances. "

Solen risked a glance at Quinn, who was studying her hands with unusual intensity.

"We're going to take our time today," Marcus continued.

"This is about discovery, not perfection.

I want you to feel free to explore, to make mistakes, to surprise each other.

" His gaze swept the assembled cast. "And please, ask questions.

The script is our map, but you're the ones bringing these characters to life. "

They began with the opening scene—a coffee shop meet-cute that Solen knew was supposed to be charming but felt like navigating a linguistic minefield.

The words seemed to shift and blur on the page, letters rearranging themselves with cruel creativity.

She'd read through it a dozen times the night before, but under the weight of everyone's attention, the familiar anxiety crept up her spine like cold fingers.

"Whenever you're ready," Marcus said gently.

Solen took a breath and began, her character's voice emerging naturally despite the text swimming before her eyes.

But three lines in, she hit a wall—a particularly dense piece of dialogue that felt like trying to read through water.

The words "serendipitous convergence" might as well have been written in ancient Sumerian.

"Sorry," she said, the heat of embarrassment creeping up her neck. "Can I just—give me a second."

The table fell silent except for the distant hum of equipment and the scratch of Quinn's pen. But instead of impatience or judgment, Solen heard something else entirely.

"What do you think Maya is really trying to say here?" Quinn's voice was thoughtful, clinical. "Because the words might be fancy, but the emotion underneath is simpler."

Solen looked up from the script, meeting those sharp green eyes that now held something she couldn't quite identify. Not pity—Quinn didn't seem the type for pity. More like... problem-solving.

"She's trying not to admit she's interested," Solen said slowly. "Like, she's hiding behind big words because the real feeling is scary."

Quinn nodded, making a note that looked suspiciously like approval. "Exactly. So what if instead of focusing on the specific phrasing, you let Maya be someone who gets tongue-tied when she's attracted to someone?"

It wasn't exactly what the script said, but it was what the script meant. Solen felt something ease in her chest as she tried the line again, this time with Maya's nervousness rather than her own.

"Better?" she asked.

"Much." Quinn's smile was small but unmistakably genuine. "The character just became real."

They continued through the scene, and something unexpected began to happen.

Where Solen struggled with complex phrasing, Quinn would ask a character question that unlocked the emotional truth beneath the words.

Where Quinn had written dialogue that felt stilted when spoken aloud, Solen would suggest a rhythm that made it flow naturally.

It felt like the best kind of collaboration—two different skill sets creating something neither could achieve alone.

During the fifteen-minute break, most of the cast and crew migrated toward the craft services table, leaving Quinn and Solen alone at the table scattered with scripts and coffee cups. The soundstage felt different with fewer people—more intimate, like a secret shared between friends.

"Thank you," Solen said quietly. "For the character questions. You could have just let me struggle."

Quinn was reorganizing her pens with unnecessary precision. "You weren't struggling with the character. You were struggling with my tendency to use five-dollar words when fifty-cent ones would do the job better."

"Still." Solen turned in her chair to face Quinn more directly. "You made it easier without making it obvious. That was... kind."

Quinn's hands stilled on her color-coded arsenal of writing implements. "I suppose I should thank you too."

"For what?"

"For making my dialogue sound like actual human beings might say it." Quinn's laugh held a note of self-deprecation. "I spent so much time making sure every word was perfect that I forgot people need to actually speak them."

Solen studied Quinn's profile—the sharp line of her jaw, the way she worried her bottom lip when thinking. There was something almost vulnerable about her in this moment, guard lowered just enough to let real uncertainty show through.

"Can I ask you something?" Solen said.

Quinn's posture straightened slightly, but she nodded.

"When you were writing Maya and Zoe's story—about opposites finding balance—were you writing about anyone specific?"

The question seemed to catch Quinn off guard. She was quiet for a long moment, her fingers absently tracing the edge of her notebook.

"I was writing about the kind of person I thought I could never understand," Quinn said finally. "Someone spontaneous and intuitive and comfortable with uncertainty. Everything I'm not."

"And now?"

Quinn turned to meet Solen's gaze directly. "Now I'm starting to think maybe incompatible is different from impossible."

The air between them felt charged with something Solen couldn't quite name. It was more than professional respect, deeper than casual friendliness. It felt like recognition—two people seeing something in each other they hadn't expected to find.

"Places, everyone!" Marcus's voice broke the moment, and the cast began filtering back to the table. But as they settled back into their chairs, Solen noticed Quinn had moved slightly closer, their scripts now overlapping at the edges.

They finished the table read with a momentum that surprised everyone.

Quinn's writing came alive through Solen's instinctive emotional intelligence, while Solen's performance gained precision through Quinn's understanding of character motivation.

By the final scene, they were practically finishing each other's thoughts—or at least, finishing each other's dialogue.

"Beautiful work, both of you," Marcus said as they wrapped. "That's exactly the kind of chemistry this story needs."

As the cast and crew began packing up their materials, Solen found herself reluctant to leave. The artificial lights and industrial space had somehow become intimate, a place where two very different approaches to creativity had found common ground.

Quinn was methodically returning items to their proper places in her bag, but her movements lacked their usual urgency. She seemed equally reluctant to break whatever spell the afternoon had cast.

"Same time tomorrow?" Solen asked, though she already knew the answer.

"Same time tomorrow," Quinn confirmed. She hesitated, then added, "Would you like to grab dinner? To discuss character development," she clarified quickly, as if afraid the invitation might be misinterpreted.

Solen's smile was probably brighter than the situation warranted. "I'd like that. Fair warning though—my approach to dinner conversation is about as structured as my approach to everything else."

"Somehow," Quinn said, slinging her perfectly organized bag over her shoulder, "I'm starting to think that might be exactly what I need."

As they walked toward the soundstage exit together, their footsteps echoing in the now-quiet space, Solen realized that the compass at her throat hadn't left her fingers once during the entire table read.

For the first time in longer than she cared to admit, she felt like she might actually be heading in the right direction.