Page 6 of Take 2
Chapter Four
T he green scrunchie is twisted around my fingers so that when I stretch them, it’s like my hand is at the gym. I open and close it under the table—the slightest outlet for my building anxiety as my story is shredded before my eyes.
Gus is a brilliant director, and he makes good points, but some of the changes don’t make sense for the characters.
The inner workings and motivations make perfect sense when I’m alone, but it all vanishes when he picks it apart.
My brain is blank. I know absolutely nothing.
That’s not completely true. I know it doesn’t work for me, but I can’t articulate why in this meeting room.
It probably doesn’t help that I’m still in a bit of a rut after my Oscars loss a few weeks ago.
Which is ridiculous. I’ve told my parents I’m fine enough times that it should have become reality.
I mean, it is reality. My friends and family back home don’t understand this is just part of the business.
My story has less rejection and losses than most do.
This is fine, and I’m moving on to the next thing.
Except I’m not entirely sure I know my own story by the end of the meeting. I could be wrong about it. I’m almost always wrong about what a story really is when I start writing it. Maybe I’m still wrong about this one … two years in.
“Great. Can’t wait to get to work on it.
” I swing my bag onto my shoulder, tucking my laptop in close to me like a security blanket.
My power walk probably looks like I’m excited and not running to throw up.
Hopefully. Because I’m really not. It’s fine.
I’ve been here before. I’ve had bigger issues to tackle in an edit.
Yet somehow, every time feels like it’s an insurmountable task that I’ll never accomplish, even though I’ve done it before.
The wins of my past self don’t do anything to bolster my confidence in the present.
I get into the elevator and flick the scrunchie against my wrist as I look at the buttons. On the one hand, being alone in my office sounds great. On the other … coffee.
First floor it is.
Barista side-eye is part of the experience when my Wisconsinite penchant for milk from ( gasp ) actual cows highlights my not from here-ness.
There are exactly two people in the whole state of California who know my dairy secret.
Plus, hundreds of baristas, I guess, but they neither know nor care who I am.
Armed with the properly made latte, I slip outside to soak up some vitamin D with it.
Another benefit of choosing coffee: it changes the scenery.
This really isn’t the moment to sit at my desk alone.
What I need is to be out here getting some not-so-fresh LA air, sitting on the side of the courtyard fountain, remembering that this was my dream.
It used to be surreal to walk around movie studios and see famous people.
At this point, the sparkle has faded. Actors, as it turns out, are normal people.
The ones I fangirl over now are the ones who are genuinely kind or funny, not necessarily the ones with the most iconic roles or the most cut abs.
Though sometimes those things overlap. It’s so easy to root for people who are nice to be around in addition to being super talented and gorgeous.
More so, it’s directors, producers, and writers who give me that nervous excitement now. Not just because they’re the ones who have a greater effect on my career but because the magic of the movies has not been lost on me, and I know how much of that magic comes from them.
“Afternoon coffee.” The voice of the one highly accomplished writer I will not fangirl over comes from my side. “That’s a red flag.”
I take another sip as if it’ll make him disappear.
Come on, magic bean water! But when I turn my head, I find it has failed me.
Preston looks like a J. Crew model in smooth brown shorts and a button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up on his forearms. Are there not enough studios?
Why does he have to have a film at the same one as me right now?
“My presence can just be a general warning sign that you should stay away.” I wrinkle my nose when I smile. “Don’t know why you keep ignoring that.”
“It would make Lisa so sad to see this hostility between her two favorite clients.”
“Just because we have the same agent doesn’t mean we need to be friends.”
“Don’t we reset every year?” he says. It’s not really a question. Nor is it logical. “Our relationship is reinvented by every Oscars.”
“We don’t have a relationship to reinvent.”
He scrapes his teeth over his bottom lip. “Mira, I’ve tried to start this year on the right foot.” The way he says it sounds like the Academy Awards is New Year’s Day.
“The show isn’t a reset button.”
“Sure it is.” He sits next to me with a calm familiarity I don’t want him to feel toward me. You don’t even know the real way I take my coffee. So there. “The slates are reset,” he says. “Next year is full of possibilities. New movies, new faces.”
“Nothing is new. All stories have been told.” And the story he imagines us to have has reached The End. It doesn’t need a sequel and can’t have a remake. “You know that.”
“They can be told in different ways.”
I cross my legs. “That would be our job.”
“How is yours going?”
“Frustrating enough that speaking to you isn’t really any worse.”
He sucks in a breath through his teeth. “That bad?”
“Yeah, so it’s really not safe for you to intrude on my change-of-scenery break.”
“Fair enough.” He stands, and I have to crane my neck to keep my eyes on him. This makes me realize I’m putting effort into keeping my eyes on him, so I avert them. “Change of scenery is my go-to for problem-solving, too. Good luck.”
“Thanks.” I can’t even manage to spit the word like I usually would. I really am wrung out.