Chapter 3
Chapter Three
ELODIE
So I did remember telling him not to fucking talk to me.
The memory pulled me right out of my sleep, and I sat up straight in bed, staring into the dark of my bedroom as the details came back to me.
Embarrassingly.
I stood by what I said to Shaw about it not being a great night.
Sure, I’d won an award, and it felt amazing to be recognized by my community. There was absolutely no doubt about that. I looked great and my publicist was pulling me from one person to another, trying to give every publication their desired soundbite. It was good to be in demand, and externally, I was thriving.
Internally…I was raw.
The breakup with Shaw had pretty much fileted my heart, and because the relationship had been kept out of the spotlight, my emotionally fragile state had to be kept under wraps as well.
I had to look like I had my shit together.
After all, I was Elodie Perry—daughter and granddaughter and niece and sister of Black Hollywood elites. That came with a certain expected aesthetic, especially since I wasn’t doing the Instagram Baddie thing anymore.
No more half-naked selfies, no more inebriated paparazzi shots, no more goofing off on live streams with “friends” who were actually terrible people.
I was off all that.
I did the occasional day-in-the-life vlog and got a million views. I got multi-page spreads in Sugar that actual connection was the part that hurt.
The possibility of losing it.
It loomed soooo heavy over us.
Or maybe just me.
Since the breakup, he and I had spoken on several occasions, because we’d truly wanted to still make it work as friends. We checked in with each other, solicited thoughts on auditions, lamented roles we didn’t get. The startup was usually awkward, but I’d thought we were finding our groove again in friendship.
Or maybe I was just deluding myself, and all this meant more to me than it did to him.
Otherwise, why would he have a date? One he was clearly hella comfy with, barely six months after our breakup? And better still, why wouldn’t he tell me— warn me— he was bringing someone?
Why was he with someone?
“Kiss my ass,” I tossed over my shoulder, avoiding his attempt at a hug as I moved around him.
He caught up quickly though, grabbing my hand.
“Ellie, what’s wrong? Did I do something?”
He doesn’t even get it.
I shook my head, snatching away from me. “Don’t fucking talk to me. Okay?”
He was shocked.
It was written all over his face.
But, he couldn’t respond.
Wherever everyone had gone to allow us that moment in an empty hall, they were back now, and making a scene wasn’t something either of us were about to do.
I made my way back to the table with Logan and Pierre, and immediately ordered another drink—the one that alarmed Pierre’s sober sensibilities. I finished it but didn’t get another, more out of respect for him and his potential triggers than any concern for myself.
It turned out that he was right though, considering I’d lost all of that until now.
Or more accurately—I’d blocked it out.
With good reason.
Even though it was months ago, my chest ached like I was reliving that night, where what should’ve been one of my happiest was actually one of my worst. I flipped the covers back, going into the bathroom to wet a towel with cold water for my face.
I hadn’t been crying, but it felt like I had.
Felt like I still might, actually, and I didn’t want that.
I’d promised myself no more tears about the breakup, and I’d managed to adhere to that for months now, even through the awkwardness of keeping in touch with Shaw, preserving the friendship.
Which… shit.
It was even more awkward than I’d thought.
What had to have gone through his mind the first time I texted him like everything was completely normal, a few weeks after the awards? And then a few months after that, when news of his superhero movie—which was major— had broken, and I texted to offer my congrats. Or any of the random minutiae in between.
He had to think I was a crazy person.
He responded though.
He always responded.
And thinking back now, it was outright ludicrous that I’d ever felt any sense of sadness or loss when I realized the initiation of conversation between us was always one-sided.
Because I’d made it that way.
“You, my dear, are an absurd person,” I told myself in the mirror, shaking my head. Knowing I likely wouldn’t be able to get back to sleep, I went ahead and got in the shower.
Not even the hottest of water could help me scrub away anxious feelings about what I would be getting into today.
Table reads were one thing—actually diving into the scenes was something wholly different.
Obviously, I’d known it was coming, but the call sheet that had hit my email last night made it all the more real. It took everything from simply planned to impending.
Out of the shower, I went from my phone to look at the email again, to check on my call time. It was still dark out, but the sun would be coming up soon—thinking through the episode, it would make sense for most of our filming to play off an abundance of daylight.
The email quickly confirmed what I suspected—a 6 a.m. call time, which wasn’t that far from now, especially when I factored in travel time. That shower had been much longer than I realized. I did a scan of everything else, double-checking details—it was thorough. Exactly where to go, who to check in with, which day of shooting this was, contact information, a schedule, and even a forecast of the weather.
Chilly.
I wouldn’t have time to stop for coffee, but I could at least be cozy until I checked in for wardrobe—I picked a cute coordinating hoodie and leggings combo, pulled my hair into a ponytail, and I was ready.
Mostly.
I was grabbing shoes when my phone buzzed with a text that made my eyes go wide.
For the first time in months…Shaw had initiated a conversation.
Shaw: Would it be weird if I grabbed coffee for you?
I stared at the phone a long time before I blinked, snapping myself back into action.
Uh…
Maybe? But I would definitely appreciate it.
My hands were shaking as I slipped my feet into my fuzzy boots, unreasonably nervous about the response.
Shaw: Pistachio brown sugar, oat milk, dash of cinnamon, right?
I closed my eyes, irrationally stunned that he remembered that.
It doesn’t mean anything El.
Yeah. Thanks so much I texted back, keeping it friendly and light.
That had to be my motto going into this.
We were friends.
He was just being nice.
I reminded myself over and over as I drove to the studio, as I checked into my dressing room where the latte was already waiting, as I went through makeup and wardrobe.
And then, on set, as we ran through the blocking, between me and the young actress playing Shannon—the scene started with just us, and then…Shaw.
He looked good.
But I couldn’t dwell on that.
This was work.
I did thank him for the coffee, but outside of that I was focused.
I was listening for my cue, listening as the crew did their usual chorus to pull everything together for filming. Shaw left the set, “Shannon” and I got into place, and the roll call went on.
I looked up as it was coming to an end, locking eyes with Shaw.
He smiled at me.
“Action!”