Noah
Chapter seven
Present Day
I slam the door behind me; Yong-rae doesn't even look up. He's slumped on the couch, idly scrolling on his phone while sipping what smells like whiskey. The whole trailer reeks of it.
"What the fuck is going on, Yong-rae? Why am I hearing from everyone on set that you are single-handedly ruining the movie?"
He shrugs, but still doesn't look away from his phone.
Shit, shit, shit! I was wrong—so, so wrong!
—to try to broaden Yong-rae's horizons. He wasn't pent-up, longing for some fun as I imagined.
He was simply aware of his limits. To help him save face in front of the other partners, I inadvertently redirected his nearly obsessive focus from fitness and acting to partying and alcohol, completely unsupervised.
It was a bonehead move, but it's not too late to fix this. Hopefully…
"Oh, it's like that?" I challenge, arching my eyebrow. "Well, I've got four brothers. I know exactly what to do when a man has his head up his ass."
First, I yank the phone from his hand.
"Hey!" he shouts. "I was reading that!"
When he's about to take another swig, I snatch his drink away too. He stands up angrily.
"Give that back!" he barks at me. It's supposed to be menacing, except he sways on his feet and has to grab the counter of the trailer's small kitchenette to keep from falling.
"Shit, man," I curse. "You're drunk!"
I toss the full glass into the sink with too much force, and it shatters. Good. Better that glass than my idiot client's face, though I'm tempted.
"What the hell is going on?" I yell again, trying to get a handle on my anger.
"Two weeks ago, we're celebrating, and now you're hiding out in your trailer, drunk, blowing the opportunity of a lifetime!
Tell me the truth, Yong-rae, because I'm this close to telling the studio they should go ahead and call your replacement. "
At that, the air leaves Yong-rae's chest, and he drops onto the couch, defeated.
"It's too big!" he wails. When he doesn't elaborate, I pound the table impatiently.
"What's too big?" I look around the room. "The trailer?"
"Everything!" he continues. He motions to the door. "The trailer! The set! The bonus sitting in my bank account when this time last year, I was barely making rent." He blows out a frustrated breath. "I went from Off Off Broadway to a hundred-million-dollar production, and I'm way out of my depth."
He drops his head into his hands.
"I'm going to fuck it up."
His admission is barely a whisper, but I hear it. The fear. The imposter syndrome. The disappointment in himself. I understand it, but it also terrifies me.
Because what if he's right? What if he is going to fuck this up? Jim and Brent will never let me hear the end of it, for one. But also, how long will it be until Hollywood takes a chance on another unknown if this doesn't work out?
I sit on the edge of the couch next to him, trying to stop my racing thoughts.
"I wish you'd called me if you were having trouble," I grumble after a beat. "We could've figured something out before it got to this point. I could've had you talk with some of my other clients who've gone through something similar. Now the studio is involved, and—"
"See!" he groans. "I'm already fucking things up!"
"No, you're not," I assure him, but he definitely is. It's going to take a miracle to salvage this situation—if it even can be salvaged. But he doesn't need to hear that right now.
I awkwardly pat his shoulder, doing my best to comfort him. My brothers and I may be close, but we're about as touchy-feely as Commander Spock. Henry is so cold, they call him Sub-Zero at work. Or they did, until Camila thawed his cold, dead heart. Yong-rae is nothing like Henry. I see that now.
"Everyone gets nervous on their first big job," I explain. "And this job is bigger than most, which is probably why the studio, cast, and crew have all given you as much leeway as they have."
"Gee, thanks," Yong-rae mutters. I cut my eyes at him; he's in no position to give me attitude after the shitshow I just walked in on.
"We just need to show everyone that you can do this. And you can do this," I insist when he opens his mouth to interrupt.
His shoulders are still rounded, but he looks at me with new resolve.
"OK," he says emphatically. "How do I get back on track?"
"First," I glare at the sink full of glass shards, "that right there needs to be the last alcohol that comes into this trailer. If you need that to deal with the stress, then you shouldn't have it around. Tell the crew you're sober if you have to." Maybe you should be.
I don't say that last part aloud, of course. He's acting like he fell off the wagon, but if anything, I pushed him. The least I can do is not rub it in his face. And, I guess, help him? But how do I do that? Abstaining is hardly my specialty.
He nods stoically, and I take it as a good sign that he doesn't push back.
"Next, you need to ask Rory when the best time is to apologize to the cast and crew. Your behavior has jeopardized this production, and you're lucky your costar's sue-happy lawyer hasn't already looked into your breach of contract clause."
Yong-rae's face pales, and as he sits in his panic, I finally allow myself to think about the blast from the past that blindsided me this morning.
What the hell is Awa Faye doing here? I've seen her name in the news over the years—when she joined Gehrig turning around such a bad first impression is no easy feat.
But he's got years of discipline to fall back on. Apparently, he's also got me.
"And one more thing," I add over my shoulder, leaving to smooth a few more feathers on my client's behalf. "You're spending Thanksgiving with me and my family. Clearly, you can't be left to your own devices."
I catch Rory leaving the production trailer and raise a hand to get her attention. Her annoyance is clear in both the look she shoots me and the angry jostling of her ID lanyard as she stomps over.
"Tell me you have good news," she practically demands.
"Good news and bad news," I answer, doing my best not to wince at her anger. "The good news is that Yong-rae knows he messed up. He's also willing to fix it."
"And how exactly is he gonna do that?" she asks. "I need an action plan more than I need platitudes from some rookie actor about to cost everyone their jobs."
"Well, for one, we need to make this a dry set. I don't care if it takes security doing bag checks; we can't have any alcohol around."
"Is Yong-rae an alcoholic?" she asks, obviously concerned. "I would have had those measures in place from the beginning if I had known."
I'm taken aback by her response. No argument; just immediate acceptance and accommodation. If I had to guess the new emotion I see swirling behind her eyes, it would be…understanding. I choose my next words carefully.
"I honestly don't know. He wasn't much of a drinker until recently, but, as I'm sure you've noticed, he's suddenly struggling with moderation. He was dumping all the bottles in his trailer when I left, though."
She nods approvingly.
"That's good. A good first step, anyway."
She taps on her clipboard in thought before continuing hesitantly.
"He's not the only one on set battling that particular demon.
Some of them even have impromptu meetings over there.
" She jerks her head toward what I thought was an empty trailer in the corner of the lot.
"It's nothing fancy, but sometimes it helps to know you're not on your own in this, even on set. "
I smile. Of course Rory has it covered. We may not know each other well—yet—but her work and reputation are impeccable.
"Thanks, Ror."
She nods before adding sternly,
"But it's still up to him not to fuck it up. See that he doesn't."
I nod in return as she walks back to the soundstage. The show must go on. I trust that Yong-rae will do the work needed to stay in it.