Chapter 22 Verity
TWENTY-TWO
Verity
“You excited for today?” Mel asks onscreen, spoon poised over a bowl of ceviche from her favorite restaurant.
“Sure,” I say, walking away from my tablet to the closet and pulling out a pair of jeans and my TLC CrazySexyCool T-shirt. “I mean, it’s not a big deal. Canon just wants to do dinner with the department heads to discuss his vision for Dessi Blue.”
No big deal, and yet my stomach has been tied in knots all day.
“Ready to see Monk?” Tessa asks, opening her mouth for Mel to feed her some of the takeout.
“Hey, you.” A smile stretches my face because it feels like forever since I’ve seen Tessa. “Where you been?”
She shrugs, a smug look on her face. “Around.”
“Oh, she’s definitely been around,” Mel mutters, sending me a meaningful glance I’ll have to interpret later.
Tessa punches Mel’s shoulder playfully and leans closer to the camera. “Are you avoiding the question about your ex, gem?”
Why did I think it was a good idea to tell them I’d dated Monk?
Alcohol doesn’t mix well with my meds, so I rarely drink, but the three of us were celebrating my Golden Globe win that night two years ago.
My liquor-loosened tongue spilled the beans to my besties about my previous relationship with the now-famous Wright Bellamy.
“I’m not avoiding the question,” I say, pulling the shirt over my head. “College was years ago and we only dated a few months.”
“But you said it ended badly, right?” Mel probes.
Sigh. Damn champagne…
“Uh, it wasn’t a good break, no.” I avoid their curious eyes by turning to my closet and searching for shoes. “I didn’t realize I was in a manic episode, my first, and I made some… bad choices.”
“Does he know about your diagnosis?” Mel asks, her voice softening.
“She doesn’t have to tell anyone about it if she doesn’t want to,” Tessa says, a defensive note creeping into her words. “You don’t know how it feels to be judged for the lowest moments of your life when you’re not fully in control. It sucks.”
“I know.” Mel shoots me a chagrined look. “Sorry. I just wonder if it would have made a difference if he’d known.”
“Maybe.” I pause getting ready to consider them both onscreen. “But I’ve had more pressing matters than convincing my college sweetheart I wasn’t a cheating bitch. Like not jumping off a building during an episode. I’m fine as I am. I’m not putting myself or anyone else in that situation again.”
“So what?” Mel throws both hands up, her exasperation as clear as her compassion. “You spend the rest of your life alone?”
“I’m not alone.” I smile at them broadly. “I got you two heffas. I have the aunties. I read that something like ninety percent of marriages with a bipolar spouse end in divorce. With those odds, not sure I want to try it.”
“And she gets dick and pussy whenever she wants,” Tessa crows, her grin as wide as Texas.
“And do!” I cackle. “I’m not sure I want a relationship. I don’t have to know right now.”
“Kids?” Mel presses. “You want ’em someday?”
I try to ignore the little twinge in my chest. I used to want kids with the right partner, but I’ve heard too many horror stories from people in my support group.
I’m not sure it’s worth the risk. I know there are people managing it well and being great parents, but growing up with the tumult of my dad and experiencing the trauma of his actions, I’m not sure I’ll ever try.
I’d never forgive myself if I endangered a kid of mine while I was manic.
“Nah,” I finally reply, sifting through my jewelry box for gold hoop earrings. “I don’t think the kid thing is for me.”
“Well, I might have a whole litter of kids with one of the guys I’m seeing now,” Tessa pipes up.
“You should probably be able to name one of the guys you’re seeing now,” Mel says, irritation snapping her brows together, “before you go in on a baby.”
“Whatever,” Tessa giggles. She keeps going in out and out of the frame, zipping around the apartment like she’s a wind-up toy.
“Girl, what is you doing?” I tease. “Sit down for two seconds.”
Tessa does come to a standstill for literally about two seconds before giving the camera a pointed look and skipping back off.
“I’m going for a run,” she says, but she’s wearing a sundress and sandals.
“Like that?” I ask, laughing at her ridiculousness.
Tessa glances down at her dress and high-heeled sandals with a wide grin. “I’m making a statement!”
She grabs her purse from the counter and dashes through their apartment door like the Road Runner.
“God, that girl.” I chuckle. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think she was off her meds.”
When Mel doesn’t answer, I shoot her a sharp glance.
“Mel, please tell me Tessa’s taking her meds.”
Mel lifts both brows, stirs the ceviche, and drinks her beer. “I’ve been trying to tell her.”
“Oh God. No! Why didn’t you tell me?” My heart gallops at the thought of what could happen. “She has to take them. You know that.”
“Dammit, that’s so unfair, Verity.” Mel slams her bottle down on the table in front of her.
“You’re off in LA living the high life, while I’m here making sure Tess doesn’t go off the deep end.
I’m the one making sure she showers and eats and doesn’t slit her fucking wrist when she’s not running all over the city spending our rent money on thousand-dollar purses for the unhoused in our neighborhood or getting up in the middle of the damn night to go on a run. ”
“I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s just a lot.” Mel massages her temples. “I know it’s not easy for you guys living with this condition, but maybe you don’t realize how hard it can be living with you sometimes.”
Her words slice me right down the middle, the pain so sharp, so visceral, that for a moment, I can’t breathe imagining how much it would hurt to hear those words from a man or woman I loved.
“Verity, I’m so sorry,” Mel gasps, her expression horror-struck. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
I don’t respond, but nod jerkily. She was simply telling the truth; a truth I’ve known for years, which is exactly why I don’t do relationships anymore.
I live with this, but I don’t have to expect anyone else to.
Maybe there is someone who will stand by my side if things get really ugly, but I’ve never wanted to give anyone that much power to disappoint me.
“Do me a favor,” I say, my words short and sharp. “Remember this conversation the next time you try to convince me I need that partner and kids.”
“Shit.” Mel squeezes her eyes shut. “I shouldn’t—”
“I better go. I don’t want to be late.”
“Verity, I love you.” Mel’s voice breaks. “Honey, I’m sorry.”
My heart cracks and I imagine myself in her shoes. This diagnosis is hard on Tessa and me, but it also takes a toll on the people walking this journey with us.
“I know, babe,” I tell her. “I love you, too. We’ll get through this. Bye.”
“Bye.”
I disconnect the video call and make a mental note to check on Tessa, but right now I can’t get distracted by this, not when I’m embarking on the biggest project of my life.
In most cases, my job would be done now.
Typically, once a script was finished, the director might have a few questions here or there, but I could move on to the next project.
Not this time. Not with Canon.
When he said he wanted me involved, he really meant it.
I’ll be on set more than I have ever been for any other film.
We’ll be listed as cowriters on the screenplay, and I have no problem with that at all.
The script has been our collaboration of love; a process that has only deepened my respect and admiration for the famous director, but I’m also a consulting producer, given my expertise on the era and African American history.
Canon is even better than everyone claims he is, which says a lot since he’s considered one of the great filmmakers of this generation.
I’ve never worked with anyone who demonstrated this level of care and intention.
It has challenged me as a creative to dig deeper than I have before.
We went to Alabama to meet Kitty, Dessi’s daughter, who had a huge trunk of keepsakes she’d never really gone through.
If I didn’t know before that this project was meant for me, I did after that trip.
Neevah, the lead actress, accompanied us and discovered a box with letters, clippings, and journals about Tilda, Dessi’s roommate when she lived in New York.
Turns out they were more than friends. They were lovers.
Black and bisexual for the win, baby.
That commonality made me feel even more connected to Dessi, like her life, her voice, was calling out to me through the years, and this project is my answer.
We had a working script before the trip, but we learned things about Dessi that reshaped what we had on the page.
Recounting the story of a woman who shared so much of my identity, in a time when it was even more erased and judged than it is now, is a gift.
I want to honor all three of Dessi’s great loves: her music; her husband, Cal; and her Tilda.
Not even the script I won the Golden Globe for carried this sense of purpose. It’s bittersweet, since the opportunity of a lifetime comes with one catch: working on set with Monk.
I’ve been standing by my car outside Canon’s house for maybe five minutes, working up the courage to go in.
“Girl, this is crazy,” I chide myself softly. “You really letting some dude you dated for a hot minute back in college throw you off your game like this?”
Still, I settle against my car’s passenger-side door and fold my arms, watching Canon’s house in the buttery light of late afternoon.
It’s a modern structure, crafted in clean, straight lines, with lots of dark wood and glass.
Several cars are parked in the long, steep driveway, along with a few on the street.
It looks like most of the team has already arrived, and I can’t delay this much longer.
“I think the meeting’s inside.”