XIII CJ
XIII
CJ
The first time I wake up, it’s at my desk with a splitting headache, my contact lenses adhered to my eyes, and a call sheet from last week stuck to my cheek. It’s been two hours since I put my head down after abandoning Jack at the bar, promising myself I’d only close my eyes for just a few minutes until I felt steady enough to go home.
The second time I wake up, it’s in my bed, and it’s around noon. My brain feels fuzzy, like it can’t quite piece together its journey from the set to my office to a Lyft to my mattress at these off-kilter hours. When did I last eat something?
Thoughts of hunger are squashed by the memory of Jack’s face when I left him. It wasn’t the disappointment of a man used to getting what he wants and confused that he isn’t. It was the disappointment of a man whose heart was in it.
I press the side of my face into my pillow as I return to the kiss. It was exactly as I hoped it would be if we ever had the chance again: tender but determined; exciting but reassuring. Of course I want more of it, more of him. But for the first time in years, I feel like I’ve regained control of my life. My career is on track, Agnes is out of the wily toddler years, and I can start making plans for myself that involve more than putting one foot in front of the other. None of those plans can coexist with fucking around with an actor who could derail all of that with the same ease with which he delivers a monologue.
Even as I make this case to myself, I wince. Jack has never been “an actor” to me, not since the first time I met him. Maybe I shouldn’t have left , I think before I can beat the sentiment back. We could have talked, at least. I could have told him why I can’t have an on-set hookup—that it’s different for him than for me. And that anything more than that... well, what’s even the point of thinking that way? To allow myself to fantasize about some sort of relationship with an on-the-rise movie star, who is in such an alternate reality, he doesn’t have a permanent address.
I reach for my phone on the nightstand and see forty-seven texts. My throat tightens, and I sit bolt upright in bed. Like I’ve been caught—and punished—for sleeping during waking hours.
Once I scan the senders—not Agnes’s school or Stuart—my heart rate drops to its normal pace. The Gatsby art department group chat is blowing up.
“If you wear your costume out to a party, you should have to thank the wardrobe department by name during any acceptance speeches,” one of the texts reads.
“Donna is going to have to steam and press that tomorrow, huh,” says another.
I scroll up farther. Fuck. Are they talking about Jack ? Do they somehow know about what happened between us last night? And how? Well, there goes any ounce of respectability I once had.
When I reach the first text from the series, I see this has nothing to do with me: Jack was spotted at an after-after-hours party at some actor’s house wearing the Nick Carraway costume he’d been in when I left him. It’s a blazer and jeans; not something that would register for anyone who isn’t part of the crew of this movie, but for this group, it’s front-page news. One of his friends had snapped a selfie that captured Jack and Ginny Friedrich in the background as she whispered something in his ear. A gossip blog published a screenshot of the photo, and social media gossip accounts ran with it. A member of my crew saw it, dropped into this group chat, and delivered it to me in my bed, whether I want it here or not.
The part of me that blossomed in Jack’s company wilts instantly. I stare at the picture, giving it a chance to imprint on my brain. Seeing this rewrites my memory of last night: Jack had been after a hookup, and he found it with someone else. I was naive—silly—to read anything more into it, to think that we might need to have A Conversation about anything that doesn’t involve props. I feel the urge to compare myself to Ginny—her high-set cheekbones and the kind of perfect complexion attained only via blood relation to British nobility. What do they even have to talk about? I wonder, then remember a lot of relationships are not predicated on the need to talk and that I don’t know anything about her personality or interests.
I open Instagram, ready to show myself all the ways that Ginny is perfect for Jack, then just as quickly flick the app away. Ginny is professionally attractive , I remind myself. And I have a life I feel great about when I’m not minutes removed from a terrible night’s sleep and hours removed from a misguided kiss with the one man who has burrowed deep in my consciousness for years.
I need to adjust accordingly. From now on, no more shadowing me, no more asking me set-design questions, no more volleying back and forth film recommendations. I’ll keep my distance for the remainder of the shoot. And by now, we’re more than halfway through.