12. Chapter 12
Chapter 12
Pulling up the driveway of the location Errol texted me last night, I realize it’s a house. The contemporary style of the steel front windows shine under the sunlight. Parking by the garage I see two cars inside, making me wonder if this is his house. When he opens the door in sweats and a tight tee, he seems too comfortable for it to be anything else.
“Hey,” he says, “come in.”
Stepping into a foyer, the walls are lined with photos of tan and brown faces in various posses. I try not to stare as I unlace my running shoes.
“Is this your house?” The question comes out accusatory as I try to ease the anxiety that bubbles up at the thought of being in his space.
“Yes, why?” He tilts his head, waiting for me to answer.
“Oh no, it’s just nice.” I try to smile as I say the words, but the gesture is so foreign in his presence I feel like it reads as fake.
He looks me up and down, his lips puckering while he brings me into the livingroom.
“We’re going to do some character work in here.”
Taking in the space, I’m surprised by how it is arranged. Despite the fact that the outside is monochromatic and modern, his personal style reads more cozy and bright. Colorful artwork hangs on the walls, bringing life into the gray painted space. A shelf full of records sits adjacent to a brown leather couch with a forest green blanket hanging on it. Books are scattered on tables, some open, like they were left just a minute ago. Overall, it feels lived-in and welcoming, like a warm hug or cup of tea.
“Okay, so let’s get right into it.” He plops down onto the sofa. “I want to break down how I see the character and what I expect.”
Without invitation I join him, sitting far enough away that I can turn and look at him.
He jumps right into explaining the inspiration for Fiona and her role in the movie. Breaking down the part she plays in the development of the main character, he highlights all the ways Dante’s and Fiona’s interactions forward the narrative of the story. He talks with his hands, expressing his excitement in the lift and fall of his gestures. As I listen to his description of her, I seek out the similarities between us. I don’t have to look hard as he begins to point them out.
“Fiona is confident, like you. Full of the belief that she deserves good things. She is also fiery, outspoken, and direct with her words. You would never look at this woman and have to guess at her wants and needs. She tells you with the way she moves, speaks, and dresses. She acts like she is privileged, and I think this is what you can bring to the character.”
Having started off so well, he ends on a note that rings too close to the sound of the word entitled.
“Fiona is a plus size, Black, woman, how exactly is she privileged?” I cross my arms, trying to hold back my simmering anger.
“She isn’t, but she acts like she is. She’s the type of person who is demanding of everything she wants.”
Feeling like we are not just talking about the character, I glare at him.
“And what is wrong with that?”
The corner of his mouth tilts up, before he bites his bottom lip.
“Nothing per se, but it’s just not how people think she would behave.”
Wondering if he’s one of these people, I try to tie together the pieces of how this man created this woman.
“So you’re saying I’m just like this character?”
He nods eagerly.
“And yet, having written someone like this, you had a problem with the way I act.”
He winces and lowers his head to think on what I said.
“Yes and no.”
His behavior these last months would speak differently.
“Being honest, I created this character so women who are in similar positions as her could see how empowered they are. When I came face-to-face with that type of woman, I didn’t react correctly.” He meets my gaze, beaming. “I should have been more prepared for a woman like you.”
My cheekbones shine in the mid afternoon light as I raise them up on my face.
“Granted, I didn’t expect a woman like Fiona to complain so much about every little thing, but I guess that comes with the territory.” He lowers his head, giving me a hooded stare while smirking.
I grab the pillow from behind me and throw it as his face, happy when it makes contact. He tosses it lightly back to me as he laughs.
“So to play Fiona, I have to be myself.”
“A heightened version, but yes.”
“Alright then, let’s get to work.”
He pulls open the script, and we start breaking down the character’s motivations. He talks me through the lines, where I should draw inspiration from, and what emotions I will need to tap into. He shines a light on the words, highlighting the many layers that exist in them. As he speaks, I begin to go beyond his surface as well.
Before today, he has always just been the jerk who doesn’t like me. Now I can see he’s passionate and driven by the art he creates. More patient than I thought he would be, he takes the time to go sentence by sentence with me, making sure I understand. For every level that we descend in the writing, another layer in him reveals itself.
“Ugh I need a break.” His voice goes rough for the third time. He is clearly in need of something to drink, so he offers me one as well.
I follow him into a kitchen that’s so bare and tidy. It’s obvious it’s not used as often as the rest of the house, it lacks the personalization.
“So,” I lean against the marble counter, “what made you want to be a director?”
Testing out the theory that we are capable of more than just hostile exchanges, I throw out the line, seeing if he catches hold. As he fills a glass with ice and water, he looks over at me, eyes searching mine for something. Seeming to find what it is, he slides the glass over.
“It wasn’t some specific movie or moment. It was more a drive to tell stories, ones that I didn’t get to see being told.”
I take a sip, waiting for him to continue as he pours another glass for himself.
“Movies shape the way we view the world. Who we mark as heroes and villains. How we judge ourselves and each other. I wanted a say in that. To change it for what I believe is the better.” He points back to the living room, and we make our way over to the couch.
“Is that why you wrote a plus size love interest? You wanted to change the way us bigger girls are viewed?”
He nods, sliding a little closer to me.
“I did, yes, but I also wrote to my preference. I wanted Fiona to be the sexiest woman, and I think a curvy, full body is sexy.”
Biting my lower lip, I sit further back and look away before he can tell his flattery got to me.
“It’s interesting to see this side of you. You should show it to people more often,” I say.
“The only person I haven’t shown this to is you. Everyone else knows me.”
“Knows and likes you, since most of the people want to sleep with you.” I focus on the thing that has been plaguing me since we both admitted nothing would ever happen between us. I can’t help but think that something has to be happening with other people.
He rolls his eyes while putting his glass on the wood coffee table.
“I would never sleep with any of them. That would jeopardize my career. Plus, I’m not interested in anyone in that way.”
My gut kicks up a little at his words, and I place my hand there, trying to sooth whatever that was.
“Are you ready to tell me why you care so much?” He leans back and crosses his arms.
“I don’t. I was more so just curious.”
He levels me a look that speaks of his disbelief in that statement.
“You have asked me on multiple occasions about my sex life. Decidedly thinking it is happening with people we work with. There has to be a reason.”
He just seems like a flirt. I have even felt like at times he was flirting with me. He did call me stunning, and also accused me of wanting to sleep with him, and he doesn’t even like me. Also, he is obviously attractive.
My cheeks heat a little as the memory of him shirtless brings me to stare at his body. It is a really nice body. Lean and fit, and outlined with muscles all under beautiful brown skin. He catches me staring, his smile turning feline and satisfactory.
“It’s just the way you come across.” That had to be it, right?
“Did you always want to work on movies?” he asks, distracting me from my train of thought. His bare foot slides across the couch to rest against my knee as he spreads out a little. Goosebumps rise at the place where he is subtly touching me.
“No, I prefer styling people. Helping them find a sense of who they are through their clothes. It’s obviously how I express myself, so I want to help people do it too.” I gesture to my outfit. Dressed in athleisure wear, the simple jewelry I paired with it speaks of my personal style and usual flair. It sums up that I want to present myself as someone who is comfortable while still being cute.
I continue. “But it’s cool building up a character through their looks and using the costumes to communicate different things. I never thought I would get so much joy out of it, but I do.”
“You are good at it, too.”
I search his eyes for sarcasm, but find only earnestness there.
“You wouldn’t have said that a week ago.”
“A week ago, I was taking someone’s word at face value. Everything they told me I believed, and that led to the conclusion that you weren’t very good at doing as you’re told.”
Knowing Mira had been telling him these things this whole time, I’m more determined to confront her the next time I see her. She was throwing me under the bus at any given chance, and cheering as my remains were dragged down the street. She was putting my name down under all of her mistakes. True rage sparks in my belly as I finally acknowledge how much she has hung me out to dry time and time again.
The part that bothers me most is I don’t understand why. Why give me this job just to make me look bad at it? Why is she so different from the girl I used to live with in Paris? There has always been a competitive streak between us, but before I moved here, we were able to support each others’ wins. I don’t know what changed.
“How did you figure out the truth?” Needing to know how the cookie crumbled, I ask for him to piece it all together.
“With the script change, I just went back in and asked Jack. He told me you told him Mira wanted it changed. I figured it was less likely you were lying in that moment than she was when I came to her, guns ablaze, wondering who made that call. You also looked so taken aback when I asked you about it, something in my gut just twisted.”
I can see the apology on his lips again, as that night plays out for both of us in our minds.
“What about the other projects? The clothes you didn’t like?”
“Well, with one lie unraveled, it became really easy to see that your name was offered up every time I asked about something I didn’t like. So I checked the assignment board, looked at your projects and saw a pattern of work.”
I try not to laugh out loud while he is talking.
“Okay, Sherlock Holmes.”
A chuckle bursts free from my lips anyway, and he follows suit a second later. We finish off with broad smiles on both our faces.
“Well, now that this is all out there, I want to say I agree. I don’t think Fiona should be wearing lingerie in the break-up scene,” I say.
“And why is that?” His voice is the sharpest it’s been all day. I can tell he is preparing for a fight, by the way he breathes out.
“Relationships are more complicated than that. An outfit isn’t really a deterrent for breaking up with someone. If he came to that conclusion, it would take a lot to change his mind.”
“Not necessarily.” He scoots closer. “Men are simple; seeing her in that state could just remind him of the good times, make him want her all over again.”
“The sexy times you mean. Not all men prioritize that the way you do.”
“And what do you prioritize in a relationship, Farrah?” He leans forward, closing some of the distance between us. I can see his eyes dart between mine and my mouth as he waits for me to speak, his dimples on full display.
After the last few months, my answer is simple.
“Trust.” I ease back a little, feeling like I need all the space to breathe.
He nods as he looks down at the discarded script. I wait for the questions that type of answer would prompt, but he just keeps his eyes focused on the pages.
“We should call it a night.” His long fingers skim the paper as he looks at where we left off.
I curl my own into my palm, quenching the urge to reach for him.
Lost in whatever thought caught his attention, he is quiet as he walks me to the door. As I get my shoes on, I wait to see if he will speak his mind. Watching him run a hand through his hair, shaking himself free, I conclude he doesn’t plan on sharing.
“An agent who’s my friend is going to reach out to you. They’re willing to do the negotiations for your salary,” he says as he rubs the stubble on his face.
“We have a meeting with the studio tomorrow, but I want you to take the time to learn the script. On Saturday we’re going to a party to introduce you to some of the producers.”
My cheeks sting as reality slaps me. This is actually happening. I’m not going back to the costume department tomorrow. My eyes widen enough that he notices the shift in my mood. His hand falls on my shoulder as he turns me to face him fully.
“You got this,” he says, his thumb rubbing circles on my collarbone. The tingle of his touch shoots into my muscles, tightening them further. The little contact between us has electrified me. I step out of his reach, hoping my heart will return to it’s normal rhythm again.
“Thanks.” Opening the door, I step out under the nighttime sky, I wave once on my way to my car.
Watching me go, he doesn’t move back inside until I start to drive away.
My heartbeat doesn’t slow down until I make it home.