Chapter Twenty Filming the Scene
We didn’t fool around again for the next while.
Not because we didn’t want to, but after that night, we both got slammed with work.
I got assigned two projects, one of which was helping a PhD candidate finish his thesis on time.
The other was for an industry-funded grant with no wiggle room on the deadline.
Both due on the same day. I had to practically book time to use the bathroom.
Eddie was having a hard time too. Apparently, Jack liked to revise his scripts on the fly, and he’d made Eddie’s part a lot bigger, which meant he left the apartment before sunrise and came home in time to get six hours of sleep.
Then he was up and out again. Some days I didn’t see him at all.
I wasn’t home a lot either, because Undeclared Mustard were gigging, and I had to practice my routine for Eddie’s movie, and I was still in therapy. My therapist bumped me down to one session per week because of my schedule, even though he said I needed more.
The one bright spot in that hellscape was when I was online and saw a listing for a cottage rental up north that I’d bookmarked. And I remembered I’d planned to propose there. But I didn’t have the headspace right then to think about it.
At least he had time to catch up on sleep by taking naps in his trailer. I didn’t have a trailer, and I was walking around tired all the time, mentally, physically, emotionally.
Then one day, it caught up to me. I woke up with the start of a migraine, and it got worse throughout the day. I tried to push through, but I couldn’t.
I needed to talk to him, so I called him. I knew it was selfish—he could have been in the middle of filming or sleeping, and I’d be interrupting. Maybe I was interrupting something, because he didn’t answer his phone. Jack did.
“Uh, hey,” I said. “It’s Craig.”
“Hi, Craig,” Jack said. He sounded angry. “I want to film your tap routine tomorrow. Can you come at four o’clock?”
“Sure.” I didn’t want to think about tomorrow. “Can I speak to Eddie?”
“He can’t come to the phone right now.”
I heard Eddie’s voice in the background. “Give me the phone, Jack.”
“Eddie, you’re not supposed to move,” said Jack.
Then I heard Eddie again, and he sounded pissed. “Put the phone in my hand right now, Jack.”
I heard a muffled sound and then Eddie’s voice. “Hey.” And he didn’t sound mad anymore, just concerned.
“Hey,” I said.
“Jack, can you give me a minute?” he said.
“Right,” said Jack.
Then I heard a door slam. I hoped I didn’t get Eddie in trouble.
“What’s going on?” I said.
“The makeup artist painted this blue symbol on my chest, and I can’t move till it dries, or it’ll smudge.”
“Is it permanent?”
“No, it’ll wear off eventually,” he said. “What’s up?”
“I’m heading home. I got a migraine. I feel like I’m gonna puke.”
“Shit. Look, I’ll see how early I can leave today.”
“You don’t have to.” I didn’t want to get him in trouble. But I really needed him right then.
“I’ll call you back in a couple hours, see how you’re doing, okay? If you feel worse, call me.”
“Okay. Wish you were here.”
“Me too.” Hearing that almost made me feel better. Then he said quietly, “Love you, tapper.”
“You too, honey kid.”
I hung up. Hearing his voice had made it bearable, but now he was gone, I felt sick. I called an Uber to pick me up. I could hardly stand at that point, and the sunlight was killing me, so I had to cover my eyes. Then I was trying not to puke in the Uber on the way home.
I had to lie down in the elevator, and I took a while to get up when it got to my floor.
The doors almost closed on me. I got to my apartment, and I knew I was gonna puke.
Made it to the hallway before I threw up all over the carpet, and then I collapsed on the floor crying, because the pain was so bad, and he wasn’t there.
I had pills for my migraines in the bathroom, and I would have dry swallowed one, but I couldn’t stand or even open my eyes.
I hadn’t had a migraine in years. My doctor said they were triggered by overwork and stress.
I used to get them all the time in high school until the doctor told me to cut my extracurriculars, so I went from five to four.
That helped. But lately, things had been hitting me from every direction: therapy, work, gigging, tap practice, not being able to spend time with him.
My migraine had been coming on for days, but I’d ignored the signs.
I fell asleep or blacked out, and when I opened my eyes, it was dark. I heard ringing. My phone. I must have dropped it when I came in. I knew it was him.
I couldn’t stand up, so I crawled down the hallway. I didn’t get far before the ringing stopped. And I started crying again, because I felt so pathetic, lying in the hallway covered in puke.
Then my phone started ringing again. I dragged myself out of the hallway to the living room, and I had to find it by listening because it hurt too much to open my eyes. In the end, I hit it with my hand.
“Craig?”
I pulled the phone closer. “Eddie?”
“I’m on my way home. I gotta call an Uber, but after I do, I’ll call you right back.”
“Okay.”
Then I heard Jack’s voice in the background. “I can give you a ride home, Eddie.”
“No thanks, Jack,” he said. The tone of his voice was stiff.
“Eddie?” I said.
“I’m here,” he said. “I’ll call you back.” Then he disconnected. I felt this wave of nausea, and I was still lying on the floor. I tried a trick my therapist taught me—square breathing—and it helped. Then the phone rang again, and it was him.
“I’m on my way,” he said. “How are you doing?”
“Hurry.” I couldn’t talk and focus on not puking. But it was okay. He did all the talking. He talked to me his whole way home, and I closed my eyes and pretended he was beside me, and that helped.
And then I heard his key in the lock, and he was home.
“Craig?” He put his arms around me.
“I threw up. Sorry.”
“I’ll clean it up.” He brushed the hair out of my eyes. “Can you get onto the couch?”
He had to help me. I was heavier than he was, and it wasn’t easy for him. He got me to lie on the couch, and it was softer than the floor.
“Can you get my painkillers?” I said. “And some water?”
“Sure.”
He let me go, and I heard him in the bathroom and then the kitchen.
Then he was back, and he propped me up and put the pill in my mouth.
He had to hold my water bottle so I could drink from it because my hands were too shaky to hold it myself.
I had to stop swallowing to breathe. Sitting up had been a mistake. “Think I’m gonna be sick again.”
“Try to hold it in,” he said. “You just took a pill.”
“Okay.” I lay down, and he set a garbage pail in front of me. “Hold on.”
I heard him in the kitchen opening the freezer. He came back with something wrapped in a towel and pressed it to the back of my neck. It was really cold, and I started shivering, but I stopped feeling sick.
He sat beside me on the couch. “Does that help?”
I nodded. The painkillers shouldn’t be working yet, but I felt better, then tired, and I rested my head in his lap.
He was still wearing his coat, and he held my hand, and with his other hand, he stroked my forehead gently.
No one had ever touched me like that before.
He was so warm, and his presence was this deep orange glow enclosing me, and I started to fall asleep with my head in his lap.
The next thing I knew, he was nudging me awake and coaxing me to bed. He had to help, because I didn’t want to move or open my eyes. Then I was in bed, and he was pulling my coat off and taking off my boots, and pulling the covers over me, and I went back to sleep.
When I woke up again, the pain was gone, but I felt like a bus had hit me and then backed over me and parked. He was lying beside me fast asleep with his arm around me. I was still fully dressed. It was six a.m. Today was my dance scene.
I’d competed in dance sick before, so no way was I going to back out. Part of it was that he’d put his neck on the line to get me this role, and I didn’t want to let him down. The other part was that I didn’t want anyone, let alone Jack, accusing me of wimping out or being unprofessional.
I eased out of bed carefully so I wouldn’t wake him. I found what was left of my puke in the hallway. He’d tried, but what I’d learned living with him for months was that he wasn’t very thorough when he cleaned things.
I had a shower, feeling like I’d gained fifty pounds. Everything I did took extra effort. I got my socks on after the third try, and after I got dressed, I started shaving. Then my body decided I needed to lie down, like, now. So I went back to the bedroom and collapsed on the bed.
“You want me to call you in sick?” he said.
“I can do it. Bring me my phone?”
He got up, and when he came back, he put the phone in my hand. I called and left Simon a message then hung up. “What time does Jack want me?”
“Craig, you’re sick.”
“I can do this, Eddie.”
“Four o’clock,” he said.
“I can sleep here till then.”
“Come to work with me,” he said. “You can stay in my trailer all day. There’s a bed there, and I can check on you. The set’s catered too. I can bring you food if you’re hungry. We can take an Uber there. You only have to walk downstairs, and you can spend the rest of the day sleeping.”
“Okay.” I closed my eyes. Keeping them open was too tiring.
“You missed some spots shaving,” he said.
“I’ll do it later.”
He got off the bed, and a minute later, I heard the electric razor going, and I felt it cold and hard on my face.
“You’re tickling.”
“I’m touching you up,” he said. “Hold still.”
He shut the razor off, and then he touched my hair, and then he kissed my mouth, and I wished I wasn’t so tired, but I couldn’t do anything except enjoy it.
“I gotta get ready for work,” he murmured.
“Okay.”
I fell asleep again. When I opened my eyes, he was there, dressed.
“You want breakfast?” he said.
“I can’t eat right now.”