Chapter 30
Chapter Thirty
ROMAN
It’s far too late by the time I drag myself into the condo after filming wraps.
While I’m exhausted, it was a productive day.
Not only did we film the first kiss between the characters, but we filmed the rest of the scene leading up to it, and everything that takes place after the kiss in the scene.
Reluctantly, I have to admit that Clover’s acting has been phenomenal. It’s surprising that she hasn’t booked anything bigger before this role. Not that I’ll tell her that.
I’m excited to see what we’re creating together.
Arnold is a visionary, so having him attached to a superhero film will give it a layer that I feel most are missing in the current market.
Combine that with the practical effects and stunt work we’re doing, and I think this will be a big box office success.
Plus with the music scoring, I’m convinced we’re on the right track.
“Hello?” I call out. The smell of baking permeating the air tells me Jill’s recently been here. I follow the sweet smell of sugar and cinnamon to the kitchen, where I find a giant plate of cookies and a note from Jill.
Out at Kat’s show. For the love of all things that are holy, please save me at least ONE sugar cookie.
-J
I scoff as I stare down at the plate. “Thanks for the confidence...” I mutter before popping one into my mouth.
Fuck, they’re good. I fight to suppress the groan that wants to leave my mouth.
Damn... maybe it will be hard to save her one after all.
Shaking my head, I step away from the world’s most tempting cookies.
It takes me a few seconds to realize that I’m whistling as I enter my room.
There’s a little melody that’s been bouncing around in my head all afternoon, and now that I’m surrounded by silence in the peace and comfort of my home, I’m struck by the urge to take the notes from my mind and bring them to life.
I toss a reluctant gaze over toward the grand piano in the corner of the room.
It’s backlit by the glow of the city coming from the floor to ceiling windows that line the room.
It’s been a long time since I’ve played. The only reason it hasn’t actually collected dust is thanks to the cleaning service that comes to my place weekly. I purchased it when I bought this condo.
Overall, the building is fine, and the unit is nice, but it was nothing to write home about.
I was getting ready to tell the realtor not to waste time showing me the rest of the unit when I walked past the entrance to the primary bedroom and saw how spacious it was.
Twelve-foot ceilings, impressive windows, hardwood floors, and a spot that was almost too perfect for a grand piano.
I didn’t even need to see the rest of the unit, I was sold.
Hesitating slightly, I approach the shining instrument, ivory keys practically glowing. The piano is calling to me, asking me to bring the music inside my head to life through her.
I flex my fingers, warming them up before placing them on the cool keys.
It feels like coming home. When the first note rings out in the silence, it’s almost like the sensation of taking in that first breath after surfacing from the deep.
From there it’s simple, and the music flows out of me like water.
A song’s been building in my mind over the last few weeks, but today has been an inescapable earworm.
I lose myself in the music, playing the song on a loop for what might be minutes or hours until I dart out of the room to grab a pen and paper to make sure I put it down somewhere and don’t lose it.
It’s been so long since I’ve played, let alone written something, that I don’t want to forget it.
I scribble some notes onto the page, creating some makeshift sheet music to take what’s in my head and make it permanent.
I lose myself in the music. The melody floats through the air and wraps around me, distracting me from reality. A while later, when I get up to stretch, I look over at my phone.
I see multiple missed calls from Deacon, and my mood instantly sours. Before I have a minute to think about whether to call him back, he’s calling me again. I have no clue what this could be regarding. I’m no brain surgeon, but if he’s calling this frequently, then something is wrong.
Letting it ring for a few seconds, I try to muster some bravado before I’m about to be chewed out for some unspecified thing. That’s the problem with growing up with a parent like Deacon. There never needed to be a legitimate reason for being yelled at. It would always happen.
“Deacon,” I greet.
“I’m not fucking pleased, Roman.”
“And here I thought you were calling to ask me how my day was.”
“Have you seen mine and Janine’s emails?” he presses. I switch to speakerphone and open the app on my phone. Of course, they’ve flagged a series of emails as “high importance”. Surprisingly, Deacon is silent on the other end of the line for a moment while I flip through the emails quickly.
Greetings Deacon,
It would appear we’ve got some celebrity gossip sources questioning the legitimacy of Roman and Clover’s relationship–see below.
Warmest of Regards,
- Janine Weavers
Scanning down, I see the email in question.
FROM: gossipwithme@
TO: janineweavers@
SUBJECT: Request for Comment–Roman & Clover
Ms. Weavers, as you know, we operate a tip line for celebrity sightings and insider gossip, which we use for our podcast and blog. We’ve heard from a source that they do not believe Roman and Clover are really dating. Can you confirm or deny?
- Team TroisToi
There’s a sinking feeling in my stomach. We’ve been so careful in public to create the illusion of being a couple. I read on to see Deacon’s response.
Janine. Obviously, you will deny it. I will deal with Roman. Perhaps we need a more organic approach. I will connect with you tomorrow.
- Deacon Everett, President & CEO, Starlight Studios
“I didn’t raise an illiterate son,” Deacon snaps. “Are you done yet?”
“Yes.”
“What do you have to say for yourself?”
“What the hell am I supposed to say? I haven’t been talking to anyone about it, I have no clue who the source could be.” I wrack my brain trying to think of anyone who could know or suspect anything on my end.
“You need to do better. Both of you.”
I don’t bother answering, knowing whatever I say won’t be the right response. If there’s a correct way to respond to Deacon, I’ve never found it.
“I thought you could at least handle this,” he laments. “This is disappointing, even for you.” The line goes dead.
Anger floods my system, and I fight the desire to toss my phone. Instead, I forcefully shut the lid of the piano. It was stupid of me to play tonight. I should have known better than to do the one thing that gives me the most joy. It feels like the universe is punishing me for playing.
The anger burns too hot, too bright, and I need to destroy something, my hands are vibrating with the insatiable urge. Before I have time to think better of it, I take the pen and scratch across all the music I’ve written tonight, and when that doesn’t feel final enough, I rip the page to pieces.
They flutter to the ground with a softness that is laughable. There goes all my hard work tonight. Ripped and torn on the ground. It doesn’t matter though, it was just a silly little song, as Deacon would say.
I’m fucking tired of never being enough.
I’m tired of never being able to do anything right.
Of the fact that I want to play music, and that I’m too chickenshit to go for it.
I’m tired of being a goddamn Everett and all that comes along with it.
It’s with a bone-crushing heaviness that I realize I’m tired of being myself in this moment.
Carrying the weight of defeat, I stalk into the office and open up my desk drawer and dig around for the box of cigarettes I know is in there, because honestly, fuck this.
I head onto the balcony and use my lungs as a vessel to burn away my sorrows.