Chapter Six
LIMELIGHT STUDIOS HEADQUARTERS are in Union Square, just a few subway stops (and a fifteen-minute walk) from my apartment in Hell’s Kitchen.
But Monday brings heavy rains and thick humidity, so I opt to splurge on a cab.
Normally, my personal budget is tight enough as it is with student loan payments that I forgo these kinds of expenses, but I can’t show up to a meeting with Chris Ross looking like a wet dog.
I try not to think about my rent increase, about how much I need this job to survive, as I stare at the ticking meter on the dashboard of the taxi and swipe my card in the machine.
After dashing into the lobby, I totter to a stop in my heels.
I’m nearly ten minutes early, yet Oliver is already here, looking like a dapper professor in a suit so nice it has to be custom tailored, but today’s color palette consists of grays and black.
We almost look like a matching set, considering I opted for the simplest form of professional attire: all black, head to toe, minus my signature gold hoops.
His head is buried in his phone, those tortoiseshell glasses perched on his nose, so he doesn’t notice me when I approach him.
“Hey,” I say quietly, trying not to draw any extra attention to myself in the lobby of executive-looking people.
Oliver doesn’t hear me, or maybe he just ignores me, so I inch closer to him. “Um, hello?”
He startles ever so slightly—a hitch of his breath, his eyes flashing up to meet mine. He slides his phone into a leather messenger bag draped over his shoulder before answering. “Hi. Sorry.”
“When did you start wearing glasses?” I ask, flabbergasted by how good they look on his adult face, which is still so jarring to see after years of knowing a different version of him.
“A year ago maybe? Just one of the joys of getting older. All that glaring I did as a kid caught up to me.”
I had expected a nonresponse from him, so the self-deprecating remark throws me off. “Oliver, did you… did you just make a sorta joke?”
When he frowns, a line forms between his brows. “Is that so shocking?”
My phone dings; it’s an automatic calendar reminder that we have five minutes until the scheduled meeting. “Yes, but we’ll have to dissect that later. Let’s head upstairs.”
Together we check in at the security desk, where we are given little plastic temporary badges that allow us to enter the rest of the building.
We take one of those ultrafast elevators up to the twenty-third floor; it’s one of three in Limelight’s possession in this building alone.
The ride up is spent in silence. For my part, I’m trying to manage my nerves, to prevent excessive sweating, to maintain an even rhythm of breathing despite the roaring heartbeat in my chest.
This is it: my shot at my dream job.
When the elevator doors open to another mini-lobby, Rebecca is waiting for us.
She’s leaning against the receptionist’s desk, her dark hair pulled back into a tight bun, her eyes on her phone, fingers flying as she types.
It’s not until Oliver and I are standing right in front of her that she looks up.
“Sorry,” she mutters as she slides her phone into her back pocket and stands up straight. “Good to see you guys. How are you?”
When her full attention is on us, the hope in her eyes is clear. Her gaze flits back and forth between us; it’s assessing, yes, but there’s no denying that she’s happy that we’re both here.
“Good, thanks,” I offer first. “You?”
“Good. Busy.” Rebecca blows out a stressed-out breath. “This other project that I’m working on is taking forever to wrap up and it’s killing me.”
“You’re doing that superhero movie, right?” Oliver asks.
“That’s the one. It’s fun, don’t get me wrong, but it’s a lot of work.” She shakes her head briefly. “Anyway, we’re down the hall in a conference room. Chris is finishing up in another meeting, so he’ll be in shortly.”
She gestures toward a long hallway and we follow her.
As we walk, I take it all in: the all-black ceiling, furniture, and walls, the glass-encased conference rooms, the can lights overhead that make the whole place feel more like an art gallery and less like a corporate office.
There’s a sort of quiet buzz that fills the space up.
It’s the sound of people talking, phones ringing, glasses being set on desks.
While it’s a far cry from an actual movie/TV set or recording studio, it still fills me with an overwhelming sense of joy.
I’m here. I made it this far.
Rebecca leads us into a glass-walled conference room with views overlooking a cloudy NYC skyline. “Take a seat wherever you’d like,” she says. “Waters are for everyone. I’ll be right back.”
She disappears back into the hall, presumably to retrieve whoever else is needed for this meeting.
I take a seat next to Oliver and grab a bottle of water from the center of the table.
There’s something about being in this room, on the precipice of such a huge opportunity, that has caused my mouth to completely dry out.
“Nervous?” Oliver asks as I down half the water in two gulps.
I really don’t want to let this man see me ruffled, so I settle for a modicum of honesty. “A little.”
He says nothing in response. I chance a glance at him to find his lips are pursed; this is the look I’m familiar with, the sort-of frown he wore a lot in college. He taps into his phone and seemingly ignores me.
With the door shut, the conference room is quiet. Silent, even. I hate it, the absence of any noise. Oliver doesn’t make a peep as he stares down at his phone screen, his body angled in such a way that I can’t catch a glimpse of what he’s reading.
Then, out of nowhere, he says, “Don’t be.”
“What?” I ask, equal parts confused and startled by his words cutting through the quiet.
“Nervous,” he replies as he turns to face me. When our eyes meet, I can’t decipher his expression—there’s no trace of emotion anywhere. “You shouldn’t be nervous. You’re quite competent.”
“Competent.” My dumbfounded echo of his word choice hangs heavy between us.
He closes his eyes briefly and lets out a small sigh. “I just mean that you can do this. You were always so…”
His words taper off as he pinches the bridge of his nose.
My heart is practically tripping over itself at the mention of our history—this is not the time or place to dredge that up.
Matter of fact, I hope we never do. But at the same time, curiosity burns through me.
I need to know how he’s going to finish that sentence.
“I was always what?” I ask, forcing my tone to stay breezy, even as one eyebrow raises.
His cheeks flush with color, the contrast highlighting his freckles again.
His mouth opens as if to speak, but whatever he was about to say dies on his lips when the door to the conference room swings open.
Rebecca walks in, followed by a series of people.
Immediately I recognize Chris Ross, with his gradually graying wavy blond hair and expressive blue eyes.
The minute he enters, his presence fills the space entirely.
He’s not a particularly big man—I’d put his height somewhere in the middle of Oliver and me—but he carries a sort of magnetism that draws all matter directly to him.
It’s a symptom of a man at the top of his game.
Oliver and I rise to stand at the same time. I straighten out my own blazer just to have something to do with my hands while I plaster a smile on my face. As Rebecca maneuvers toward a chair, she gives me a subtle wiggle of her eyebrows: Good luck.
“This is Celia García and Oliver Barlowe,” Rebecca says as she motions to the two of us. “Celia and Oliver, this is Chris Ross, showrunner and executive producer, along with John Marshall, who will be working as director of photography, and Damian Delacorte, who is also producing.”
There’s a flurry of hands as we all greet each other.
Each time I lock eyes with the men I’m introduced to, I commit their faces to memory.
Aside from Ross (who is easy to remember considering how much he is photographed), there’s John, with his wild white hair and grizzled face, and Damian, with a shock of red hair and a smattering of freckles across his nose.
They seem nice enough; both offer me tentative smiles as we all sit down at the conference table.
“So,” Chris says by way of greeting. His voice is loud and booming. “Rebecca tells me you all went to school together?”
Oliver beats me to it. “Yes. We were in the same class at Juilliard.”
“Juilliard kids, huh?” John asks. “Where are you both from?”
“New Yorker, born and raised,” I reply. This is a strategic answer; after spending several hours Googling Chris Ross, I know that he is also a New Yorker by birth. I’m hoping this will earn me brownie points.
It does. Chris’s head cocks to the side as he looks at me. “The Bronx?”
“Close. Washington Heights.”
“Huh. I spent a lot of time in and around the Heights growing up. I had an uncle who lived in Highbridge.”
“You an NYC kid as well?” John asks as he looks at Oliver.
“Not really. I was mostly raised in LA,” Oliver replies.
I have to quickly mask the look of surprise that no doubt registers on my face; I had no idea Oliver grew up on the West Coast. Outwardly, he is the antithesis of California cool.
He looks like he was born and raised in an uptight academic lecture room, or maybe a concert hall.
“Makes sense, given who your father is.” This from Damian. “How is your old man? It’s been a while since I’ve seen him.”
“He’s well, thank you.”
I don’t miss the way Oliver’s shoulders tense at the mention of his father. As casually as possible, I lean in my chair to get a better look at him. There’s a rigidness to the set of his jaw, offset by the beating of his pulse under his ears. I had no idea Daddy was such a touchy subject for him.