Chapter 44 Luke
LUKE
Week two in LA, and I was starting to find my rhythm. The early call times, the endless takes, Gerald's increasingly bizarre directing notes—it was all becoming familiar in a way that felt almost comfortable.
What made it bearable? Anna.
Every morning, I woke up to a text from her. Sometimes it was just a photo. Maybe her coffee mug, the sunrise over New Orleans, her laptop open with a new word count she was proud of. Sometimes it was longer.
Wrote 3,000 words today. Your plot advice unlocked something.
Be brilliant today. I believe in you.
Gerald sounds unhinged. Channel that chaos.
I saved every single one.
On day ten, a massive box arrived on set, addressed to me. The entire crew gathered around as I opened it, curious about what could require a box that size.
Inside: six king cakes. Each from a different bakery, with little notes taped to the boxes explaining which one was which.
"Gambino's—the classic," "Randazzo's—Nonna's favorite," "Dong Phuong—my fave.” Beneath them were pralines wrapped in wax paper, chicory coffee, Roman candy, and, at the very bottom, approximately seven pounds of Mardi Gras beads in purple, green, and gold.
The note on top read: Since you can't come to New Orleans yet, I'm sending it to you. Share with the crew. Love, A.
"Oh my gosh," one of the camera operators said, already reaching for a praline. "Is this from New Orleans?"
"My girlfriend," I said, unable to keep the pride out of my voice.
It had been a long day. We'd been filming since five a.m., running the same scene over and over until everyone was exhausted and cranky. But the second that box opened, the entire energy shifted.
Within minutes, the beads were everywhere.
The grip team was wearing them. Gerald had at least fifteen strands around his neck and was dramatically catching beads people tossed at him like he was on a parade float.
Someone started playing zydeco music from their phone.
The king cakes were demolished in record time, and heated debates broke out over which bakery was superior.
"There's a baby in this piece of cake!" someone shouted, holding up the tiny plastic figurine.
I stood back, watching the chaos unfold, and pulled out my phone to take a video. The stunt coordinator was trying to teach one of the actors how to "throw like you're on a float." Someone had put beads on one of the cameras.
I sent the video to Anna: It’s like Mardi Gras here. The crew is obsessed. You're officially their favorite person.
Her reply came immediately: I can see Gerald wearing 30 strands of beads. This brings me joy.
I called her immediately.
"They loved it," I said when she picked up. "Like, loved it. Morale completely shifted. You just saved us from a very grumpy afternoon."
Her laugh was warm and bright. "I'm glad. I was worried it was too much."
"Too much? Anna, Gerald is still wearing the beads. Thank you."
"This seemed like the next best thing to being there."
"I miss you too. So much."
* * *
The days blurred together, but Anna was woven through all of them.
One night, three weeks in, we FaceTimed for two hours. She was in her pajamas, hair piled on top of her head, glasses sliding down her nose as she leaned over her laptop.
"Okay, so this character," she said, gesturing at her screen. "She's brave, right? But she's also terrified. How do I show both at the same time without it feeling contradictory?"
"Make her hands shake," I said immediately. "But have her move forward anyway. Bravery isn't not being scared. It's being scared and doing it anyway."
She stared at me. "How are you so good at this?"
"I play pretend for a living. It's transferable."
"Don't diminish what you do. You’re beyond talented."
"And you're helping me be a better actor." I shifted my phone so I could see her better. "I was telling Gerald about your main character yesterday—the way she overthinks everything but still takes risks—and he said it gave him ideas for my character's internal life."
"Wait, you talk about my book on set?"
"All the time. Everyone knows about it now. They're all planning to buy it when it's published."
"If it's published."
"When, Anna. When."
Another week passed. More texts. More calls. More voice messages left in the middle of the night because we couldn't wait until morning to share something.
Voice message from Anna, 1:23 a.m.: "Okay, so I was thinking about your scene tomorrow—the one where you have to cry on command?
Don't think about something sad. Think about something you love and then imagine losing it.
That's what always gets me. Anyway, good luck tomorrow. You're going to be amazing."
I used her advice. Nailed the scene in two takes. Gerald literally applauded.
A month in, I called her after a particularly brutal fourteen-hour day. I was exhausted, covered in fake blood from a stunt that had gone slightly wrong, and missing her so much it physically hurt.
"Hey," she said softly when she answered. "Rough day?"
"How'd you know?"
"I can hear it in your voice." A pause. "Tell me about it?"
So I did. I told her about the stunt that took twelve takes, about Gerald's increasingly cryptic notes, about how I'd forgotten my lines twice and felt like an idiot.
"You're not an idiot," she said firmly. "You're tired. There's a difference."
"I just... I want to be good at this, Anna. I want to prove I deserve this role."
"Luke." Her voice was gentle but insistent. "You already deserve it. They cast you because you're talented. Because you're perfect for this. One bad day doesn't erase that."
I closed my eyes, letting her words sink in. "I love you."
"I love you too. Take a shower, eat something, and get some sleep. Tomorrow will be better."
"Yes, ma'am."
"And Luke?"
"Yeah?"
"I'm really proud of you. Even on the hard days. Especially on the hard days."
Six weeks in, and we had it down to a science.
Morning texts. Evening calls. Voice messages throughout the day.
She sent me photos of her writing progress.
I sent her videos from the set (the ones Gerald approved).
We traded playlist links. She mailed me books she thought I'd like.
I sent flowers on random Tuesdays just because.
"We're really good at this," she said one night, her face pixelated slightly on my phone screen.
"We are," I agreed. "It's not the same as being together, but—"
"But we're making it work."
"Yeah. We are."
She smiled at me through the screen, and even though she was 1,800 miles away, even though I couldn't touch her or hold her or kiss her, it felt like enough.
For now, it felt like enough.
"I love you," I said.
"I love you too. Now tell me about Gerald's latest insane note. I need a good story for Lucy."
And just like that, we fell back into our rhythm. Talking, laughing, supporting each other across the distance.
We were killing this long-distance thing.