Chapter 52 Luke
LUKE
Yesterday’s shoot had been a disaster.
I slept, but not well. It was the kind of restless sleep where you wake up feeling just as tired as when you went to bed.
Today, I had to nail it. Not just for Fargo or the crew, but for myself.
By the time I got to the soundstage, the usual buzz of activity surrounded me—lighting adjustments, hushed conversations, the clatter of equipment. The final scene was on the schedule, the one I’d been botching all week.
I walked onto the set during a break and picked up the script I’d discarded the night before. The lines stared back at me, mocking me. It wasn’t just about the words, though; it was about what they represented.
You’re miserable because you left Anna. Topher’s words rattled around my brain like an unwelcome guest.
He was right. I’d spent my life hiding behind roles, using them as armor against anything real. With Anna, it had been different. She didn’t care about the Hollywood shine. She saw me. The real me.
I ran my fingers over the edges of the script, trying to focus. It felt like something was pressing against my ribs. What was the point of fame if I couldn’t be with her?
My phone buzzed on the chair next to me. I glanced at the screen and froze.
Saw you on ET. Nice hoodie.
My heart leaped. The hoodie. Her lavender hoodie from Muses. The one she’d given me that night at the bar to help me escape unnoticed.
I typed a response, my thumbs flying over the screen.
It’s the most comfortable thing I own.
Her reply came almost instantly. Comfortable enough to wear on national TV? Bold choice, Fisher.
I chuckled as I wrote my response: Hey, good enough to escape from a bachelorette party at Muses, good enough for me.
I stared at the screen, the corner of my mouth twitching into a smile. For the first time in weeks, I felt lighter. Her text was simple, playful, but it hit me harder than any line I’d delivered on set.
She was still there, in my life, even if it was just a text.
The assistant director’s voice pulled me back. “Five minutes, Luke.”
I nodded, tossing the script onto a nearby chair. I didn’t need it anymore.
When the cameras started rolling, I drew a deep breath, letting the air settle in my chest. The lights bore down on me, hot and unrelenting, but they didn’t feel suffocating.
I poured everything I had into the scene. Every ounce of pain, doubt, and longing. Every moment with Anna that had changed me. The fear of never being enough, the regret of leaving her, the vulnerability she’d taught me to embrace—it all fueled my performance.
My voice cracked on the emotional high point, my hands trembling as I delivered the monologue. For the first time, I wasn’t performing. I wasn’t hiding behind a character.
I was real.
When the director finally yelled, “Cut,” the soundstage erupted into applause. Gerald jumped out of his chair, his signature megaphone in hand, but this time, he didn’t use it.
“Now that’s what I’m talking about,” he exclaimed, clapping. “Perfection, Luke. You’ve got it.”
The applause surrounded me, but it felt distant and muted. I managed a nod and a brief smile, but my thoughts were elsewhere.
I grabbed my jacket and keys, ignoring the congratulatory pats on the back as I walked off set. This wasn’t a victory.
It wasn’t the role or the fame I wanted.
It was Anna.
She was the first person to make me feel like I didn’t have to pretend.
And I’d let her go. I’d asked her to come to LA with me, and when she didn’t, I was hurt.
I had been so conceited that I assumed it was all about me, that she didn’t love me enough to leave New Orleans.
So, I hadn’t asked the right questions, questions that would have shown me that it was fear that kept her in New Orleans.
So, instead of what I should have done as her boyfriend and helped her face those fears, I left. I ran away.
The realization hit me hard, but this time, it didn’t leave me hollow. It left me determined.
I stepped out into the cool night air, the city lights shimmering like distant stars.
This time, I wasn’t running away.
I was going to fight for her.