by Jean Haus
She steps back still holding my hands. “I love you.”
I rub her fingers. Stare at her. She’s a bittersweet picture of art in real life. “I love you too.”
She slowly lets go of my hands. “See you soon.” She covers her watering eyes with the sunglasses and I force myself not to reach for her. She doesn’t look back as she enters the security line. Clenching my hands at my sides, I’m glad.
Once I can’t see her—the rigid spine and the hand clamped around her ticket—anymore I turn and stalk across the airport and out into the parking garage. Inside my car, I punch the dashboard. Hula Holly bobs as my knuckles throb. Paige crying tears me up inside. And though we’ve only been together less than three months, one month apart is just too damn much. The pain across my skin helps cool the pain of missing her already.
Just a bit. And just for the moment.
~3~
Paige
I wait for the elevator to take me up to my floor. Zach was right. At work I’m mindless, just concentration and eagerness and nervousness. I love acting. It’s when work is over homesickness invades me. More than home, I’m missing Zach. Perhaps he’s what home has come to mean to me. And phone calls, texts, and emails don’t equate to home. Alone in my hotel room I’m a pining mess.
The elevator doors open. I rush past the security guard who doesn’t seem to speak English. He just nods to me. Up one floor where the big stars are there are three guards. Those of us not so well known get one.
Inside my room, I power up my computer. I’ve never been so interested in emailing. Here I run to my computer every day. To Zach. We do text a bit. I wake up to a ‘good morning’ or ‘a break a leg beautiful’ on my phone every day. But we’ve never been heavy texters. Short abbreviated conversations just don’t work for us. Compared to some other couples I’ve observed we actually like to talk. Now apart email has become our heaviest source of communication. Of course, I don’t take my phone to work because I’d be on the thing all day, even if just looking and waiting for a message alert to pop up.
Like clockwork Zach’s message sits waiting for me in my inbox. The best part of my day unless it’s a day we talk on the phone. Today I have two hours to wait until I call him. Sitting closer, I open the email and drink in his words.
Morning Paige,
Or maybe I should say good evening?
How’s my girl? How’s the nervousness going? Tomorrow will make it a week on the set. Feeling settled in yet? Your last email did sound more assertive. Just remember, you are talented that’s why they choose you. Really, I didn’t go to those plays just because I’m your boyfriend. I also went because you’re an amazing actor. And I can’t wait to walk down the red carpet at the premier with you. (Not really looking forward to the camera shit but hey, you’ll look hot and ecstatic and between the two, the photo crap will be worth it.)
I smile. Zach’s my own personal cheerleader. Although his opinion might be biased, he always helps boost my confidence.
I took the job. What can I say? Its great hours, good money, and walking people through an hour workout is pretty damn easy. Yeah, I know. I envision your nose wrinkling at the news. It may take me more than four years to get my BA working so much, but in the end what’s one more year? A drop in the bucket of life. I’ll be training over the next week. The week after I’ll start taking on clients. Then all my financial issues will be null, which will be a huge weight off my shoulders.
One more year is worth that freedom.
Ah…I have some other news I need to share with you. I’d rather do it over the phone. It’s nothing major. Well, at least to me. But yeah, I’m sure you’ll want to know. I’m imagining you all stiff looking at the computer. Your eyes are round and your breath picked up. Just relax, like I said it’s not major.
Like always, I’m anticipation waiting for your call.
Z
I fall back into the chair. How could he just leave me hanging on a string like that? Ugh. Either say it or don’t bring it up. I’m having trouble imagining what would not be major to him but I’d want to know.
They got a new roommate and it’s a girl? That would not be cool. He’s dropping a class because of the job? I know why they want him to train. Gorgeous with a body hard from years of sports he’ll be booked solid. So yes, he’ll have no financial worries, but he knows how I feel about his education. It should be the most important thing in his life right now. Even more important than me. I read his journal to him while he was in a coma. I know what writing means to him. The boy can’t survive without words and books.
More than annoyed I shut his cryptic email and pace the length of my small sitting room. The big stars got suites with dining rooms, bars, and huge bedrooms. I got a sitting room, a medium bedroom, and a small bathroom. Not that I care about the size of my room, but at the moment the space is claustrophobic. The modern décor and dark woods feel cold and oppressive. The vases filled with white flowers even look impersonal. I check the time. Almost an hour and a half until I can call him.
After several hours of wardrobe and makeup then more than eight hours of filming, I usually eat and hang out in my room for a couple of hours before going to bed exhausted. Filming is a lot harder than I thought it would be. The schedule is so grueling I just work, eat, sleep, and miss Zach. But today I’m out the door and down the hall.
Most likely bored out of his mind the swarthy guard turns around and nods to me. I offer him a weak smile.
Zoe Ingram, the costume designer, invited me for tea to her room more than once. Chatty and bizarre, she invites everyone to her room. I’ve been so tired I haven’t taken her up on the offer. Instead of sitting in my room and getting all worked up over Zach’s email, tea sounds good. Real good. Actually, I hate tea. Coffee rocks. Tea does not. Yet anything to get my mind off Zach’s email will taste delicious. And Zoe’s chatter will definitely fill the next hour or so.
Her door whips open after the third knock. “Well hello darling,” she says in greeting and whirls around with the long fabric on her arms fluttering. A pair of scissors hang from her fingers. “I’m in here,” she says and the tight curls of her blonde hair bob as she saunters away.
Realizing she means for me to follow, I enter her room and shut the door. Instead of going to the sitting area she passes through a connecting door. In the next room, fabrics and tools cover almost every surface while costumes hang from doorknobs, lamps, shelf edges, and movable racks.
“There’s room on the couch,” Zoe says with a piece of thread between her lips. “You couldn’t have timed a visit more perfectly. Tea will be here within the half hour.”
“Great,” I say with an acted out smile and find one open square on the satin couch. She lifts scissors. Feeling out of place, I tuck my hands under my thighs. “Do you need any help?”
She laughs. The sound tinkles around the room. “Ah no, darling. I design and sew then you wear and act.” She stabs the flowing embroidery of a skirt dressed on a fabric dummy and looks at me over her pink tinted glasses. “We can chat while I work. I always have minor alterations during production. Nothing ever goes precisely as planned. And my assistants?” She waves a hand dramatically. “Might as well do it myself, you know?”
Nodding as expected, I watch her sew. Long dresses and a variety of leather surround us. I never imagined wearing such costumes, but I do daily. Valkyrie is an adaptation of Norse Mythology centered on Brynhild, a Norse god turned warrior chick. From what I could tell from Wikipedia—that was as far as my research went—she was a god condemned to live as a human when she pissed a bigger god off. The beginning of her story is similar to Sleeping Beauty. Instead of a wall of thorns, a wall of fire encased her in a castle. And like Briar Rose she was awoken by her true love. Rather than waking her with a kiss, he took her helmet off—yeah romantic. And from there everything falls to crap. No happy ending for Bryn.
Of course, the movie doesn’t follow the original mythology. In fact, after a few skirmishes, a big battle,
liberty won for the peasants, and the death of the witch and her man stealing bitch of a daughter—me—Bryn gets her man. I’m totally stoked about the death scene. What actor doesn’t aspire to conquer such a scene at least once?
Zoe flattens the skirt with a heavily ringed hand. “Tisk, tisk, wearing your makeup out?”
I touch my face. My skin feels leathery. “No. I just forgot.” Usually I scrub my face after reading Zach’s email, but today’s message threw me out of my daily routine. “Guess I’m getting used to the layer of goop on my skin.”
“Oh, your skin needs to breathe.” She pulls the thread out and stabs the fabric again. “So you can be fresh and lovely for another layer of paint tomorrow.” She smiles and shakes her head. “I could never be a makeup artist, but that Jane is an absolute wizard. She can be a bit of a menace if she doesn’t get her way. We’ve gotten into dozens of arguments already. Could be that I’m a Gemini and she’s a Capricorn, but our visions between makeup and wardrobe don’t always synchronize. And sometimes her team keeps you too long in the chair. We do need time to dress you,” she says in a huff.
I wince at the thought of that chair as Zoe methodically stabs. Getting my face made up at the butt crack of dawn is the worst part of the job. But I don’t want to take sides between the makeup and wardrobe people so I try to change the subject. “So how long have you been designing costumes?”
“For movies?” The soft swoosh of her thread sounds as I nod. She leans in and frowns at a stitch before answering. “Over fifteen years. I tried the runway-designing thing early on. I’m just too flamboyant.” She laughs and uses a hand to display her brightly colored outfit. “Costumes and I complement each other.”
“And um, family…husband?” Though somewhat twisted, I’d like to know I’m not the only one wallowing in misery each night.
She shakes her head. “Divorced.”
Oh great, leave it to me to bring that up. “Sorry.”
“No worries, darling.” She reaches for the scissors on the table and her long multi-colored sleeve flutters. “We’re still friends, but between our careers there just wasn’t enough time or energy left for marriage. He’s a sound editor and a competent one at that.”
Her words leave a tight knot in my chest. She’s just written my fears on the door. Or is it ceiling? Maybe wall? Whatever. Zach and I can weather this distance. And time. And career thing. Right? Yes. I firmly tell myself. “It’s good you’re still friends,” I somehow squeak out from my anxiety-clenched throat.
She cuts and sighs. “Sometimes I wish we were still married. He’s got himself a non-career wife and a baby now. The wife’s a bit bland but the baby is adorable. So I’m happy for him. I don’t have time for a family.” She snips a string and glances at me. “You know how it is.”
I nod, but I don’t know. I’m eighteen. I haven’t thought about having a family since I was eight and playing with Barbie dolls. Back then, I wanted to have a minimum of six kids, two dogs, a cat, and a pet Iguana. Geez, I was a weird kid.
“Some of us are able to juggle a career and family. Joan has three little darlings.” She’s referring to the actor playing the witch in the movie. “And kudos to her. I couldn’t handle the stress.” She eyeballs another stich up close before straightening. “Or perhaps I’m just too selfish with my time.”
Is this my future? Tied to my career and afraid of commitments?
“That Joan is a wonderful mother. Flies the kids and the nanny here on the weekends, even if we continue working.” She rolls her eyes and puts out a hand covered with silver rings. “Have no doubt, you’ll see them running around the set come tomorrow.”
Though the movie has been in production for over a month—they already did all the battle scenes in Germany somewhere—I didn’t need to come until now since I’m not in any of the battles. But the idea of flying my kids to a foreign country on the weekends to spend time with them seems sad.
“Now that Mark,” she says, referring to the lead actor of the movie. “I don’t think he has seen his kids since his ghastly divorce. Get caught cheating and the press won’t let—”
A knock sounds on the door in the other suite.
“Ah the tea.” She snips the thread. “Would you get that, darling?” She doesn’t wait for me to answer. “I’ll be there in a minute.”
With my head spinning—I love acting but the ramifications of such a career are slowly seeping into me—I go to the door while wondering just what I’ve gotten myself into.
~4~
Zach
The stale smell of day old Taco Bell hits my nose as I walk through the door. Someone, mostly likely me, needs to take out the trash. The apartment has smelled worse. One night after Drake threw a party the sour smell of beer and puke lingered for days, even after I scrubbed the crap out of the carpet. There are definitely times I remember living with my parents with fondness. Almost always at dinner. Ramen gets old. So does lunchmeat. Heck, even Taco Bell. A home cooked meal would hit the spot.
My mother offers all the time, but I rarely go home. My father has been civil, even agreeable since I woke up from my coma. Yet the desolation that hangs on him and is part of him now is just too much to bear. Following my dreams of being a writer and giving up a football scholarship broke his dreams. When we’re in the same room, regret and sorrow fill the space. My decision will always stand and it always come between us.
At the sound of my gym bag hitting the front closet floor, my roommate glances over his shoulder. “Dude, you wanna play?” Drake asks, standing in front of a big screen TV and ruthlessly pressing a video game controller. The pulled blinds encase the room in gray. However, I can still see he’s wearing boxers and a baseball cap. As if the backwards hat makes him dressed. Working together then both looking for a roommate, I thought sharing an apartment made sense. Living with him doesn’t always make sense.
I flop down on the couch, the only piece of furniture in the room other than an assortment of lawn chairs. I should go change out of my gym outfit, a red polo and tan shorts, and grab some lunch but I’m feeling too lazy. “Maybe later, Paige should be calling soon.” I’ll probably end up playing. With my homework done and the rest of my day free, there’s not much else to do. Maybe I’ll read. My writing lately borders on emo. I’ve almost filled a notebook with sad and wistful metaphors. If Paige were here…Shit, it’s been less than a week and I miss her already. I can’t wait for her to call, but I’m dreading it too. She’s not going to like my latest news.
“Bro, you are so whipped,” Drake declares as if reading my mind. The mass of his curly hair ringing the cap shakes with his head.
So I’m lost without my girlfriend. If he had someone like Paige and she was gone, he’d be a wreck too. Watching him attack the enemy on the screen with a kick to the face, I ask, “When’s the last time you had a girlfriend?”
“Like sixth grade. Outside of the bedroom, I’m a one-man show. Too many hotties out there to choose just one. Paige’s one classy lady and I can see why you’re dedicated but that ain’t me.”
“Maybe you just have commitment issues.”
Drake snorts.
“Or you like being an ass to women.”
“I’m an ass to everyone, but I always let the ladies know I’m not into the dating thing.”
“Or you’re scared of getting hurt.”
“Don’t go all Freudian on me, asshole.” He lays a combination of punches on the guy on the screen while I laugh. His skinny punk ass couldn’t do shit in real life. “You see the new girl they hired at the gym?”
My laughter dies as I cross my arms. “Yeah, I saw her.”
He jumps up and down, moving with his player. “Balls Batman, she is smoking.”
I don’t want to have this conversation. “Heard she’s sorta of a bitch.”
“Like I care. Like I wanna talk with her. Like I wanna even like her.”
Still not wanting to have this conversation, I grab the controller on the couch. I’ve never be
en much of a gamer, but living with Drake has sucked me in. “Pause it and let me log in.”
“Sure thing.” He grabs a Mountain Dew from the top of a speaker. “Halfsies on pizza tonight?”
“As long as it’s not from Three Brothers.”
“What?” He throws his arm out. “Brothers is the shizit.”
“Shit is right.”
“Fine. We can get Tony’s.”
My phone rings with the soft melody connected to Paige’s number. I toss the joystick down and stand. “Catch you in about an hour.”
Drake makes kissing sounds, moans, and whispers about phone sex as I walk to my room. As usual, I ignore him. “Hey baby,” I answer near my door.
“Wow. Just hearing your voice hurts.” She sounds wistful yet lonely. I imagine the fine crease between her brows. Imagine wiping it away with my touch.
“Rough day?” I shut the door with my foot.
“Kinda,” she says and laughs in the phone. “I kept screwing up this one line. Six takes later, I was a bit embarrassed even though the director was very patient with me. I’ve only got like ten lines. Most of the time I’m backdrop. So yeah, I felt like Paige the idiot.”
I fall onto my bed. There’s not enough space in my room for more than a bed, dresser, and bookshelves. I left my trophy collection at home. My dad likes them more than me. “Nobody expects you to be perfect.”
She laughs. “I do.”
I glance at the corkboard on my wall covered with pictures of her smiling face. Many from her various plays. “Well yeah, that’s why you are pretty much perfect.”
She groans. “My perfection coming from the most impartial party,” she says sarcastically. “So how is training going?”
I’m relieved she hasn’t brought up my email, but I can hear the tension in her cheery voice. The question is coming. “Good. I should be forcing clients through reps by next week.”
“You know,” she says and I imagine her twirling her hair while in contemplation. “You could keep your old job. We could move in together and I could cover rent. Or I could give you a loan.”
