Page 3 of Love Scenes

And in another world, I would be the center of it all. The face on the poster. The top of the call sheet. The main character, a schoolteacher named Elise whose life gets upended when her old neighbor returns home from the war right as her mother’s illness is progressing.

Instead I’m here as a consulting producer, and no one—not even me—has any idea what that job really entails.

When I was growing up, summertime meant moviemaking time. Tyler would take one of our parents’ fancy video cameras into the backyard of whichever house we were staying at for the week, and she’d direct Powell and me through one of our many terrible homemade remakes. Who isn’t a fan of two siblings playing love interests that refuse to even hug? Makes for a stunning re-creation ofTitanic.

In spite of Powell and me begging Tyler to turn every remake into an action film where we kill each other, there was a magic to our backyard passion projects. A desire among all three of us siblings to find a way to capture a good story. We could transform the pool at Mom’s Calabasas mansion into the Atlantic in 1912. We could turn the gate in front of Dad’s Beverly Hills estate into the prison cell fromChicago.

I started visiting my parents on set when I was old enoughto walk. I’ve watched directors yell in my mother’s face for no reason. Sat in my dad’s trailer while he argued with important people about call times and script changes and hairpieces. Witnessed my parents’ marriage to each other dissolve before my eyes, all over on-set jealousies, box office numbers, and critical praise favoring one of them over the other. I know how terrible and toxic show business really is. I’ve always known.

But there’s a part of me that’s always wished for it to feel like it did in the backyard with my siblings. Pure and spontaneous and fun, fueled solely by the desire to create something memorable together.

We almost have that here.

Almost.

Most of the soundstage has been transformed into the entire fourth floor of a 1940s apartment building, with cameras around the apartment that Elise shares with Vera. Their living room is done up in muted reds and soft lavenders. There’s just the right amount of clutter. Stacks of papers probably meant to be Elise’s writings. Sewing and knitting tools strewn about. A coffee mug resting on a faded newspaper. A small window for daylight to spill through.

I wander into this half shell of a home, feeling truly awake for the first time this morning, running my finger across the coffee table as if expecting to collect dust. That’s how lived-in and real this world feels, with the magical, curated quality only a good film set can bring.

Life, but bigger somehow. Safer.

The kitchen is off to the side, as narrow as a tunnel with faded checkerboard tiles on the floor. This is where the leads will have part of their big love scene. A flame of jealousy flares up insideme. It takes a village to get a great performance out of an actor. I know if I were Haven Church, I’d be really excited by all the work my family has done to help her bring Elise to life.

But I’m not Haven Church. I don’t have twenty-three million followers on Instagram or an entire generation of young people who grew up watching me on my own multi-cam sitcom. I am thirty years old, my career hanging on by a fraying thread, only here because of a very embarrassing opening in my schedule that’s allowed me to be completely free for the next five weeks.

“Looks magnificent, no?”

To my left stands the writer and codirector of this movie, and Mom’s new husband, Guy Cicero.Newis the wrong word, because they’ve been married for fifteen years, but any person after Dad will always be new. As is anyone after Mom on his side. Unspoken rules of divorce.

“It’s really good,” I tell him as he pulls me into a tight, sincere hug. “Thanks for letting me be a part of it after all. I’m sorry I’m late.”

“Please! Of course! You know I always wanted you here with us.” Guy makes a broad gesture, his arm circling the whole soundstage, stopping once he’s swept past me. “It isalmostas I pictured it all,” he says, leaving me to interpret that as I please.

“It’s perfect,” I assure him.

“No. But it’s a place for an adventure to begin.” He pauses with his typical flourish. “Your sister was looking for you, by the way.”

He proceeds to follow me until we find Tyler huddled in a dark corner behind the bathroom set, poring over the shot bible. Her hair is shorter, only a few centimeters past a buzz cut, and she’s got on her signature slouchy black clothes, draping off all her sharper angles. She’s always been so much longer and leaner than meyou’d think we had one different parent between us. But she got Mom’s flawless skin and Dad’s angled jawline, and I got Mom’s button nose and Dad’s thick brows. Powell got almost nothing from Dad at all. He’s Mom 2.0: blond hair, forest-green eyes, and a smile that lights up like a Christmas tree.

Tyler’s the coolest of the three of us, catching the best genetics and the most interesting personality traits. Secretly soft inside with a fascinatingly serene exterior. A wicked sense of humor that appears in hushed tones, only heard if you’re paying close attention. And a silly side that’s even more private, coming out in moments of sheer hysteria, like when the two of us stayed up for an entire night doing impressions of our dad, making each other laugh so hard that my stomach was sore for three days afterward.

She and I haven’t seen each other in person since Dad was in the hospital. Our last communication of any kind was via professional email regarding my role on set. Truthfully, the haunting memory of her signing off from that interaction by typing outWarmly, Tylerwas the only thing with enough power to wake me up today.

We both know my taking this producing job came solely from the emotional toll of Dad’s heart attack. Reality hits harder under hospital lights. You forgive before you’re ready. You agree to responsibilities you don’t actually want because it means being around people you love, even when they make you so upset you could scream.

I tap her on the shoulder.

“You made it,” she says when she realizes it’s me, letting out an audible sigh.

“Of course. Couldn’t miss your directorial debut.” It comes out sarcastic when I actually meant it to be earnest.

The words sit in the air, stale.

“Remind me what we’re shooting today?” I ask.

“You shithead. You didn’t even look at the schedule, did you?”

Admitting incompetence has always been the fastest way to even the playing field between us.