Page 26 of Love Scenes

Joseph sits down in his spot on the couch. “That’s pure shit.”

It’s not that I thought he’d forget what I told him—it’s pretty memorable—it’s that I’m surprised he cares how it affects me. “It is what it is.”

“You’re not bothered by it?”

“No.” I make my voice casual, unaffected. “Isn’t that amazing? I’m just your classic strong woman. What’s crying? Never heard of it.”

“That’s not what I meant.” He leans back, grinning. “You know, you’re very good at showing me when I’m not good at things.”

It’s probably meant to be a compliment, one that I’d normally take pride in, but it flashes me back to Tyler’s comment from the other day, about how I say what I mean and don’t feel bad about it. Kearns’s music gets louder in the radio of my mind.Grab my hand and make me jump, then leave without a glance.

“So I’ve been told,” I say softly.

Joseph makes a small sound, somewhere between a gasp and a sigh. “Shit. I wasn’t trying to be an ass. I swear.”

This makes me go tight-lipped, unsure how to play it. The more time I spend with Joseph, the less anger remains over everything that’s happened between us. Then my mother’s accusationrears its ugly head, making me second-guess my reaction to every single thing Joseph does. What does it mean to let him in, even a little? How will that look to her?

And then there’s the whole admission of his sobriety last night and the knowledge that he has an unopened whiskey bottle sitting in his trailer at all hours, waiting for him like a threat. I’m starting to feel responsible for him in more ways than one.

“It’s all good. Let’s get going.”

There’s a loaded energy in the room. We attempt to rehearse our way through it, but Joseph’s left foot won’t stop shaking. Every few lines, he gets up to pace.

“I can’t remember,” he mutters when he fumbles the same line again, our fifth or sixth run-through. It’s a simple one.Of course you canis all he’s supposed to say.

I’ve read it enough that even I know it by heart. I know the entire scene, actually, so he’s telling the truth.

“This really hasn’t happened to you on your other jobs?” My question comes out more curious than accusatory this time.

Joseph gives it great consideration, his eyes roaming every corner of his trailer like an answer will pop out behind his tea collection. “Of all the movies my dad’s done, my mam’s favorite wasTwilight on Clarke Street,” he offers up. He waits for my nonexistent recognition. “That’s the one he shot with Guy.”

“I’ve never seen it,” I admit. “I’ve heard it’s good.”

“It is. We didn’t really talk much about Dad’s stuff growing up. Mam wanted us to be normal. That’s why we stayed in Ireland while Dad went all over the world. But that was the one movie of his she let us watch.”

My parents never let me miss a movie of theirs. Ratings were not guidelines that mattered in our household. I was eight when I saw a sex scene with my dad in it, which wasn’t anywhere nearas shocking and confusing as my mother’s death scene in a very intense thriller I watched at age six.

“Not to bore you with my process here,” Joseph continues. “But I usually take projects because I like the idea of the experience more than I care about the final product. I’ll sign on if it’s a different character than anything I’ve done before. Or it’s a chance to live in Prague for two months. Or my team thinks I should do more action. Or I want to work with the director or something. And Idowant to work with Guy and Tyler,” he makes sure to clarify, holding up a hand as if to silence my objection. “But really, I took this job because it would mean something to my mam.”

The dead mother card is a strong one, and it’s not one he seems to be playing for effect. In fact, there is no effect here at all. He’s as open as he was last night, free from the flourish he puts on for most people.

He pauses to look at the photo on the counter. “She’d be signing the cross if she knew what I was doing in the love scenes, but you know, of the few flicks of mine she saw, she always preferred my more sensitive ones. And she’d like knowing that Guy’s here with me. She thought most Hollywood people were snakes. But she always liked him.”

“Guy’s a good egg,” I confirm.

“This is the first time since she died I’ve let myself try to do something she’d appreciate. Really try. You know what I mean? Not phone it in for a paycheck or make it count because I know there could be award buzz. So of course I’m total shit.”

“I can understand that. But you’re being so hard on yourself right now that you’re forgetting what makes you great at acting in the first place,” I tell him.

“You think I’m great at acting?”

A small cough escapes me. “I think you need to relax. Take it line by line and not place so many expectations on yourself all at once.” I hesitate, knowing now I have to bring up what I should’ve asked first. “What’s different about right now? Why are you missing your lines again?”

The air gets tight once more.

“I dunno,” Joseph lies. “Just lost myself for a bit.”

All of this tension, I realize with surprise, is overme.