Page 38 of Love Scenes

“That’s such bullshit,” I say.

“Yeah, dude,” Tyler says. “I thought we talked about this before?”

“Somewhere along the line we forgot to have the ‘Mom is bisexual and the patriarchal media let that ruin her career and she still hasn’t unpacked all of that and instead harms others along the way’ conversation.”

Tyler’s eyes widen. “She said she’ll talk about all of that whenwe do press for the movie,” she skirts. “So no worries on the straights stealing queer parts. And like I always tell you—”

“No one in this town is really straight anyways,” I finish. “Yeah, yeah. I didn’t realize you were talking about our parents.”

“As far as I’m concerned, Dad has spent his whole life pining for Harrison Ford. But that’s a personal conspiracy theory,” Powell offers up.

Suddenly, it’s clear to me what metaphorical boxes I have to pack. They aren’t the ones I thought.

Mom doesn’t havea free moment until late into the night. She’s in her costume: a dark blue cardigan and a wool shift dress in gray, loose but still flattering. Her hair rests on her neck in a casual low bun. There are a few tendrils out to frame her face. She looks perpetually exasperated and elated, sighing out after every take like she’s gotten off a roller coaster. I find her sitting in her chair paging through her script.

“Can we talk?” I ask.

“Don’t tell me. Haven’s agent is threatening to blacklist me? Let him try. I can’t help that she didn’t honor the terms of her contract. Business is ugly sometimes. No one is famous enough to stop an entire day of production over the side of a boob.”

“Her agentdidcall, but that’s not what I wanted to talk about.”

I’m about to give up when I think better of it. Nothing will change if I don’t try.

“You didn’t fight for her. Don’t you wish someone would have fought for you back in the day?”

It’s a cheap shot, but it’s true.

“Sloane, look me in the eyes and be honest. Was she any good in the first place?” Mom asks.

“That’s not the point.” Two seconds into this conversation and we’re already falling farther away from each other.

“Of course it is,” she counters. “It might ruffle some feathers, and I am more than willing to take the brunt of the trouble, but at the end of the day, I did what was best for this movie.”

The hypocrisy continues to astound me. Firing Joseph was a non-option, yet she pounced on the first chance to let Haven go. “I can’t believe I was actually coming over here to say sorry to you,” I hiss out.

Mom almost laughs. She holds the script still, her finger resting on a highlighted line of dialogue. “For what?”

My throat wants to close up around the words. “For how I treated you after you and Dad got divorced.”

She squints her eyes for so long there must be some glaring typo that no one’s caught. “Please.” There’s a manufactured lightness in her voice. “That’s all water under the bridge. You were a kid. Far from the worst thing any of you have ever done to me.”

It’s such an obvious dismissal. The kind of thing you say when you’re still very hurt but you’re not expecting it to be acknowledged. If I ever want to be better than she is, to actually learn from her mistakes, it requires owning up to my wrongs while still keeping space for the hurt that’s happened since.

“I know. But I’ve been thinking about it. And I’m sorry,” I say firmly.

Mom sets her script down on the chair. Stands up and takes a step toward me. Places one hand on either shoulder. Stares deep and long, far longer than I’d normally allow, but curiosity has me willing to see where this is all going. “Don’t dwell on the past so long that you forget how to live in the present.”

It’s been a while since I’ve heard one of her inspirational adages. They are her biggest defense mechanism, I realize. Well-curated sayings that sound so nice and simple that people want to nod in agreement. But she doesn’t actually follow them. That’s the thing. Her entire career as a producer is built upon dwelling on the past.

“Do you think you actually do that?” I’m fighting to keep the wind in my sails and continue on my apology mission. “And sometimes people do things in the past that they should be held accountable for,” I add, thinking of her but also of Joseph.

She looks off to where Melanie is sitting. “Mel,” she calls out. “Come here for a second.”

Melanie readjusts her boots before standing up. It’s a classic actor sight. She’s in a chin-length, pin-curled black wig, white blouse, and long blue striped skirt, same color as the earrings she wears, all perfectly 1940s chic, and then gigantic, fluffy boots on her feet.

“Don’t drag me into a fight,” she warns.

“How did we get over the both of us being married to Alex?” Mom asks her.