Page 47 of Love Scenes

“Please.”

“I’m serious. I tell you what it is. He was afraid of your power. Same with Detective Colfax. Can’t remember the bastard’s name. Daniel Traverson. There it is. He was afraid too. Took the first chance he could to get you kicked off that show, because deep down he knew you’re twenty times better than he could ever be, and that scared the piss out of him.”

“If that’s all true, why aren’t you afraid of my power?”

“Don’t give me that much credit. I’m terrified of you. Because you’re the only person who has ever told me the truth when I needed to hear it.”

“What is there to like about that?”

“Everything,” he says, like it’s the most obvious answer in the world.

It shouldn’t mean as much to me as it does. Not after all I’ve promised myself about Joseph.

When he says things like this, it makes me believe in real forgiveness. But it feels too easy. Like a sleight of hand or a trick of light. I knew Kearns had written a prior album full of melancholic warbling about all the love he’d been denied, and I refused to accept that as a reality that could be mine.

It happened anyways.

There has to be another side to Joseph. A place where he buckles. Slides back into who he was. My attention shifts to the whiskey on the counter. I break away so we’re no longer touching. “If you’re sober, why do you keep this around?”

There’s a folded card tucked underneath that springs up. The first two lines are visible.

Joseph, congratulations on landing such a prestigious role. I know—

“Yeah,” Joseph says, seeing the card. He picks it up and reads the rest. “I know it’s not easy to take on a project with this muchmeaning. I look forward to hearing how it goes. Save me a drink for the premiere. Cheers, Dad.”

“Wow.”

He neatens the paper crease so it folds flat. “I thought the whole thing was hysterical. Here I am, three years sober, clawed my way out of hell to get here, and my father sends me his favorite whiskey with a note that reads like a friendly threat. Figured I’d do him one better and not just save him a drink, but the whole bottle. I know it’s not the best idea. But I look at it and I think to myself, ‘Well, at least I don’t have my head so far up my ass I’d send my alcoholic family member a celebratory drink.’” He points to the blanket on the couch behind me. “On the other hand, my youngest sister, about to turn twenty, knitted that for me when I got this part. I barely know her. She was born a few years before I moved to America. Of all my siblings, she’s the most like my mam. Thoughtful. Sharp mind. She remembered that I used to have a blanket like that back home. I lost it in the move. I think I mentioned it to her maybe once in her whole life, and she made that for me.”

“That’s really sweet,” I say. “Reminds me of Sarai. She’s so much younger that sometimes she feels really far from me, but then she does stuff that knocks me over. And I realize that the years between us don’t matter. We both get it.”

“Exactly.” Joseph looks again at the whiskey. “My dad’s not a bad man, he’s just a bit busy with himself. Always has been. So I keep it. Because even if it’s shit, at least he was thinking of me. Which is the saddest part, I know. But you don’t become an actor if you don’t love to be sad.”

It strikes me how well respected his dad is. How getting Michael Donovan attached to a project stamps it with the wordsPRESTIGEandIMPORTANT. He’s one of the few people that’sgotten away with being judged completely on the quality of his work, not the type of person he is off set. Michael Donovan could benefit from a touch more public accountability.

“I get it.” I may not understand the details, but I know what it’s like to want to be seen by a parent who’s hurt you.

“I knew you would.” He takes a seat on the random chair in the corner, turning it around and sitting straddled, arms folded across the backrest. “Have I done it? Have I convinced you to stick around and make sure we pull this shit off?”

I give him a few beats to worry. Long enough to watch him squirm as I appraise him, taking in the way his forearms push into his biceps.

“You have,” I say.

He pretends to wipe sweat from his forehead. “Whew. Good. Let’s rehearse. Elise and Calvin.” He pauses. “You and me.”

In the wardrobetrailer, our costume designer fastens the last button on my mustard-yellow sweater. There’s a white Peter Pan collar peeking out beneath, and delicate red roses embroidered along the left side of the chest. She’s paired it with a matching red A-line skirt and black Mary Janes.

With my hands on her shoulders, I step into the shoes. She leans over to buckle them for me, then gets up and smiles approvingly.

“Perfect,” she whispers.

She turns me toward the mirror to see myself.

Red lips. Light blond hair, freshly trimmed and coming up under my chin from the pin curls, accentuating my jaw. This is my face. But I am another person. It’s been so long since I’ve tried on someone new. I thought I never wanted to do it again.

But there’s so much power in Elise’s aesthetic. A softness I shy away from in real life that I can lean into here. At once my fears melt away, replaced by the kind of unbridled excitement I’ve spent years trying to find.

I want to know this woman. To fully inhabit her life. To be someone so far from my true self that from action to cut, all the difficult things in my real life disappear.