Page 66 of Love Scenes

This makes him collapse beside me, nestled into the tiny sliver of space left for him on the couch. “My father should be in by late afternoon. He’s asked for me to pick him up. From LAX.”

“Wow. He really is an asshole, isn’t he?”

Joseph laughs. “At least he’s doing this for us.”

The way he says it so easily—us, as in me and him—stops my breath. “It’s very nice. People are really excited.”

“What about Mr. Twat’s Guitar Benefit? Any word from him about why he’s gone and done such a shitty thing?”

“Not really. Someone on my team sent me a clip of him saying something about how there are a lot of days on the calendar to have a charity performance. As if I’m the one overlapping with his plans.”

“At least he’s raising money and not doing it solely for himself.”

“So he says.”

Too much talk of tomorrow has me jittery.

I get up and reapply my lipstick. Then take out the cosmetic wipes.

Immediately, Joseph sits upright, hands on his knees and chin jutted forward, ready for me to fix his face. Eyes closed, he waits for my hand to brush his cheek. To wash him. Serene and sure, trusting completely that I won’t interfere with the work of our makeup team. That I will be able to clean up my mess without a trace left behind.

When I look at him like this, I know I am falling.

Falling and falling with no landing in sight.

18

Week Six of Production

If you’re in a gown, it means you’re about to have either one of the best days of your life, or one of the worst,” Mom says, checking her lipstick in the compact mirror she’s stuffed into her handbag.

She’s wearing an iridescent gold, one-shoulder number, draped lamé with a cinched waist and a leg slit that stops at her left upper thigh. I can close my eyes and drum up at least ten other variations on the gold dress and soft blowout she’s done throughout her career. The major difference this time is the lip color, a deep plum that she’s looked at in the mirror three times on the car ride over to the Hilton.

I fiddle with the diamond bracelet I’ve been lent. “Let’s hope this one is good then.”

“Choose to make it so,” she says, reaching over to stroke my cheek.

Six days a week of Producer Mom almost made me forget about this version. Lightly whimsical and bizarre, spouting off fragmentedremembrances of her favorite inspirational quotes. It draws into focus how true it is that set life isn’t real life; it’s a heightened facet of our personalities, professionally lit by a director of photography.

“I’ve never had the pleasure of wearing a gown, but I’ve enjoyed every event in which you’ve worn one,” Guy tells Mom from the second row of the SUV, turning his head to look at her.

It’s ridiculous, but it helps me stay calm, the both of them seemingly free of the stress they’ve worn throughout the shoot. Of course I’ve picked all that surplus up—with some extra for added flair.

We get out of the car and head inside. This is the same venue where they hold the Golden Globes, and it’s something I can’t fixate on for very long, because our red carpet isn’t even the length of a swimming pool. It’s a ten-foot-long step and repeat near one of the bigger ballrooms of the Beverly Hilton. The white canvas backdrop is about eight feet high with the words4TH ANNUAL SLOANE FORD FOUNDATION GALAprinted across it in a repeating pattern, along with all of our top-tier sponsors. A fence of red velvet rope sections it off from the photographers. Their lenses capture an elegant nighttime affair. Our eyes see a handful of people standing in low lighting in the place you’d accidentally wheel through with your luggage, lost on the way to the elevator.

I was here at the hotel this morning, checking in, helping with setup and overseeing the final details. Usually Kearns and I would spend the previous night at the Hilton and I’d get ready there with him and a small team, then come down early and get the carpet stuff out of the way. I still have a hotel room booked for tonight, solely to hold my outfit change for me.

No date, though. I thought going with my mom would be a nice way to feel better about everything that’s changed in the last 365 days.

Naturally, Mom insisted we be late to my own event, which is something I should have anticipated when I asked if I could ride with her. Mom is old school. So is Guy. The two of them together seemed to be locked in a battle over who could take the longest. When our SUV arrived, Mom went inside to get the gel insoles for her Louboutins. She came back out, and Guy remembered he hadn’t rinsed with mouthwash.

I felt so thoroughly fifteen by the time we actually got on the road that it’s a miracle I didn’t ask for the driver to put on my Emotional Pop-Punk Classics of the Early 2000s playlist.

Now we’re here, and it’s happening, and all of that melts away when I see the small crowd waiting to walk the carpet and go into the ballroom. There’s always a shadow thought plaguing me, saying no one will show up. Year after year, the people come. The prior year’s contributions are celebrated. More money is raised. All of the monthly planning meetings, and the subcommittees, and the sub-subcommittees—and dear god, the never-ending email chains—are worth it.

Dad and Daya are having their photo taken as we walk up. My dad has the look of someone who relishes the exposure of a flash, someone who can gaze into a lens and know what looks back without having to see. His arm cradles Daya’s waist, and she’s matching his energy, though where his smirk says,I’ve won Oscars and we all know it, hers says,This charade is ridiculous and I’m loving every second of it.

“Good. We beat him,” Mom comments.