Page 10 of Love Scenes

“Come to set an hour before call time. He’ll be here.” She leans in again. “I told you.”

“Told me what?”

“You were important.”

3

Joseph opens his trailer door holding a cup of breakfast tea and wearing an expression of complete shock.

He’s got music on in the background. “Sister Golden Hair” by... America, I think. My dad would be disappointed in me for not being confident in this. When I was growing up, every song we ever heard became a pop quiz on music history when Dad was around. Now whenever something he considers classic plays, I try to tick as many boxes as possible before looking up what’s on: song title and artist, minimum. Album and year of release if I know the song a little better.

Dad is supposedly fine now. “Better than ever!” as he says whenever I try to ask about it, using his patented Alexander Ford jovial tone, the subtext all but screaming not to press any further. Still, I can’t help but find small ways to keep him with me, as if constantly preparing for the day he’s really gone. And sometimes it feels like if I can’t name a song title, artist, and album, I will manage to forget him altogether. Even though he’s still here.

I’m aware it doesn’t make sense. I wish that made it less true.

“Yes?” Joseph says in greeting, leaning against the side of the doorframe.

“Good morning. Nice to see you too.” I wave my copy of the script at him. “It’s time to rehearse.”

“Pardon?”

“Is this America?” I ask.

He follows my eyeline to the space behind him. “I don’t think it’s that messy in here. Maybe the Irish have different standards?”

I almost laugh before remembering he isn’t allowed to be funny. “I meant the music you have on.”

“Oh. I don’t know. It’s a playlist.” He shakes his head. “Are you really here to rehearse? Didn’t I tell you yesterday that I didn’t need it?”

“And I told you that you couldn’t ruin this movie. So here I am. Are you going to let me inside?” My hands are shaking so hard my script is wavering. I’ve also got an iced coffee with me, so I force out a small shiver, hoping it seems like I’m somehow cold from holding it.

“I suppose I don’t have a choice.” He angles himself to allow me to pass, my arm brushing his torso.

He’s right. His trailer is as beige and sparse as expected at the beginning of a production. There are a few personal touches already scattered about, though. A blue-and-green-plaid blanket on the crinkling leather couch. Two boxes of tea beside an electric kettle. A very expensive bottle of whiskey that appears to be unopened. And a framed four-by-six photo of a young woman standing alone in front of a field, smiling.

I set my belongings on the coffee table, then pick up the photo to examine. “Your girlfriend?” I ask, trying for some reason beyond my own comprehension to create a sense of normality here. Take the energy between us down a notch or two.

“My mam.” He takes the frame from my hands.

The photo has a weathered effect to it I assumed was a stylistic choice. “Oh. Sorry.”

“Don’t be. She’d be flattered, I’m sure.”

There’s an awkward pause, neither of us knowing how this should go. “Will she be visiting—” I start, right as he’s saying, “What have you been—” We both say sorry at the exact same time.

Joseph clears his throat. “You go.”

“I was asking if your mom would be visiting set.”

“Ah. Don’t think that’ll quite be possible.” He looks at his phone on the speaker dock. “You were right. This is America.”

“Oh god. I forgot. I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right. Everyone has to die eventually.”

“Dark.”

He gestures to the couch. “Enough about my dead mam. Since you’ve forced your way into my morning routine, please take a seat. Would you like some tea?”