Page 91 of Burn the Script
Her shoulders droop. “Oh. You never told me.”
“I don’t tell you everything.”
“That’s fair. Why didn’t you try to meet anyone after Derek, before Graham came along?” she asks.
I throw my hands up. “Jesus Christ, what’s with all the questions? I had a bad run with guys before Graham. Who cares? He’s nothing like them, so I’m failing to see your point.”
“You’ve made my point. Graham loves you unconditionally. He’d move mountains or cross oceans to be with you, which he’s proven already. So get your head out of your ass and move a molehill or cross a stream to be with him.”
Locking me in a car and yelling at me feels a little extreme for an intervention, but I see where she’s going with this. “Baby steps,” I say.
“Exactly. Take an actual risk for once in your adult life.”
“I have. I helped launch the collective and started my sewing account. I even wore cargo pants on a hike!”
Her cheeks puff out like she might explode, but she releases the air with controlled calm. “Your sewing account is private, Miguel. That’s not putting yourself out there. You’re choosing who gets to come to you.”
My account being set to private is the real reason my follower count remains low. I accept friend requests from people who will likely support me and appreciate my work. I’m damn good at constructing clothes, but not everyone will agree. The fear of being judged on my skills, alone, has hindered my dream of reviving a long-lost fashion trend.
Carmen takes my hand between hers, a tender gesture that reminds me of when our abuela imparted life lessons. “Be honest with yourself. What’s the scariest thing you’ve ever done?”
“I told Graham the truth. That was pretty fucking scary.”
“And what happened?”
He stayed.
Any time I expose my weaknesses to Graham, he stays. Because he’s steady. I’m out here flailing in an ocean of self-pity when I should be making my way back to him. I told him I’d find a solution, but confronting the reason for my anxiety and fears is easier said than done. To succeed, I’ll need help. To get help, I’ll have to trust people with my secrets. And there are few things more terrifying than opening up about my past.
39
GRAHAM
NOW
Thursday, March 2nd
Harmon waves a hand like he’s conducting an orchestra while emphasizing each word. “The sunset smoother—”
“Again,” I say.
“The sunset shmoother should be—
“‘The sunset smoothie should be red on the bottom…’ Go again.” We’ve been at this so long, my hand movements mirror his.
“The sunshet—damn it!” He slaps his thigh. “Why can’t I say this line?”
“We’ll change it up.” The other cast members hover nearby, and I search for the best improviser among them. “Anya, can you and Harmon rework this line during the break?”
Her head nearly bobs off her neck when she nods. “Of course!”
Mustering enthusiasm, I clap once. “Awesome. Keep it snappy. We don’t want to lose the humor.”
“That’s lunch!” Kristen shouts.
Anyone not operating equipment disperses in a hurry. The remaining crew members reset.
I massage my temples. The pain in my head differs from the usual ache. It takes fortitude to push through the final days of filming, when everyone’s tired, grouchy, and ready to go home. I’m at my limit.
