Hate the Player: An Enemies-to-Lovers Romantic Comedy(46)
Firecracker: HAHAHAHAHA. That’s hilarious that you’d think I even care about something like that. I’ve never even seen American Sniper.
American Sniper? What the hell is she talking about? I shake my head and ignore the random reference in the interest of concentrating on the part of these messages I really care about anyway.
Me: Are you sure, though? Because there was a lot of insinuation swirling around inside that message of yours about “friends.”
Firecracker: Don’t flatter yourself. When it comes to you, I give zero fucks about who your little soldier has or hasn’t laid siege to.
My little soldier?
Me: If you give zero fucks, then why are you texting me about it?
She meets my eyes from across the room and glares.
Firecracker: Pretty sure you’re the one who started texting me. And now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to finish eating my lunch and chatting with someone who isn’t an asshole.
Me: Enjoy your lunch, Birdie. And good luck shooting your next scene. Hell, maybe I’ll stop by and watch you and your new buddy on set. You know, just in case you need any acting tips or guidance.
Firecracker: Pretty sure you’re going to be a little busy, you know, doing your fucking job on set.
She’s right. I’m scheduled to shoot some of Cal’s flashback scenes with Serena Koontz and the AD running the ship. But it’s also highly interesting that she’s aware of that fact.
Me: Aw, are you keeping track of my schedule?
Firecracker: Considering everyone’s schedule is on my schedule, it’s kind of hard to miss.
Yeah, but I don’t take the time to memorize everyone’s schedule.
You mean, you only take the time to memorize hers.
Me: Well, I think you and I both know I’ll be done shooting way before you are. It always takes you some time to get over your nerves and find your rhythm. Not to mention, without me there helping to guide you…it’s probably going to take you a bit longer.
What can I say? I can’t stop myself from saying shit to get a rise out of her.
Once Birdie reads my last message, she pointedly rolls her eyes and flips her phone screen-side down onto the table. A universal signal of I’m done with this conversation.
It makes me grin.
And I’m not actually going to go watch her and her new friend film their next scene. But I have a feeling she’s going to have her eyes out for me the entire time.
Game on, sweetheart.
Birdie
I’d rather get a root canal than film Scene 33.
A week and a half into my LA shooting schedule and I’m starting to find my stride.
I’ve set my mind free from the fear of messing up and focused my nervous energy on voicing my concerns or worries to my director. And Howie has proven to be a dream to work with.
He’s patient and kind, yet knows when to push me and challenge me.
He uses kid gloves when I’m straddling the line of vulnerability and doesn’t hesitate to offer me constructive criticism in key moments that help propel me forward. And, surprisingly, when it comes to the scenes that include me singing onstage with my band, he is open to my input and suggestions.
Yesterday, for example, in a scene that involved Arizona playing for a crowd of thousands, he agreed with my desire to change the set list so that the most powerful song—“Heavy Hearts,” a song I had the amazing opportunity to co-write—would be the last song we played since it was the one the crowd responded to the most.
“I’m really digging the Ari vibe today,” Samantha comments as we head out of the hair and makeup trailer and toward the craft services tent to grab a quick bite to eat. It’s so nice having her out here with me finally. “Maureen did a kick-ass job on your hair.”
“I wish we could bring Maureen back to Nashville with us,” I agree and pull out a few M&M’s from the bag of trail mix I’m snacking on and pop them into my mouth.
“Girl, tell me about it!” Sam exclaims through a laugh. “We both suck so hard at makeup. She’d save us from our messy bun catastrophes.”
Truer words have never been spoken. Both Samantha and I are completely inept at doing our own hair and makeup, and having a goddess like Maureen around to make sure we looked pretty would be a dream come true.
“Amen, sister. A-freaking-men.”
Obviously, that’s a little over the top for my standards, and I shall resort to my old ways of watching YouTube makeup tutorials—and failing miserably in my attempts at the illustrious smoky eye—in my free time.
“All right, next order of business is to get you some food,” she says, diving straight into assistant mode. “Then, you should have about an hour to wind down before you have to be on set again at two.”
“No radio interviews?” I ask, and she flashes a grin in my direction.
“Not a single one.”
A huge sigh of relief escapes my lungs. “Oh, thank everything.”
Sam just giggles, and I follow her lead into the big white tent set up outside one of the studio sets.
“Why don’t you sit down right here, and I’ll grab you something.” She leads me toward an empty table in the center of the room, and I plop my ass down without complaint. “What sounds good, Bird?”