Hate the Player: An Enemies-to-Lovers Romantic Comedy(70)
He’s trying to help me.
He’s trying to keep this scene rolling until I find my rhythm again.
But my mind is already off to the self-deprecating races, too consumed with berating myself than actually trying to climb out of this hole I’ve dug.
And let me tell you, this hole is fucking deep. Black holes in outer space have got nothing on it.
Thirty more seconds of my embarrassing silence and Howie has had enough. He hops out of his director’s chair. “Cut! Cut!” he shouts, and frustration is evident in his now-strained voice.
Pretty sure all the “Cut”s you’ve forced him to yell have given the poor man a sudden case of laryngitis…
Ugh. Mortification in the form of heat flushes my cheeks.
“What’s going on, Birdie?” he asks, and my shoulders sag.
“I don’t fucking know.”
Truthfully, I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I feel out of sorts and unable to focus, and even though I should know these lines like the back of my hand, the words are a jumbled mess inside my head.
“Are you going to be able to get it together sometime tonight?” he questions. “This is our fifteenth take on this scene.”
This is the first time he’s ever gotten that direct or short with me, and my sweaty palms and racing heart prove it’s a shock to my system.
I’m a total failure.
The stress of this movie, and the fact that I’m not doing what I need to do, sits heavy on my shoulders. Tears prick my eyes, which only makes me more irritated with myself.
Am I really going to freaking cry right now?
Get it together, Birdie. I inhale a deep, steady breath and try to force the emotions that are bubbling up into my throat back down, but it’s no use. They’re a boulder lodged inside my windpipe, ready and waiting to make their big debut.
Lord Almighty, I’m a mess today. A big fat failure.
“I’m sorry, Howie.” My voice sounds so pathetic, so damn small and defeated. “I don’t know what’s going on with me today. I’m trying, I’m really trying, but…” I pause, unsure of what else to say. Frankly, I have zero clue why I’m having such a difficult time with this scene. It makes no sense.
My flimsy words offer him zero reassurance.
“We’re getting behind schedule,” he responds on a sigh and runs a hand through his hair. “And I fucking hate to get behind schedule.” He looks toward Serena. “You think we can talk the owner into letting us rent out his bar and parking lot for one more day? We were supposed to be done tomorrow night, but after this, I’m certain we’re going to need an extra day.”
She nods. “I don’t think that will be a problem.”
With one last, incredibly frustrated look in my direction, Howie turns on his heel and strides back toward the cameras. “Did we get anything worth saving?”
The director of photography offers a small shrug. “I got a few things we can make work with some edits. But certainly not everything.”
“Yeah.” Howie barks out a laugh. “That’s more than apparent.” He glances down at his watch. “All right, guys. Since it’s already half past nine and things only seem to be going downhill from here, let’s call it a night and come back tomorrow. Serena, let me know if you have any issues getting approval from the owner for another day.”
Heaven help me, I’ve screwed up this scene so much, my director doesn’t even want to continue. We were supposed to shoot for another two hours, but he’s already calling it a day. Because of you.
Everything inside me wants to break the fuck down, but I will myself to stay strong. I hear Tom Hanks’s voice in A League of Their Own in my head. Only instead of him saying, “There’s no crying in baseball,” he’s saying, “There’s no crying in Hollywood.”
While everyone starts to pack up for the day, I bite my lip hard enough to make it bleed and focus my energy on finding the quickest route off set. We’re still on location in the Copper Door, and thankfully, I have a small trailer just out the back doors and in the parking lot to the left of the building.
Just get to your trailer so you can break down without anyone else around.
I walk as fast as I possibly can without jumping into a freaking sprint. Off set, past the cameras, past the rest of the cast and crew, and out into the cool May air of a Tennessee night, my feet motor across the pavement like I’m trying to hit a speed-walking world record.
The sun has already set, and the moon is starting to make its presence known by softly lighting up the dark sky, but I couldn’t care less about any of it. I’m solely fixated on getting inside my trailer and away from everyone and everything.
When I spot the small white door that has my name plastered on the front in even black letters, I pick up the ankle-breaking pace, and the second I step inside, I slam the door shut behind me.
Deep down, I know it’s okay to have a bad day. I know it’s okay to be slightly off my game every once in a while. These are all things I know to be rational and true, but rationality left the building about ten minutes ago, after my fifteenth fuckup, when I saw the exasperated look on Howie’s face.
It doesn’t help that I have a lifelong track record of being a stubborn perfectionist.
Pretty sure I get that from my granny. She was a wizard at baking pies, but God forbid one of her pies wasn’t up to snuff for the church bake sale. The woman went on the warpath, mad at everyone and everything, but mostly, ticked off at herself.