Total pages in book: 157
Estimated words: 151085 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 755(@200wpm)___ 604(@250wpm)___ 504(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 151085 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 755(@200wpm)___ 604(@250wpm)___ 504(@300wpm)
I’ve never thought of myself as vain. I work in an industry where physical appearance and image are important. I’ve always taken care of myself, exercised because I wanted to be healthy, but also because my job requires it. With my body under attack—a cellular sedition where my own antibodies are the enemy—my skin, hair, and confidence are the casualties. In a relationship with one of Hollywood’s critical darlings, I can’t help but feel exposed and in some ways . . . wanting.
He had Camille.
He was with her.
She wanted him enough to pitch a foolish hissy fit when he walked away.
Does he ever look at me and wish . . .
I have to stop this vicious cycle of self-doubt. It’s as harmful as the disease itself.
“Gimme that remote,” Takira says. “Lemme find the reunion.”
She pauses on one of those entertainment channels. We both gasp when my face comes onscreen.
“Ahhhhh!” Takira squeals. “Look at you, Neev!”
I remember this crew coming on set. There’s a clip of us recording one of the dance sequences. The camera closes in on me flying through the air, gliding across the floor, doing the lindy hop.
“Oh, my God.” I cover my mouth, stunned and disoriented to see myself this way. The enormity of this opportunity hasn’t sunk in until right now. I know it’s a huge break, of course, but we’ve been grinding for months. I’m not famous. I’ve spent most of my time in LA on set, working ten to twelve hours a day. And the little bit I’ve done venturing into the city has been undisturbed by paparazzi or fans because . . . who am I? No one really knows me yet. Seeing myself this way, on television, feels like an out-of-body experience.
“Canon Holt found Neevah Saint when she was an understudy on Broadway,” the entertainment reporter says. “It’s not clear when their relationship turned romantic, but we found out about it a few weeks ago when Camille Hensley, A-lister and Holt’s former girlfriend, revealed she had been denied the chance to audition for Dessi Blue, Holt’s latest biopic, which has been years in the making. According to reports, production has been shut down indefinitely because of an undisclosed illness Ms. Saint has been hospitalized for. We wish her the best and hope this film still makes it to screen. It would be a shame if it doesn’t.”
“Still makes it to screen?” Takira huffs. “Of course it will still make it to screen. There are only a few scenes left to shoot. They need to check their sources. That’s not even in question.”
“I bet the Galaxy executives are asking Canon those very same questions right now,” I say ruefully. “Camille said they never wanted me for the part, which . . . of course, they wouldn’t. They’d want a big name, not a no-name. And now it looks like Canon cast his girlfriend and it’s all gone south. Ugh. This is a mess.”
“It’s a mess in your head, but the reality is we have a spectacular movie almost completed, and when everyone sees what you did as Dessi Blue, there will be no question Canon made the right call casting you.”
I manage a flimsy smile. “You think so?”
“I know so.” She aims the remote and keeps flipping. “Now you ’bout to make me miss my Housewives. I need my ratchet fix, so hush.”
I eat my blueberries and drink my water and midway, get up to take my evening dose of medications. Is this the rest of my life? Pills and labs and flares and hospital stays?
Every day that ends with me still breathing has ended well.
Remy Holt’s words from The Magic Hour bounce around in my thoughts even after Takira leaves and goes home. Alone in Canon’s big, empty house, I wander into the studio. Running my fingers carefully across her Nikons and Kodaks and Canons, I feel her spirit so strongly I wish I could ask her advice—wish I could have just a few minutes of her time.
And then I remember that I can.
Canon’s full documentary is online now, so I pull it up and watch it from beginning to end, ninety minutes of wisdom and fearlessness. Knowing her son is the one holding the camera makes the way Remy looks into its lens—with so much love and pride—that much more meaningful. Over the course of the documentary, she goes from standing on her own two feet and running to the edge of the pier, to wheeling herself, holding her camera with increasingly shaky hands. But she never fades. The fire, the fight, the zest for life never vacates the dark eyes that seem, even years later, to see right through me.
“Tomorrow,” she says from the screen, from a wheelchair precipitously close to the edge of a pier, “is the most presumptuous word in the world, because who knows if you even get that. Yesterday, spilled milk and old news. You can’t do nothing about how you messed up or fell short or didn’t do yesterday. Even when you mess up and make it right, it has to be done today.”