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 blow out a breath and, after a few tense seconds, nod.
“When did this happen?” he asks. “Can you at least tell me that?”
“When did what happen?”
His look is wry and knowing.
“I’ve been attracted to her since the beginning,” I admit grudgingly. “But kept my distance as much as I could. Over Thanksgiving we ended up in the same restaurant for dinner, and just connected.”
“So that’s when the affair started?”
“Stop making it sound seedy, and no. New Year’s, we went away to Santa Barbara.”
“So when I talked to you on your way up there, she was with you?”
I nod and he aims one accusing finger at me. “So you lied.”
“Can we do this later? The cast and crew know all of this yet? Heard the podcast?”
“It’s making its way through the grapevine now. Of course, the actors leave their phones in their trailers, but now that we’ve wrapped for the day, I’m sure they all know or will soon.”
Neevah, baby, I’m so sorry.
“I need to see her.” I stand abruptly. “Everyone will be acting weird and speculating. Shit.”
“Where are you going?”
“To try to catch her before she leaves. Kenneth’s meeting with them about the new protocols for shooting on location.”
“I’ll work on connecting with a few of the entertainment shows.”
“I need to sign off on anyone who’s coming to my set. I’m not playing, Evan. This foolishness is not messing with the chemistry we have or anything we’ve spent so much time building.”
“Got it,” he says, his expression finally yielding just a little bit. “And hey. In the grand scheme of things, this is just a PR speed bump. We’ll be fine.”
But is Neevah?
44
Neevah
We hold our production meetings in Café Society—at least in the replica our property master and his team built of the historic establishment. The Greenwich Village hot spot was the first completely racially integrated nightclub in the country. The specters of greats like Ethel Waters, Lena Horne, Sarah Vaughan, Hazel Scott, and Pete Johnson wait in the wings, sit around the tables and eventually take the stage. You can practically smell the cigarette smoke wafting in the air. This may not be the actual club, but sometimes when I enter, I can almost feel the reverberations of shock rippling through the crowd the night Billie Holiday sang “Strange Fruit” for the first time anywhere ever; she shook up the world with a song.
With all that history playing in my head, Kenneth’s production meeting could feel mundane, but he’s reviewing the schedule for tomorrow and highlighting how working on film will affect how we shoot so I’m tuned in. Then people start looking at their phones instead of at Kenneth.
And then they start looking at me.
At least, I think they are. I’m too busy eating every word falling from Kenneth’s mouth like some baby bird because shooting on film sounds crucial. Like fewer takes and less room for error when I’m in every scene and have more dialogue to memorize than everyone else. Whatever is on their phones has their attention. Kenneth has mine.
“Everyone understand?” Kenneth asks, wrapping up the meeting. “So in Santa Barbara, we all need to be sharp and prepared.”
“Or Canon will tear us a new one,” Livvie says, sliding a glance over to me. “Well, some of us. He may be nicer to others.”
An awkward silence follows her comment and I’m seriously not sure what is going on. Even though we break, the cast lingers, decompressing and chatting after a tough day of shooting. The work distracted me from waiting for my test results. I know we just did the bloodwork yesterday, but I want the assurance that everything is okay, and I would love to know before we leave for Santa Barbara. Not likely. In the meantime, I walk over to Kenneth, script in hand, to ask him about an upcoming scene.
“Kenneth, got a sec?”
His face lights up, his eyes kind. “For you, always. What’s up?”
We’re talking through the scene when phone alerts start going off around the room, followed by whispers and covert glances.
“What’s up?” I ask Kenneth. “Am I imagining that something is . . . off?”
“I have no idea.” Kenneth glances around with a frown.
Takira approaches, her face set, and grabs my arm. “We need to talk.”
“Um, Kenneth and I were—”
“It’s fine.” Kenneth flicks a glance between Takira and me. “Don’t hesitate to ask if you still have questions.”
“T, what’s up?” I demand as soon as Kenneth walks away. “I was just—”
“You need to see this.” She thrusts her phone into my hand.
I can’t even believe what I’m reading. It’s a post online about a podcast and Camille Hensley and me and Canon and the movie. It’s all these disparate parts that shouldn’t have anything to do with each other but have somehow landed in the same place. All of Canon’s concerns, the things he warned me about, are splashed on a digital page for any and everyone to see.