On set

Wednesday, February 6th

Lane kept his script open on his phone, even though he’d memorized today’s scenes three or four days before. Never hurt to have a backup ready.

Monica Henderson, playing Hannah Stanton, the other lead, flipped through her lines. “Start at 34.”

Lane did as instructed, but his voice died near the end of each sentence as he remembered the last time he’d run lines with Stephen.

Monica performed flawlessly, but her eyes kept darting to a couple guys adjusting lights under Gibson’s direction. A handful of other cast members waited to be sent on camera. “If they’re going to shoot minor characters this morning, why do we have to be here? I have other things to do, ya know.” She huffed. One hand sneaked into a pocket, and her eyes darted to Gibson and the lighting guys again. Her hand came out of her pocket empty. “If anyone asks, I’m in the bathroom.” She stalked off.

A few minutes later, Monica returned, stopping less than two feet from Lane. A faint whiff of something sharp clung to her hair. Makeup must have used too much hairspray.

Gibson still hadn’t called them for their first scene.

“What is taking so long?” Monica growled. “I can’t stand around in these heels anymore.” She shifted weight to one foot, then the other. “If I ever meet that costume designer again, I’ll wring his pimpled neck.” She pulled off her shoes and slung them three feet, into the corner. One heel pegged a trash can, which thunked onto its side. Balled paper and empty coffee cups spilled across the floor, drawing a scowl from the maintenance guy who’d just finished cleaning up a broken coffee mug.

Lane gave the maintenance guy an apologetic look. “Hazard of the business.”

“Easy for you to say. You get a comfy pair of pants and a nice jacket that doesn’t itch. Not to mention the shoes. I’d kill for those.” Monica eyed his tactical boots as she straightened her pencil skirt and button-up. “This shirt must be infested with bedbugs.” She clawed her neck, leaving wide, red streaks.

“Get wardrobe to bring another one.”

Monica snorted. “Haven’t seen them since we got here.” She scratched her wrist and cursed.

Lane flagged one of the crew.           

The young man hurried over. “Can I help—”

Monica flung the shirt at the kid. “Get it away!” Red splotches covered her arms and neck, and she shivered in her cami. With manicured fingers, she pulled her arms close.

“Here.” Lane donated his jacket.

Monica immediately pulled it on but kept scratching until the set medic arrived.

“Are you allergic to any laundry detergents?” The medic took Monica’s vitals.

“No. Just make it stop, already!”

“Here’s an antihistamine, and this should alleviate any discomfort.” The medic squeezed hydrocortisone cream on two fingers and spread it over the splotches decorating her forearms and neck.

When he tried to push the borrowed jacket sleeves above her elbows, Monica ripped her arm away. “Leave it,” she snapped.

Gibson trotted over. “Everyone okay?”

“Miss Henderson may be allergic to the laundry detergent,” said the medic. “Wardrobe should switch varieties.”

Gibson sent a quick text—probably to the costume department. “I’m sorry, Henderson. We’ll have to start your scenes in a day or two, when those spots fade.”

Monica grumbled and stormed away, still scratching.

Lane stood to go.

“Oh, not you. We’ve got shots we can do without her. Phil, we’re doing 67.”

A middle-aged man with a small whiteboard gave Gibson a thumbs-up and scrawled the number with a black Expo.

“Let’s see if Vic made a good choice with you,” said Gibson.

Baker Memorial Park, Huntington Park

Friday, February 8th

Lane walked beside Stacey, who had her cat Huddles on a leash and harness.

“My boss got fired yesterday,” she said. “Nobody knows why. Just—poof—gone.”

“Henry? He’s been there since… I don’t know when.”

“The way he told it, he helped open the place.” Stacey steered Huddles away from a patch of grass he wanted to gnaw.

“I remember him stopping by everyone’s cubicles and telling stories. He had some crazy ones,” Lane said.

“Like the snowman somebody put in his cubicle—in August? Like, where’d they even get the snow?”

“Yeah. I remember when he told us the whole ordeal about the microwave in the break room exploding,” said Lane. “I wonder what he’s doing now. He was old enough to retire soon.”

“Maybe he’s working on cars in his shed, or learning to rock climb, or something else cool.” Stacey picked up Huddles when the tubby cat sat and refused to walk any farther. “No telling with Henry. Looks like Huddles wants to get home. He hates these early morning walks.” She tapped the cat’s nose. “But the vet says you need to lose weight, silly kitty.” To Lane she said, “See you Sunday?”

“Sunday.”

Lane walked back to the parking lot with Stacey and a glowering Huddles.

URWorld Fitness, Huntington Park

Sunday, February 10th

Lane and Stacey ran on side-by-side treadmills.

“I’m beating you,” she teased.

“You might be faster, but I can do this all day.” He tried to match her tone, but the effort fell flat.

“Whatever.”

They stopped when Stacey reached five miles—before Lane hit four.

They headed for the leg area.

Stacey whispered to Lane about other gym members as he did a few rep sets on one machine. “She’s so into that guy at the chin-up bar. She won’t quit talking to him.”

Lane followed Stacey’s clandestine glances. A young woman, no older than twenty, chattered to a man five or six years older than her as he pulled himself up to the bar a few more times than necessary. “Seems mutual.”

“Still the hopeless romantic.” Stacey knocked his shoulder.

“Hey, people should be happy.”

“Yeah, they should.” Stacey smiled as the pair left the gym together.

She hadn’t smiled much since the accident. Neither had he. How could he be happy when the person who brought him the most joy was gone?

On set

Monday, February 11th

Lane took another bite of chicken. Whoever picked the caterer chose well.

At his table sat three other men and one woman, all cast members.

“Guess who’s back?” Monica sang as she slid into the seat beside Lane and plopped a full plate on the table. “Talk about a boring five days. Stupid allergies.”

“I thought you told the medic you weren’t allergic,” he said.

She stabbed her chicken. “Well, I guess I was wrong.” Annoyance edged her tone. “Is the interrogation over?”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

Monica waved him silent. “Whatever. I must’ve re-read that script a hundred times while I was out.” Monica cocked a lip in disgust. “I’m surprised there isn’t any of that religious garbage in this movie.”

“Vic’s religious?” Lane found Vic Garrison several tables away, eating with Gibson and Menendez. A little girl—maybe five years old—sat beside Vic as the woman monitored the girl’s stack of Goldfish and green apple slices. The child’s skin and hair were a few shades darker than her mother’s.

Vic’s plate held a handful of pretzels and half an orange.

“Very.” Monica dabbed her lipsticked mouth with a napkin. “You’ve never read her books?”

Lane shook his head.

“I have.” Monica looked exasperated. “The Hannah Stanton set was fine, but after that, she dropped off the publishing scene—wrote a strange one-off fantasy novel then disappeared into the religious market. Nobody heard of her again until this movie. You haven’t heard anything about her?” Monica rolled her eyes. “She prays over her food. Who does that anymore?”

“Why does it matter?” Lane said. “If it makes her feel better, let her.”

Monica’s bitter laugh held thick disdain. “Better watch out. If she finds out about you, you’ll be gone quicker than Garrison can cover her pious little face.”

Lane quirked a brow.

“She’s homophobic,” Monica said. “People like her always are. Once she discovers you’ve been involved with other guys, she’ll make Gibson fire you. I guarantee it.”

The band on Lane’s right hand burned. “My personal life isn’t your business. Or anyone else’s.”

“Just warning you.” Monica speared a broccoli floret. “I’d stay away from her.”

Everyone else at Lane’s table conversed with Monica throughout the rest of the meal.

Lane didn’t finish his food.

Religious people—especially Christians—shunned him. If what Monica said was true, and Vic was religious, why had she chosen him? She seemed intelligent, informed. She had to know about him.

Stephen’s death made local news, and Lane’s name and face had come up dozens of times during TV spots. Not to mention the ensuing social media frenzy. Stephen’s family garnered more attention for Lane than anything else ever had, and their son’s death prompted a flood of posts.

Tina had been invaluable during those horrific weeks just after the accident. She kept her eye on social media, told him which places to avoid, and ensured no one bothered him for interviews. She’d even intercepted paparazzi.

Thankfully, the tabloids had since found other victims.

Vic had to be blind and deaf not to know who he was. If she was as proactive as Monica made her out to be, he’d have to watch his step around her. That, or risk losing the only source of income he’d had in six months. He’d lost too much already. He couldn’t lose his livelihood too.