17
It took only fifteen minutes in Jonah Dempsey’s presence for Shane to conclude that Lilah’s secondhand reports about him hadn’t been an exaggeration. If anything, they’d been too kind.
He seemed unassuming at first—thin and wiry, with a ruddy complexion and dirty-blond hair gelled firmly away from his face. But when Shane shook his hand, thanking him for coming in to help them, Jonah just tipped his head back and smirked. Even though he was a few inches shorter than Shane, he somehow managed to look down his nose at him anyway.
“Sure, man. You know, this is my mom’s favorite show. It’s cute.”
He barely looked up from his phone during the table read, even leaving the room to take a call at one point.
However, that inattentiveness didn’t carry over once they started shooting. The schedule on the call sheet quickly proved to be just a suggestion, as his overambitious camera setups and exacting direction led every scene to run over, sometimes by hours.
After the third day, when Jonah made a PA, an extra, and the head of catering cry in quick succession, Shane pulled Walt aside.
“This is ridiculous. He’s making everyone miserable. There’s no way he’s talented enough for this to be worth it. What kind of set are you running here?”
Walt shrugged helplessly. “I don’t have any say in it. The network hired him, and they’re not budging. You know who his father is, right?”
Shane didn’t, but the fact that the question was even being floated in the first place got the point across.
“There are a lot of assholes in this business,” Walt continued. “And we got pretty damn lucky that none of them are with us on a regular basis. It’s only three weeks. We’re just gonna have to tough it out.”
The van back to the hotel every night was dead silent, half the passengers sleeping, the other half staring moodily into the distance. Shane would lose consciousness the moment he tumbled into bed, his alarm jolting him awake what felt like minutes later.
Their second week of shooting kicked off with a scene that was shaping up to be an even bigger pain in the ass than his eventual kiss with Lilah: the restoration of Kate’s physical body, followed immediately by her kidnapping. It was a long and technical scene, the second half of which would take place in the rain—something none of them were looking forward to in November in Canada.
To make matters worse, Jonah had announced that he was planning on shooting everything after the rain started—five complicated pages—in one continuous take. The sense of dread that settled over them, cast and crew alike, was palpable.
The morning of the shoot, they boarded the van when it was still pitch-black outside. Their location for the day was the lush rain forest of the Clayoquot Sound, four hours away. Locations had already been out to prep everything the day before, so a mini village of tents and trailers awaited them when they arrived, powered by an army of generators, cords snaking out of the backs and snarled like neon-orange rat kings.
After he stepped out of the makeup trailer, Shane grabbed a cup of coffee and took a moment to absorb the scene: the sun filtering through the rolling greenery, the blue of the sky. He closed his eyes, inhaling the fresh, crisp scent of cedar. Maybe today wouldn’t be so bad after all.
He felt the hard clap of a hand on his shoulder.
“Didn’t realize we were paying you to stand around.” Jonah’s oversized grin didn’t match the flintiness in his eyes.
“I’m usually sitting around, actually,” Shane said evenly, sipping his coffee.
…
Lilah knew it was optimistic to think that they’d get through it in under ten takes, but she allowed herself to hope for it, anyway.
The first take, the cameraman fumbled the transition from Steadicam to handheld.
The second take, the rain machines malfunctioned, leaving a long, awkward pause after the thunderclap and lightning strike.
The third take, Lilah was hit with a heavy slash of rain in her face right as she was about to say her line, leaving her choking and spluttering helplessly.
The fourth take, Brian tripped over the camera tracks while backing up.
Takes five through ten were concerned with the heavy action section at the end of the scene, in which hordes of faceless henchmen appeared through the trees to take out the members of the team one by one, before grabbing Lilah and carrying her away. After several rounds of trial and error, it was determined that it was impossible to switch them all out for their stunt doubles without it being noticeable.
The news sent an unhappy ripple through the six of them. Lilah opened her mouth to object but caught Shane’s eye. It’s not worth it, he seemed to say. She closed her mouth, took a deep breath, and participated in re-blocking the scene sans doubles without complaint.
It was clear, though, that Shane would be bearing the brunt of the change. Even though the henchmen were all played by trained stunt performers—experts in doing this kind of thing safely and painlessly—it was impossible to fake the way they had to drag him across the rocky terrain as he struggled to free himself. From the way his face stayed contorted in the same expression even after they moved on, it was evident that his discomfort was real. Lilah forced herself to avert her eyes so she wouldn’t lose her own focus, the knot in the pit of her stomach growing larger the longer she watched.
She lost track of the number of takes they did after that. She’d never shot a scene with this many moving parts that had the potential to go wrong, and time after time, one part or another proceeded to do just that. As hard as she tried to stay present as Kate, she eventually went numb, her brain switching into pure survival mode as her body was drenched in icy fake rain and manhandled by the stuntmen over and over and over.
Around her, she could see Margaux’s teeth chattering, Rafael limping slightly, Brian’s shoulders sagging with exhaustion, finger marks blooming on Natalie’s arms that had to be covered by the makeup department every time they cut. Even though PAs hurried to wrap them in down coats between takes, it didn’t do much to mitigate the fact that they’d been shivering in the same soaking clothes for hours. Lilah had never felt this kind of cold before: clammy and damp and endless, seeping deep into her bones like she’d never be warm again.
As for Shane, it was obvious that each take was exponentially more painful than the last. He was doing a good job keeping it together when the camera was on him, but she could tell how much he was suffering: the subtle winces when he moved, the effort that seemed to be behind every ragged breath he took. During one take, a stuntman’s boot slipped on the wet grass, kicking Shane hard in the ribs, making him cry out. Lilah’s lips parted, her breath escaping in a rush, almost as if she’d felt the impact herself.
Impotent rage surged through her at the whole thing: at Jonah’s arrogance, at how unnecessary it was to make them go through this, at how Shane was too much of a self-sacrificing people pleaser to ever complain.
“Action,” Jonah called again, and Lilah took a deep breath.
She felt it immediately: there was something different about this take. Everything that had been hazy and sloppy snapped into perfect, crystalline focus. Her lines came effortlessly, she hit her marks without trying, every emotion coming to her as if it were the first time. Even the rain didn’t feel quite as cold. She could tell the rest of them felt it, too, tapping into a kind of flow state, the six of them practically psychically linked.
Finally, finally, finally, they made it all the way to the end of the scene. It felt like everyone on the entire set was holding their breath until the second Jonah called “Cut!”
The rain machines shut off and the crew cheered. Rafael let out a whoop, picking Natalie up and spinning her around as Margaux collapsed against Brian, bursting into relieved tears. Shane and Lilah exchanged exhausted, affectionate glances. All the adrenaline drained out of her immediately, leaving her too tired to do anything but stand there and grin at him like an idiot.
The celebratory mood immediately fizzled as Jonah’s voice cut through the chatter. “Let’s reset to go again.”
Lilah whirled on him before she could stop herself. “What?”
Jonah met her gaze, his face expressionless. “I said we’re going again.”
“Why?” Lilah spat, stalking toward him. “We got it.”
He rose to his feet once she reached his chair, but it didn’t do much to intimidate her, since she was still taller than him.
“It wasn’t good enough, that’s why,” he said. “Just because you all finally got through it once doesn’t mean we’re done.”
Lilah pushed a soggy lock of hair out of her face. “This clearly isn’t working. Can’t you find a way to sneak a cut in there? Change something about what we’re doing to make it run a little smoother?”
“I think you’re forgetting your role on this set,” Jonah said, eyes narrowing, voice lowering in an impression of a threat. “I’m the director. You’re the actors. You do what I tell you to do, and you do it until I say you did it right.”
Lilah’s cheeks grew hot. She fought not to raise her voice. “We’ve been doing exactly what you told us to do. Part of your job is to make adjustments so we can get it done and get out of here.”
“Of course. I should’ve known,” Jonah said, rolling his eyes. “This kind of show is just, like, some soulless paycheck machine, right? You don’t care about the work, all you care about is getting home in time for dinner. You all might as well be CGI or, I dunno, fuckin’ robots or something. Maybe then you’d be able to get it right more than one fucking time.”
The entire set had come to a standstill around them. There was a rustle of footsteps behind her, Shane slowly appearing in her peripheral vision. She thought maybe he was going to tell her to cool down, that she shouldn’t escalate things any further. But instead, he paused next to her.
Not to talk her down. To back her up.
His wordless support was like a battery, her anger flaring with renewed force. “Well, unfortunately for you, we’re not robots. None of us are.” She gestured at the crew around her, all of whom were looking the worse for wear. “We can’t take unlimited abuse and just keep going. But we are professionals. If we’ve been doing this all fucking day and just got through it for the first time now, maybe we’re not the problem. Maybe it’s your concept that’s the problem.”
Jonah’s nostrils flared. He held Lilah’s gaze for a long moment. “Let’s take five,” he shouted, turning his head to address the crew. “Then reset to go again. Same as before.”
Lilah set her jaw and turned away, her stomach clenching. She felt Shane’s eyes on her, but she looked straight ahead, afraid she might burst into tears if she looked directly at him.
“Fucking bitch,” she heard Jonah mutter behind her.
Then Shane lunged at him.
Lilah pivoted on her heel so quickly her vision swam, practically tackling him, diverting his fist seconds before it made contact with Jonah’s face. Their momentum knocked them both off-balance, sending her sprawling on top of him in the mud. He let out a hiss as her elbow collided with the side he’d been babying—his bad rib. At the same time, she landed on her wrist at an awkward angle, making her yelp in pain.
They lay there in stunned silence for a moment as Lilah waited for the air to return to her lungs. Shane moved first, pushing himself up to a sitting position with a groan, Lilah clinging to him as they struggled to their feet. Jonah watched them with an amused expression so punchable that, for a fleeting moment, she regretted pulling Shane back.
“You don’t get to fucking talk to her like that,” Shane said, still breathing hard. “You need to apologize. Now.”
Jonah looked both of them up and down. “Sorry,” he said, not even attempting to sound sincere. He turned away, addressing the crew. “Let’s wrap this up. I don’t need this shit. We’re done here.”
After a few uncertain seconds, the set churned into motion again.
Lilah and Shane trudged down the path that led to the trailers, Lilah slowing her pace to match his without thinking twice about it.
“You okay?” she asked, sneaking a sidelong glance at him.
“Yeah. I will be.” His words slurred together with fatigue. “You?”
“Yeah.”
They walked in silence for another few paces. To Lilah’s surprise, she started to laugh, helpless, hysterical giggles bubbling up from deep in her chest.
“I can’t believe you tried to punch him. I didn’t know you were a punching guy.”
He smiled ruefully. “Neither did I.”
“I’m kind of surprised that’s what set you off. What, no one’s allowed to call me a bitch except you?”
“I’ve never called you a bitch.”
Lilah scoffed. “Oh, fuck off.”
“I’m serious,” Shane said, and the forcefulness in his tone had her glancing over at him in surprise. “You’re always calling yourself that, not me.”
She raised her eyebrows, even as something in his expression had goosebumps prickling down her back—or maybe it was her soaked shirt that was causing them. “You expect me to believe you’ve never called me a bitch. Not once, even behind my back, in all these years.”
He paused for a long moment. “Okay, maybe not never.” His sheepishness had her cracking up despite herself. “But not in a long time,” he continued. “Not any time I can remember. Really. And if I did, I’m sure you didn’t deserve it, and I’m sorry. I was probably being as much of an asshole as he was.”
She let the thought settle over her for a few more paces, the edge of the closest trailer coming into view. Remorse trickled through her. “Did I deserve it, though? Back there. Maybe I should’ve just kept my mouth shut.”
He shook his head emphatically. “No. No. You were…thank you. For saying something.” He glanced behind them, where Natalie, Rafael, Margaux, and Brian were slowly making their way down the same path. “I know they appreciate it, too.”
Lilah looked down at the ground, uncomfortable. “Sure. It was nothing.”
He ascended the stairs to the wardrobe trailer then turned back to her. “It wasn’t nothing,” he said simply, before pulling the door open and stepping aside. “After you.”
Hours later, as the van approached the hotel, Lilah woke with a start, chagrined to find she’d nodded off on Shane’s shoulder. With her tendency for motion sickness, it was unusual for her to fall asleep in the car at all. It was a testament to how run-down she was that she was passing out every time she sat still for more than fifteen minutes.
She probably should’ve known better than to sit next to him on the way back, but she’d slid into the seat automatically, too tired to think about it. At least he was out cold, too, his breathing slow and even.
But that wasn’t the most disturbing part. It was the realization that, at some point during the ride, they’d started holding hands—her fingers fully intertwined with his, their hands resting between them atop their pressed-together thighs.
Slowly, her pulse pounding like she was defusing a bomb, she straightened one finger at a time and eased her palm out of his grip, dreading the prospect of him waking up before she was free. If he did, they’d both be burdened with the mounting evidence that something was happening between them that they might actually have to address. But if she was the only one who knew about it, maybe they could keep ignoring it a little longer. Run out the clock until the show ended and they could be done with each other for good.
He didn’t wake up, though. He just shifted closer, letting out a soft, sleepy groan that made her heart ache with recognition.