If I thought the dance numbers were grueling, today gave them a run for their money. We rehearsed the scenes over and over before committing them to film, and made sure to get a few takes because mistakes on film are usually harder to fix in post than they are in digital.
Not to mention how mentally taxing today proved to be. At a time when I need to be sharper than I have ever been, I feel like I’m moving underwater, my brain as weighed down as my arms and legs. The script revisions didn’t help. I had more content to learn in less time than I’ve had before. I’ve never dropped as many lines as I did today, and I couldn’t help but wonder if anyone in the cast is thinking my inexperience is showing.
Hell, I’m wondering if my inexperience is showing. If maybe the last four months were some extended beginner’s luck, and now, in the final stretch of filming, my luck is running out.
I fled that set as soon as Kenneth said it was a wrap for the day. I didn’t look for Canon, and I’m sure he’s not looking for me. Our fight this morning didn’t help my concentration. I was hurt by his harshness, but I was also frustrated with myself, with my body. I only came to lie down for a quick second because I was so exhausted, lying down seemed a better use of the time we spent waiting for them to fix the power than standing around. I never oversleep that way. I snapped at him as much out of misplaced embarrassment as anything else.
I told Takira to go eat with the rest of the crew and I’d see her tomorrow. I still don’t have much appetite and fought nausea most of the day—yet another thing to distract me. I was a mess on set. Trey, Kenneth, Linh—all asked if I was feeling okay. Not Canon, though. He and I barely spoke besides the notes he delivered himself instead of through Kenneth. No one observing us would think our relationship tempts him to favor me. He was the same with me as with everyone else. Maybe even more indifferent. The intimacy of last night feels light-years away right now.
I drag my weary body to the bedroom. I don’t even make it to the shower. I’m more tired right this very second than I have ever been in my entire life. And today was a relatively easy schedule compared to nine-hour dance rehearsals. I know this isn’t normal, this level of fatigue. No amount of rest seems able to penetrate it.
“I’m so close,” I whisper, staring up at the ceiling. “Only three weeks left. Just please let me finish.”
I don’t know if I’m asking God or my body, begging it to hold out long enough to finish strong, but I choke down a sob. It feels like some internal clock is ticking, and I’m racing against it.
After a few seconds, I stand, strip, shower, and get into my lounge pants and tank top. All I want is my bed. Five o’clock will be here before you know it, and I need tomorrow to go better than today. It’s not that we didn’t get what we needed. If we hadn’t, we’d still be there. Canon wouldn’t settle for less than that, but it just took so much. And most of the time it was my fault. Even with new content, I’m usually sharper than this.
“Ugh.” I tap my head as if that might clear it.
I’ll never get rest if I replay all my mistakes over and over on this loop. I pull back the comforter and climb in, but notice my phone plugged in by the bed. A ringing phone on set will get you chewed out as fast as being late will, so I usually leave mine here.
I have missed calls and messages.
“Neevah, hi. It’s Dr. Ansford. I know you’re on set, but call me first thing tomorrow. We need to talk. Your tests came back. Your antinuclear antibodies are elevated. Low red and white blood count. ESR indicates inflammation. Most concerning is your high creatinine levels.”
I’ve barely absorbed all she’s saying in the pause she takes to breathe when she launches another attack on my peace of mind. “I’m coordinating with your doctor out there. We’re calling in a prescription for prednisone. You should be able to get it tomorrow. I’m sorry, Neevah. I know you like to manage things naturally, but all signs indicate you’re experiencing a flare-up—a very serious one. We have to get that under control. Based on those elevated creatinine levels, we need to biopsy your kidney.”
I press a trembling hand to my temple and draw a shaky breath, listening to the rest of the message through ringing ears and with a dozen questions winnowing through my head.
I have discoid lupus. She hasn’t even mentioned the rash or my hair falling out. Why are they looking at my kidneys? I want to hurl the phone into the wall because I can’t ask her my questions and it’s almost midnight in New York.
“I don’t want to alarm you,” she continues in the message.
Too late.
“But things can go south with kidneys very quickly and with fewer symptoms than you might think. We want to see what we’re dealing with as soon as possible, but you take a lot of supplements. Stop taking those right away. We need them out of your system before the procedure. So it’ll be a few days before we can get the biopsy done, but we can at least get you on the prednisone. Call me first thing and try not to worry. Stress will only exacerbate things, and we’re going to figure this out, okay? Goodnight.”
I sit on my bed for a few minutes after Dr. Ansford’s message. Shock and worry and dread swim through my thoughts as I process what she said.
Biopsy.
That word . . .
This isn’t something I need to keep to myself. I won’t be able to. We’re so close to wrapping, with less than a month left. I was hoping I would make it to the end without dragging the producers into it.
The producers means Canon, but it also means Evan. Call me a coward, but I think the conversation with Evan will be easier. He’s my boss, too.
My phone rings, and it’s the person I want to talk to the most and the least in the world.
“Canon, hey.”
“Hey. I didn’t want the day to end with things the way they were with us. I know I was a jerk.”
“And I was late,” I reply, my voice soft and restrained because I don’t want to spill everything in a rush of emotion. He opens my floodgates, makes me want to give him everything at once, even the crappy parts. “And I was so distracted today on set. I forgot lines and—”
“It’s okay. We all have off days. I can’t remember you even having one in the last four months, so you’re due. Just get some rest. You seemed tired.”
“Yeah, I really am.” But my fatigue and all the possible reasons for it are the last things I want to discuss. “Where are you?”
“Home Depot. Don’t ask.”
I snort, glad I can find even the smallest humor in this shit day, and glad it came from him.
“Look, Jill and Kenneth and I have a long night ahead. We need to go through the shot list and change some things. We’re here with the prop guys. I just wanted you to know . . .”
He draws and expels a sharp breath. “I just wanted you to know I’m sorry for this morning and that I don’t want work to mess up . . . things.”
“Things, huh?” I lean back on my pillow and cross my ankles. “You just don’t want me to cut off your supply.”
His low chuckle from the other end is dupioni silk, smooth on one side, rougher on the other. “Cutting off mine means cutting off yours, so I think I’ll be aight.”
“You’re right.” I close my eyes and let his rich voice wash over me, soothe my nerves. “You have nothing to worry about.”
There’s a pause on the other end before he says the words like air being released from a tire. “I miss you, Neevah. I know I just saw you, but I miss last night. Holding you and . . . I messed up this morning, huh?”
“We both did, but you’re too mean for me to fight with. Let’s not do that again.”
“I’m sorry.” Someone calls his name. “Okay. I gotta go. Jill and Kenneth are side-eyeing me hard.”
“Hey! Is Evan with you guys?”
“Evan? Nah. Get some rest. See you first thing.”
“Yeah, first thing.”
Once he disconnects, I fire off a quick text before I change my mind.
Me: Hey. I need to talk to you about something.
Evan: Tonight?
Me: Yeah. Now?
Evan: Where are you?
Me: At my cottage.
Evan: I’m on my way.
