Chapter Text
You don’t know when you make the smooth transition from sleep to wakefulness. Suddenly your eyes are open—or maybe they’ve been open the entire time. It doesn’t matter, really. You stare up at the ceiling, curtains still drawn, tucked neatly under your duvet. Brain silent, waiting.
It’s almost every day now that you beat your five o’clock alarm. A funny recurrence, like your body knows. Moving your head is slightly painful, cheek brushing against the pillow to turn and look. The neon of the alarm’s display stings, burning the numbers behind your eyelids when you blink. 4:58. Waiting…waiting…
The machine only manages a single pathetic, high-pitched squeal before you shut it off with a harsh thwack. You’re up and moving in the dark, closet door folding open with a rumble to reveal your capsule wardrobe of workwear. Everything is organized neatly along their plastic hangers, by clothing item and colour; your small collection of nearly-identical black pants next to the dark teal and navy pencil skirts, followed by a heather grey blouse, plaid ankle pants…it’s all very dressy. No one would guess that these clothes are the fruits of several weeks of careful curation at the thrift store. That’s kind of the point.
Getting ready at dawn is a blur these days. Nothing more than going through the motions. Clothes, then you brush your teeth, styling your hair in the bathroom mirror with the cheap toothbrush between your tongue and palate. Breakfast is a glass of water from the tap of your tiny apartment kitchen; the fridge sits empty, spare a stray tomato and a few expired string cheeses that you toss on your way out the door.
Outside, the sky is still dark, slowly lightening with the rising sun. You’ve come to appreciate the moon like this, waiting for its overbearing big brother to get the day moving. The definition of the clouds up above is enough to have you staring up for hours, if you had the time. It feels like looking at a famous painting—a Van Gogh or something, the edges of each vaporous form crisp against the changing blue.
The twenty-minute commute from sleepy Cobb County to metropolitan Atlanta is driven in silence as you organize your thoughts. It’ll be another sixteen-hour day of shooting, surely. That’s what you prepare for and are never disappointed. You make a mental note to order groceries while you’re on lunch, hopefully getting the latest time slot this time. Last time, Whole Foods left you with five bags of perishables in the front lobby that sat for six hours before you got home. Half of it was inedible.
The lot is unchanged from yesterday as you drive in, flashing your I.D. badge at the parking gate attendant before he lifts the striped arm up to let you through. Ashton is waiting for you outside of the sound stage, because of course he is.
“Good morning,” he smiles.
You give him a mumbled greeting in return, nodding as you pass him on your way in. He follows you, keeping the brisk pace of your heeled flats.
“I wanted to walk-and-talk,” he says.
Of course he does. “Sure. What’s up?”
“So we got new pages last night,” Ashton says, his dingy sneakers squeaking across the floor beside you.
“Okay,” you say.
“It’s a whole new scene.” You still aren’t sure how this concerns you. “A stunt.”
You stop abruptly. He isn’t expecting it, almost tripping over his own feet to pause. “What?”
“I figured you would have that reaction,” he says.
You close your eyes with a slight huff, ignoring the comment. “What do you mean ‘a stunt’? I thought we had them all outlined in pre-production. I got a list of—”
“The studio wanted some changes to that big arrival scene. They wanted a helicopter.”
“A helicopter,” you repeat.
“A helicopter,” Ashton confirms.
Fuck. “How am I supposed to get a helicopter?”
Ashton shrugs, helpful as always. “You’re the stunt coordinator,” he says.
In your brief Hollywood career, you would have to say he is the most useless functioning part of a production that you have ever worked with. Who the fuck gave this guy a blockbuster?
“A helicopter.” You let the word sit in your mouth, wrapping your brain around the idea a little more. With a sigh, you relent. There is nothing to be done about it now. “Fine. Give me a week.”
“One week,” Ashton agrees. “I want to get that scene out of the way as quickly as possible. It’s all just flashy nonsense.” He nods at you once more before disappearing amidst members of the crew, the area filling up slowly as people arrive on set for the day.
You wonder who’s going to tell him. This whole thing is flashy nonsense. When you first read the script, you could barely parse out the plot beyond the action scenes outlined for you, practically dripping in yellow highlighter. You don’t mind so much, though; every day on set is another day of getting paid. It isn’t your job to worry about the art form of cinema, but to make sure the punches look like they land without anyone losing a tooth. This could be the next Transformers threequel, and you wouldn’t care.
Mia’s shoving a paper cup of something warm into your hands, pulling you from your thoughts.
“You’ve got that glassy look in your eyes, which means I know you’re ready for a caffeine re-up,” she says.
You take a sip. Coffee, black. You savour the acrid taste for a moment, burning your tongue before you swallow. “Did you hear about this?”
“No?” she asks. “What?”
“The helicopter,” you say, and her face immediately falls.
“What helicopter?”
“The studio wants a helicopter stunt.”
“But that wasn’t—” she starts.
“I know,” is all you say. “And of course, Ashton brought it to me instead of, you know, a producer?” You two are walking now, moving past bodies and equipment to the attached office space.
“I’ll talk to Moby,” Mia says.
“It’s not talking to Moby that’s the problem,” you say. “This is the biggest movie that I’ve ever done and…”
“Come on. Don’t get all defeatist on me.”
“Maybe this isn’t for me, is all I’m saying.”
“What?” Mia looks aghast. “You were the greatest stunt actor I’ve ever seen,” she says.
“Were. I had, what? Four good years of doing flips and expertly dodging rubber katanas, and now I can barely fall asleep at night.”
“Even with the new mattress?” Mia asks.
“The new mattress doesn’t do shit,” you say.
Every once in a while you still lose some sense of feeling in your right arm, muscles in your legs spasming uncontrollably, keeping you up at night. On lucky days all you are left with is the unending stiffness in your neck.
“With all this shit… Maybe it’s time for me to move on,” you say.
“Don’t say that. You say that and we’re all screwed,” Mia says. “You’re going to finish this movie, and it’s going to look awesome, and then you’ll get your next one. Okay?” She won’t stop staring at you with those imploring doe eyes until you nod hesitantly. “Great. Good. I’ll call some people, get a beat on this helicopter. You just…do your thing. Make that movie magic.”
You groan. “You know I hate that.” Movie magic. The term oozes nothing but cheese.
Mia’s walking away now, a smile on her face as she calls back, “But you love me!”
And you do. You met Mia back in community college when you were both aimlessly jogging through life. Your shared love of movies is what brought you together, an unlikely duo; she’d been a star athlete in high school, spanning volleyball, cheer, gymnastics, and rugby. You, on the other hand, skipped class to practice parkour at the abandoned strip mall with your friends.
You’d gotten your associate’s degree in digital media arts, dreams of editing bays and Adobe software crowding your future. Mia moved to California and lost contact, until you got a phone call six months later asking if you could catch the next flight down. She had a stunt job she couldn’t take, something she swore you’d be perfect for. You didn’t even know she’d gotten into acting.
It was definitely non-union, and certainly dangerous, but the experience was unlike anything you had ever done before. Now, six years later, you mostly sit on the sidelines and watch other stuntpeople pretend to duke it out in front of green screen, or land safely onto crash mats one hundred feet below them. You still love this, still want it. But things aren’t the same. On top of seemingly never-ending demands, the thought of getting into a harness to show an actor how to maneuver around has your stomach churning, the axis vertebrae at the base of your skull flaring with that cushioned stabbing pain.
Life was a lot of that now. Pain, pain management, doctor’s visits and specialist appointments. You are set to make thirty thousand dollars this year, counting every penny to ensure that you qualify for health insurance. Pill bottles click and clack in your belt bag, the only thing interfering with your business casual persona. Lyrica twice a day, at noon and night time, and a concoction of Panadol and naproxen throughout the day for when the pain acts up beyond what the anticonvulsant can cover alone.
There are always odd glances, looks exchanged between your crewmates when you pop a pill next to the catering table or trip over yourself simply standing, due to the side effects. The job is already alienating enough, outside of your assembled stunt team, that you can shrug it off in the moment.
Your wristwatch is telling you that it’s almost six, giving you another ten to fifteen before you have to meander back onto set for the first call time of the day. You lean against the chair behind you, not risking a sit down right now, and sip at your coffee.
-
You’re watching, waiting. Mikey Schultz is at the edge of a lime green block, waiting for the call to action. Keeping your knuckles at your lips, you stand next to Ashton, trying to get a view between the wide camera monitors and the real deal in front of you.
“Action!” Ashton yells from beside you.
The cameras are already rolling, panning up to focus on the actor perched at the edge of the green screen structure. Without hesitation, he jumps, managing the pseudo-superhero landing you’d revised over thirty times in pre-production flawlessly. His knee digs into the foamy crash mat, surely to be edited away in post and replaced with the jungles of the fictional South American country that’s been created for this movie. Despite your quiet, distant opinions on that matter—on the whole movie really—you can’t help but be proud of this moment.
“Cut!”
The end of the take marks the end of your work day.
“Good job everybody! We’ll be back here tomorrow bright and early.” Ashton nods at you, a motion you politely return before walking off set.
Bright and early is, bless the heavens, not the reality for you tomorrow. Tomorrow is what you like to call a dialogue day. They film all the sappy shit—the emotional core, as Ashton loves calling it—and you don’t have to be there until noon for the hospital fight scene.
You find Mia first, approaching her with a wave. She smiles back, walking to meet you in the middle. She has two bottles of water in her hands, and you already know that one is for you. She knows it’s about time to take your meds again; she’s also known you long enough to be hyper-aware of your aversion to drinking water unless instructed to.
“So how was that?” she asks when you’re close enough.
“Another day, another dollar,” you say, taking one of the bottles from her. “I’m going home to crash, for sure.”
Mia nods. “Same. I think—” A ringtone interrupts her. She reaches for the back pocket of her leggings, whipping out her phone. “Hello?”
There is silence for a moment before Mia’s face lights up; you know exactly who it is on the other end. She doesn’t get that sparkling Eiffel Tower look for just anyone.
“Babe, hey,” she says, and then Mia’s frowning at you, mouthing a sorry as she holds up her pointer finger. Just a sec. “I don’t know, what do you want to do for dinner?” She turns away from you, covering one ear to hear her fiancé over the bustle of people hauling ass off set.
A small knot forms in your throat. Not because you’re jealous, and not because Mia’s a bad friend—quite the opposite. Even amidst all of the commotion on set, this still feels like a moment. You’re here, standing, waiting like a jackass for your friend to hang up on the love of her life. Sam’s up visiting from Texas for a week, so it’s been phone calls like this the whole time. Every private tinge of annoyance makes you feel like an awful person.
“Hey, I’m just going to go. That okay?” you ask Mia, who’s only half listening.
She pauses, holding her hand over the speaker of her phone as she pulls it away from her ear. “You sure?”
“Yeah. I’ll see you tomorrow, right?”
Mia nods, giving you a thumbs up, and then she’s fully consumed in the phone call.
Your car is too warm, the Georgian sun filling it with heat while it sat on its own in the parking lot. The A/C is blasting on the drive back to Mableton, its hissing thrum the only sound around you other than the open road. You sprinkle a small white capsule pill from its script bottle, putting it in your mouth and swallowing it down with the water.
Sam and Mia have been engaged for a year, dating for three. You remember their first meet-cute, in some new artsy Los Angeles coffee shop that closed the following year. He’d bought both of your coffees for the morning, and she’d asked for his number. He’s cute, in a nerdy way. You remember the handful of guys Mia was involved with while you two were in college. Sam is definitely an upgrade.
It was an odd occurrence; going through the motions of mourning your health as time neared the anniversary of what happened, only to see happy, smiling engagement photos all over your socials. Mia called you not long after, gushing over the phone. You’d done the part of the good best friend, sharing in her excitement and all of the beautiful potential of the future. After sending her one last peppy text, though, you went radio silent for about three weeks.
You weren’t upset, and if you were, it certainly wasn’t with Mia. The way you liked to think about it was this: It’s very hard to feel good about being miserable when everyone around you is terminally thrilled. You needed space to be despondent. Mia needed space to be elated. Ultimately, you’re still unsure if she ever noticed the intention behind it.
The wedding is planned for next spring. When this shoot ends, it’ll be August, and Mia’s made you promise to block out a few chunks of time here and there to help her out with the specific bridal party details. It’s part of the job of the maid of honour, after all.
Anybody else, anybody normal, would be thrilled. You aren’t. You’d been secretly hoping that Mia would choose her little sister to take on the title. No dice. You’ve told her a million times that you haven’t ever been to a wedding, only funerals, but she wasn’t having any of it.
The things that make the role usually undesirable aren’t even what it is that you’re dreading—picking out a spring colour for yourself and two other women to wear that looks both cohesive and flattering across everyone isn’t that hard. It’s more so all of the questions, the whispers from the old bitties about the distinctly solo bridesmaid—oh god.
Working in film and television doesn’t really afford you the luxury of a relationship. Up until two years ago, you’d lived the life of a creative nomad. You’ve had five apartments since you graduated college, bouncing around the continent with no station to go back to after your father sold your childhood home. There’s a map in your front hall now, charting all the places you’ve lived with thumbtacks and red string: Montreal, North Hollywood, Calgary, Culver City, and now Mableton, Georgia. It’s your own personal serial killer wall.
You had the apartment just outside of Los Angeles when the accident had happened. When you finally got home, everything felt…wrong. The person who’d lived there before wasn’t you, or you weren’t her, everything haunted in the places she’d last left them. So you dumped half of your shit in a Beverly Hills storage locker, bringing the rest with you in boxes down south.
Everyone in California expected you to bounce back right away, like a cervical spine injury was something you could pull yourself up from to walk it off. The doctor forced six months of bed rest on you after the surgery, at minimum. She didn’t know at the time that your life is defined by minimums: minimal pay, minimal oversight, minimal time. You had a job lined up four months in, spending the rest of the other two wondering how many ways you could craft the same placating email to the production company.
You park at the side of the road, looking up at the windows of your apartment. The windows are dark, the curtains drawn. No one is waiting for you up there.
Sometimes, you long for something like that. Wish for the windows to hold light, the shadow of another human being in the light cooking you dinner, watching television. Your mind wanders to the sets of the epically corny love stories you worked on at the very beginning of your career, hauling around lighting equipment and taking coffee orders from the talent. Most of the time, though, you want exactly what you have now.
You take the elevator up in silence, checking your emails and clearing them as you go. When the sleek metal doors slide open before you, you stroll to the end of the tiled hall and wiggle your key into the lock, letting the door squeal open. You toe off your flats at the entryway, leaving them to sit on the floor as the door closes behind you. The light comes on in your kitchen automatically, sensing your presence. It’s only then that you remember the groceries you were supposed to order, jamming the heel of your hand into the middle of your forehead.
“Shit,” you mutter, the shadows on the walls surely berating you silently.
There’s nothing more to do than sigh and scour the cupboards. You find bread tucked away in one of them, one last decent slice and the heel waiting for you in the crinkly plastic.
You stick them both in the toaster Mia got you last Christmas, stacking them onto a plate when they're done. Walking to the couch a mere few feet away, you turn the TV on to the fireplace channel, the one reserved in most households for snowfall and holidays. The toast feels dry in your mouth, wood crackling through the television speakers. Your bones are too tired to do anything else.
Somewhere between ten and eleven, you realize you aren’t going to make it to bed tonight. Your feet feel too wobbly beneath you, eyelids heavy as your vision blurs. So you make yourself comfortable, laying your head on one of your throw pillows, the fabric gritty against your cheek. A last notification lights up your phone, slowly but surely sapping itself of battery beside you. An email. You can just make out the subject line and email addresses; your own CC’ed onto the exchange, along with two others.
Stunt Pilot - Urgent Inquiry
-
It’s just after noon. You sit in a folding chair, watching the scene play out before you. They did all of the blocking before you even got here, a rare occurrence, letting you walk on set ready to watch Mia in action. She performs a wall flip over a stray hospital bed effortlessly, like she was born mid-air. When she kicks Andy square in the padding at his chest, you stifle a bit of a chuckle.
They cut, Mia staying on her mark as she and the actress starring in the film—you’re blanking on her name—swap places. Mia has worked with her on a couple of projects now. For a while, you were picking her up for lunch over at the Warner Brothers’ lot when she was doing a couple of seasons of some teen superhero soap.
Ashton calls action again, and everyone watches as the actress stalks down the hall with her nostrils flaring, splattered in drying blood. Mia sidles up beside you to watch, too, her chest heaving silently as she chugs a bottle of water. They do several takes of this scene, definitely more than necessary. Ashton says that she isn’t capturing enough ennui and your eyes almost roll to the back of your skull.
The break for lunch cannot come any sooner. Hailey from makeup hands Mia a baby wipe to clean up the smear of stage blood on her face.
“I have a surprise for you,” she says, trying to remove the waxy, fire-engine red lipstick that tints her mouth.
“Is it a pony?” you ask, injecting the enthusiasm of a preschooler on Christmas morning into your voice.
“No,” Mia says. “For you, it’s more like a unicorn.”
You arch a brow at her, barely noticing that she’s guiding you away from the catering hall in the direction of the side doors. You realize too late, shielding your eyes from the blazing sun when Mia pushes them open. You mutter a curse at the blinding light, eyes downcast for a brief moment as you still follow her out into the parking lot.
“Are we going to lunch? Or do you just need help getting something out of your car?” you ask, looking at her again.
She meets your eyes, and you watch as her gaze shifts to something in front of you. Following her eyes, you see an unfamiliar pickup truck in the spot to the left of you. It looks a little old and beaten up. You can’t tell what the colour of the body really is, a thin spray of dirt coating most of the hard surface.
You give Mia a strange look. “Did you get me a carpenter?”
“Better,” she says.
You both watch as someone—he—gets out of the driver’s side, muscles in his back flexing against the grey shirt that stretches across his shoulders. The truck door closes with a firm toss as he turns to face the both of you. He’s tall, dark and one might caution to say, handsome. Not you. Mia, probably, if he weren’t standing right there.
Mia’s unicorn lifts his baseball cap off, pushing long hair away from his face before returning it to the crown of his head. A beard, more like scruff, lines his jaw and a bit of his cheeks. If Bass Pro Shops had a Man of the Month calendar, he would be Mr. March.
“Francisco!” Mia calls out to the man, waving him over with a smile. He saunters over, boot-cut jeans tinged with dirt at the bottom hem.
When he meets you on the sidewalk, he shakes Mia’s hand and then yours.
“Frankie’s fine,” he says, a small smile breaking out across his face.
“I’m seeing a distinct lack of a rainbow horn here,” you say, mostly to Mia. Frankie’s smile morphs into confusion, your words pulling a light laugh out of his chest.
“You’re her unicorn,” Mia clarifies. Then, to you, “This is Frankie Morales. He’s a stunt pilot.”
“Think Art Scholl without the tragic plane crash,” he says.
It’s your turn to laugh, a small, brief thing punched from your lungs. “And he’s got jokes.”
“And he’s going to fly your helicopter,” Mia says.
“Really?” you ask, looking at Frankie now.
“You need a chopper flown, I’m your guy,” he nods.
A chopper.
“I guess…you should meet Ashton, then,” you say.
“Oh, yeah. Totally,” Mia agrees.
As the three of you walk back into the studio, you notice how Frankie looks at everything. Not a simple scan, a glimpse over the walls. Looks, like he’s noting every security camera along the walls, every exit sign, the handle on each closed door. That’s definitely something.
Ashton is forking Greek pasta salad into his mouth ever so gracefully when you find him at lunch. You wonder what Frankie thinks of him upon first glance, taking in the designer polo shirt and the beady-lensed sunglasses drooping off the bridge of his nose as he laughs too hard at Gwen’s bad joke. Everyone knows he’s trying to get into the script supervisor’s pants.
“Ashton!” Mia calls for him, interrupting their surely riveting conversation. He frowns at the sight of the three of you.
“Mia,” he says, wiping at his mouth with a napkin.
“We’ve got good news for you.”
“About the helicopter,” you say.
“This is Frankie. He’s going to fly the thing,” Mia says.
You’re expecting Ashton to stand, hold out his hand and greet the man—you know, the polite thing to do with someone you’re about to work with. Instead, Ashton stays seated, pinching his fingers along the left arm of his sunglasses to pull them further down his nose. He gives Frankie a once over, his mouth settling into a line of a smile. Thoroughly unimpressed.
“It’s nice to meet you,” Ashton says.
Immediately, the mood between the four of you shifts. It’s awkward, not because this has to be but because Ashton is making it that way. You can see Frankie tense, visibly drawing a blank as to how he’s supposed to respond.
He opts for, “You too,” raising his eyebrows as he says it. He shoves his hands into the back pockets of his jeans.
“Great,” Mia says, the end of the word tipping up into a question. She steers Frankie away from the interaction. You stay put, gaping a bit incredulously before shaking your head, turning to follow them.
Mia is standing near a catering table, already stammering out a string of sorrys.
Frankie shakes his head. “No need to apologize,” he says. “Not your fault that was…whatever that was.”
“Jesus Christ,” you say.
“He’s not usually like that,” Mia says, which is a lie. “Since you’re here, though, you might as well stay. Grab a sandwich?”
You nod. “You can sign the contract after lunch.” Which means you’ll be spending the hour drafting it.
Frankie appears hesitant, looking between Mia and yourself. You’re not much of a persuader, but Mia can put on these giant sulking doe eyes when she wants to. It’s crippling, shattering any viewer’s ability to not bend to her present wish. With that look, you’re fairly sure she could bring about world peace.
“Okay, sure. Why not?” Frankie asks.
Mia smiles, mission accomplished, and wanders off to raid the salad bar on the other side of the room. You watch her go, shaking your head.
“She always like that?” Frankie asks, still standing behind you.
“Mia? More or less,” you say.
Frankie walks to the end of the table you both stand beside, grabbing a plate. He offers it to you, and you take it. Then he grabs one for himself, shoveling tuna macaroni salad onto the porcelain.
“She’s a good kid, though.”
“Aren’t you two the same age?” he asks.
“Yeah. Kind of feels like I’m her older sister, in a way,” you say.
“In a way?” He watches you grab a set of tongs, a bunch of salad landing on your plate.
“We’ve known each other for a long time. I was usually the more protective one when we were younger.”
“Not now?”
“Well now she doesn’t really need it. And even if she did, it's not like I could do it,” you say. On your worst mornings, you can barely make it out of bed.
A question dances across Frankie’s eyes, but whatever it is, he keeps it to himself.
“Where did she find you anyway?” you ask, changing the subject.
“She emailed me. Just last night, actually, but I’m always in the business for work. Summer’s usually pretty busy, but I’ve got more time on my hands than I’d like this year.”
“So, a stunt pilot. Air shows, then?”
“Air shows, state fairs, military celebrations,” Frankie says. He uses a giant metal spoon to scoop cooked legumes on his plate.
“And you always dreamed of a life in aerobatics, or…?”
“I was in the military for a while, a pilot. Did a couple of tours. When I came home, I still had that itch, y’know? Now that I’ve done it, I can’t stop doing it sort of thing.”
“Oh. I guess that makes sense.” You cringe internally at the lame response.
“What about you?” Frankie asks.
“Went to school for video stuff, did some stunts for a while. Now I do this. Make sure no one loses a limb,” you shrug. The walls are starting to feel a little too close, the scattered conversation of the voices around you peaking in your ears. He opens his mouth to ask another question, but you interrupt. “I hate to leave you stranded but I should probably get back to work.”
“Right, yeah,” Frankie says.
“I’ll have Mia give you the contract when everything’s wrapped up in here.” You smile, hoping it looks more grateful than grimacing.
Throwing a baked potato onto your plate to join the salad, you ditch Frankie at the other end of the table and make a beeline for the doorway. Your stomach twists in your gut, guilt settling before you’re even finished being rude. Someone should tape a sticky note to your back: Hi, I’m an asshole.