Page 55 of Sizzle Reel

“Exactly. Closeted girls tend to be very unsure. They’re trying to test the waters and they’re easily scared. And there’s nothing wrong with experimenting with them and helping them figure it out, but it can also be a whole lot of pain. And I’d hate for you to be with someone who’s still doubting their sexuality. You don’t need any external doubt. You should be with”—she inhales sharply—“someone like me, you know?”

Someone like her? Or—

“Look, dude,” she says, “I have to work on these invitations.” Her tone sounds alarmingly similar to mine with my mom last night. “Sit with it for a bit.”

I still have more questions bubbling around my head, but signal received. I need to be a better friend to her. She’s been so supportive of my art, and I need to do the same thing for her. Getting her those backgrounds is barely the equivalent of all the writing help she gave me in undergrad. So no more Valeria talk today.

“You know,” I say as I inch my hand closer to hers, “it’s pretty fucking amazing that you’re about to be showcased. With the script you said was niche and weird and uninteresting. I’m so glad that soon everyone’s going to see what I already know—that you’re completely brilliant.” A tiny smile forms on her face. “Also, do you want to talk about last night? About the pronouns?”

Red creeps up Romy’s face. “Yes, that.” She kicks her feet. “I’m still figuring everything out. Right now, she/her still feels right. Thanks for asking, though.”

I smile. “Of course.”

But Romy returns to her work almost immediately. The window she opened about gender is now firmly shut.

Once I realize she’s really not going to continue the conversation, I turn back to my phone. My Instagram notifications are still going wild. I’ve gained about two hundred new followers, and now all my recent posts are suddenly populated with comments like how do you know Valeria? and do you have more of Valeria? My DMs are from film school acquaintances suddenly hitting me up, but obviously all they want to do is ask about her.

My phone goes off.

My heart leaps. It’s a picture from Valeria. I glance over at Romy, who hasn’t noticed. Guilt nibbles at me; did I really need to take up Romy’s time making her talk me down when all it took for the anxiety to disappear was a text?

I sigh and open it.

It’s a meme with the caption, Boss: This position is actually being an assistant to 2 people but it’s the same pay since we split you. Me: [the picture of Valeria dying on the table].

Her text reads: The true milestone of fame.

So she isn’t mad at me after all. I didn’t mess everything up.

I text back: I can make you look better than that.

Fuck. Why the fuck did I text that?

I add: On a camera.

Can you?

I just need another chance. I need a spot where we can be fully alone, where it’s just the camera and us. I can give her footage that won’t be shared with anyone. I’ll show her how well I can execute my ideas. Do her a favor, show her how well I can frame her. She’ll be fully on my team again.

I know it’s last minute, but would you want to do a legit photoshoot? There’s this incredible cliffside spot in San Pedro called Sunken City. The aesthetic is

Can we do later today? My sister’s devil’s advocate Calabasas trust fund baby husband is back in town and I’ll call this “mandatory work.”

This is the first time Valeria’s mentioned her family in the weeks I’ve known her.

What time specifically do I have to save you?

What time do you need for lighting? It’s an outdoor location, right?

I’d want an hour before golden hour. So could you be at the spot at like 7?

ORRR I show up at your apartment and we carpool so I can kill an extra hour of avoidance?

You’d really drive like an hour out of the way and make the drive to Sunken City longer than it’d be from your house?

Absolutely. What am I wearing?

My chest is getting warm already as I send her some inspiration ideas.

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