Page 3 of Director's Cut

Person who prompted it. No, no one’s asked this before. They’re too polite to. But the words flood into my head like I’ve rehearsed this one to death. Her name is Luna. She’s a sweet, oh-so-talented young cinematographer who reminded me there was cerebral connection in my vapid world, who was so tortured under the weight of what society had drilled into her, who still got up and made herself happy through the tearstains. Who—just like every other closeted Hollywood girl who’s ended up in my bed over the past seven years—I’d never out in a million years.

And I don’t know what comes over me, but it feels a hell of a lot better than the squirming panic. If he’s going to keep fucking interrupting, I can play too. I smirk.

“You really want me to name names, don’t you? You want to imagine it was some costar whose name you can use for clickbait? You don’t have to be so coy.”

I wait for him to back down, ignoring the burning embarrassment that’s fallen over my skin. But all he does is shrug.

“Well, will you?” He says it with a laugh. “People were really shipping you and Phoebe Wittmore during the Goodbye, Richard! junkets.”

Of course they were. That was the last junket I did before coming out of the closet last year, where my anxiety was so bad that I could barely eat or sleep and existed in a perpetual state of nearly blacking out between the carousel of interviews; where every brush of Phoebe’s shoulder against mine reminded me of the mediocre “experimental” sex we had indeed had; where I still laughed and flirted and charmed her because even if she was straight, she was the person I knew. In those junkets where one wrong word could out me, I took whatever comforting presences I could.

I laugh, despite the fact that my insides are melting as fast as my sweat-slicked skin. “Are you gonna bust out the real people fanfic next?”

The laughter is getting thinner and thinner. Winston, in fact, is the only one who’s laughing in any meaningful way. “Man, testy. And they say the best time in a celebrity’s life is after they come out of the closet.”

I can’t see Trish. I can’t see Trish, and it’s a good thing. Because when I stand up and walk out opposite the way I came on, I only make it behind the curtain because I don’t see anyone’s faces. My ears are ringing, my insides are as liquid as the tears in my eyes. I only take in one thing.

There were thirty seconds left in the interview, and I just walked off.

Trish finds me within seconds—but they feel like hours. She grabs me like a summer breeze, whisking me out with barely a touch on my shoulder. A tinted-window Escalade picked me up for the interview this afternoon, but Trish leads us to her midnight-black BMW. She blasts the air-conditioning against the lingering furnace of LA August. Winston’s studio’s in Downtown LA, one of the few places in this sprawling town that captures heat the way New York City does. I take a seat in her cushy white leather, acutely aware of how my neck sticks to it. As I undo my hair from the updo my stylist could barely create with my growing-out pixie cut, Trish turns the knob on her radio and backs her car out of a parking spot.

“I’m not mad at you,” Trish says, slicing through the silence. “I know you said Steven was pretty harsh about missteps. This isn’t a misstep. At least, I don’t see it that way. I’m on your side.”

I snort. “You’re my manager. You have to be.”

“As a lesbian woman, I was horrified on your behalf.”

It’s a brief, but familiar, spark of comfort, one I’ve felt since I connected with powerhouse Trish: queer woman topping Hollywood best-of-business lists that are otherwise stuffed with lukewarm straight people, and then landed her as my manager. It’s a start.

“You know doing interviews with people like us aren’t going to get me trending.”

“And I don’t particularly care about that.”

We merge onto the 101. It’s so late that there isn’t any traffic.

“You were off before the interview even started. I can’t imagine you’d have flipped out otherwise, not with your poise. So, what’s on your mind?”

“He was supposed to be interviewing me about my directing and teaching. He couldn’t even stick to it for two questions.”

Trish frowns. “Val—”

“I was an idiot to think that I could change that. People only want me if I’m a gay actress.”

“And you knew you’d be wading back into the bullshit. I know we didn’t expect it to hit like this, but it’s just nonsense we have to deal with to get to the art. You’ve always wanted to act and direct. Remember? You told me that when we first signed. You were so excited to make art without having to justify your identity or views. We’re almost there.”

“Do you really, truly think, even if Oakley sells, that I’ll ever direct another feature? Would anyone buy one if I’m not acting in it?”

“You know I can’t predict the market that way.”

“But you’ve seen a hell of a lot of actors try to break into directing. You’ve seen what kind of folks make more than one film.” I squeeze my hands together. “Do you think I’m one of them?”

Trish is silent—painfully silent—for a long time. Enough time for a lump to migrate up my throat. “If you woke up tomorrow and could only act, would you quit Hollywood?”

If I woke up tomorrow and all I could ever do was sift through scripts hoping for one written with empathy for people like me, hoping I’d get paired with a director who was organized, talented, and kind, and then throwing myself through the press ringer after being cornered into another obtuse lesbian role and only talk about that—yeah, I know the answer to that.

“No.” Panic beats its wings in my stomach. “But what choice do I have? What else would I do?”

Trish doesn’t have an answer.

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