Page 36 of Director's Cut

And with that, she leaves me alone. The last person in the lecture hall.

I’m an actress.

If I were going to be a real dickhead about it, I could add Academy Award–winning to qualify that, just like they do in trailers for my movies.

But today my profession has one purpose: getting me through this Phantom of the Opera lecture without staring at Maeve, without interpreting every last twitch of her lips, every single time she tucks a hair behind her ears.

After the midterm coffee rejection, I let Maeve be. We exchanged a few emails in the lead-up to this week, revising the lecture; she told me to take the lead, and here we are. It’s only been seven days, but the cavern I feel like I somehow dug has made each hour feel like an eternity. And now I have to get through Phantom of the Opera—the quintessential tortured preteen theater girl movie—and not look at the woman who told me she touches herself thinking about women. Plus, as much as I’m feeling better about Sundance and I’m eager to keep working with Maeve on honing my teaching skills, I’m exhausted.

But once Maeve collects the students’ midterms, she leaves the floor to me with a smile.

I’m an actress, so I act. I keep my recap of Andrew Lloyd Webber’s life snarky and informative, involve the ever more eager students as much as possible, and explain cinematography and directing while leaving enough time for Maeve to discuss the history of opera. Maeve and I are in sync in the only language we know how to be in sync in, but the fact that I don’t know if she’ll scurry off again when lecture ends leaves a hollow feeling in my chest.

So as soon as class does end, I turn off. My heartbeat slows, but I still struggle to get breath into my lungs as students file out of the room. Thank god, none of the students—not even Jamie or Cory—stick around to ask questions or chat. In fact, the next class is already entering the room. I can envision the rest of the day—pajamas, a mind-numbing video game, then Nobu tonight, where I’ll ask Mason to hook me up with a rando. I’ll wash Maeve and the friendship that never was out of my brain even if it hurts.

And then Maeve’s standing in front of me in a navy blazer and ankle pants (Fuck you Charlie, these were on trend). She’s smiling again, which is curious.

“Do you have plans tonight?” she asks.

The answer is a clear-cut yes, but I can’t get the words out. “Uh—”

She grabs my wrist, nearly knocking me out of my skin. “Because you don’t now.”

I swear Maeve’s touch is like a shot of B12. My skin’s electrified, burning where her hand touched me over a generic black blazer I found in the back of my closet. And as Maeve gently tugs me out of the room, I desperately want my blazer to creep up. I want to feel that burning touch right on my skin. We leave the crowds of students in the building and head out into a punch of cold on this bizarrely chilly day, and then we’re back inside, in her office.

“Should I ask what we’re doing?” I say.

At this point, I’ve had three weeks of Nice Maeve, maybe five if I counted the weeks where she was awkwardly ignoring me as nice rather than mean. The nice shift has slowly overtaken the four weeks of Asshole Maeve, but I don’t trust the change yet.

“Almost,” Maeve says. She checks her phone and smiles.

She takes us up the elevator and stops dead in front of a Postmates guy.

“Maeve?” he asks, monotone.

Maeve gives him a quick smile of confirmation and plucks a takeout bag out of his hands. The Postmates guy stares at me as we walk back to her office. The sun’s starting to go down, bathing the room in an orangey light. It’s not quite late enough for us to turn on the lights, but it’ll be that time soon enough.

Maeve sets her things down and places the bag onto her cleared desk. She unwraps whatever’s inside like she’s a magician. I bite my inner cheek.

“So,” Maeve says, “I had to watch a ton of your interviews, but I finally figured out your favorite food.” She pulls out three little circular tins. Plucks the lids off all of them. “Or at least something you like when you’re not on a diet.”

Skillet cookies.

A lump forms in my throat, and I struggle for breath as I cover my mouth with my hands. Why would she—?

“I knew you were upset on Saturday at your house, but I didn’t think it was my place to push myself in,” Maeve says. “But I’ve been thinking about it nonstop since then. I should’ve done this when you asked about coffee last week, but I…” She pauses. “I was nervous I’d cross some boundary like I did last time. But it must’ve looked like I hated you, which I don’t. So…can I make up for it with a bit of kindness?” She pauses again, staring at me. Arms stiff at her sides. “Are you okay with hugging?”

It’s not funny, but I find myself coughing out a laugh as I say, “Yes.”

She hugs me tight, close. Our bodies bury into each other; I can feel her heartbeat through our suits. She fans her fingers out over my shoulder blades and for just a moment, I give up and rest my chin on her shoulder.

“My directorial debut didn’t get into Sundance,” I mutter. “That’s all it was about.”

My directorial debut, the first story that sunk into my bones, the project I put thousands of hours into, that genuinely filled me with a sense of hope because I finally saw a representation of myself reflected back on the screen.

“I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine how much that stings,” she says as she pulls away. She claps her hands together. “Well, then consider these Fuck Sundance cookies.”

I smile. Around Maeve, smiling is starting to feel like the most natural thing in the world.

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