Page 49 of Director's Cut

Parking is actually bearable, probably due to the fact that we’re going to a kid-friendly museum on a Monday night during the school year. But there’s a crisp LA winter breeze in the air, which is the perfect excuse for me to throw my black leather jacket over the hoodie, and I realize I missed this. The tar pits, being on a date. All of it. I open the door for Maeve, which is easy enough, but as we step from the parking lot to the entrance to the tar pits, my fingers tingle. I’m not sure if holding her hand is the right thing to do. Both on a date-appropriateness level and just on a being-in-public-and-acting-gay level. I’ve never had any bad experiences with PDA, but it’s always a concern in the back of my head.

“So, what made you pick this spot?” Maeve asks as we get in the one-person line for tickets. Ahead of us is a dude with a big beard, artsy camera, and a fedora. He’s not exactly an odd specimen for LA, but I wonder what brought him to the tar pits on a Monday.

I tug on my jacket sleeve, covering the hoodie. “I always loved it here as a kid. Dinosaurs are great and everything, but Ice Age animals are underappreciated.”

She smiles. “Can’t argue with that.” She stuffs the hand closest to me into her pants pocket. It makes my heart sink. “What’s your favorite Ice Age animal, and were you obsessed with the movie Ice Age? Because if so, we have to stop dating.”

Oh, I caught that jab. “Okay, first off, fuck you, Ice Age the original was great, and dire wolf.”

Maeve’s eyes widen. “Wait, shit, that’s not something Game of Thrones made up?”

I make a mock surprised expression. “You don’t know about the majestic and very real dire wolf, may it rest in peace?”

She laughs as the hipster guy takes his ticket from the attendant. “Well”—her hand launches out of her pocket and squeezes my shoulder—“you’ll have to show me one.”

I’ve been touched before. But I’m sure Maeve thinks I haven’t when I stiffen abruptly like her touch is an electric current. I would’ve never clocked Maeve for an affectionate person. But here she is, in her casual wear, freely throwing me smiles and touching me lightly, and it’s like the floodgates open. I want to grab her hand, I want to squeeze her in a hug, I want to take her lips in mine and know what that sweater feels like under my grip.

Hipster Guy catches my gaze as he passes. He stares a hair too long, the familiar look of someone having a celebrity recognition light bulb moment. My gut twists until he turns his head back toward the inside of the museum and raises his camera to photograph something that isn’t me.

I grab Maeve’s hand for just a second. A guiding touch. “Let’s check out the tar pits themselves first.”

Maeve follows along, watching the entrance to the museum as we walk. “Did you know that guy?” she asks as we approach the tar.

“No, he just recognized me,” I reply.

“Right.” She clears her throat. “I forget you’re famous sometimes.”

I wince. I think about what Trish said, what’s expected of me. What may be expected of her. Maybe it’s good practice for both of us. “That makes one of us.”

My heart flutters as we approach the pits. This was more exciting as a kid. Right now, the tar pits are just, well, tar pits. Still, there’s a shiny new railing around them, they sparkle in the sunlight, and it looks like the museum recently refurbished the illustrations of mammoths and other animals in distress dying in the tar. It’s a little more morbid (and tar-smelling) than I was going for, but there’s something charming about the setup nonetheless.

Maeve doesn’t seem to mind either way. She leans on the railing and stares at the bubbling tar. “Does it ever get overwhelming? The way the success of your career is so linked to fame?”

I run a hand through my hair. It’s really getting too long. I should cut it. I wonder if Maeve prefers it this length, though. “I think I used to care more. But as I move into doing more indie work, and build an audience there, I think it starts to matter less. And I’m not getting any younger, any shinier, or any newer. I try to think of it as a relief.”

“You don’t seem to enjoy it. Fame.”

I don’t know what’s put this in Maeve’s head, but I’d love it if the universe would stop prompting her to ask questions about fame, thank you.

“I mean, I don’t think anyone but the clinical narcissists do.”

Maeve smiles. “Aren’t most actors raging narcissists, though?”

I wonder if Maeve thought I was one.

I chuckle. “Half are. The other half are dysfunctionally anxious.”

Somehow, it was the right thing to say. The move is subtle, soft. She slides her hand over to mine on the railing. Puts a couple of fingers over my knuckles. I intertwine our fingers. A conversation that would otherwise send my heart racing is actually slowing it down.

“Do you ever think about leaving it? Forever?”

The opportunity is suspended in the air: I could tell her the truth. That I’ve been really, actively trying to leave Hollywood behind as I pursue this teaching thing. I haven’t overtly said the leaving Hollywood part, and I’m sure she thinks I’d never give up the life I have.

But the words that come out of my mouth are “I don’t know.”

When I do know. Right? I just turned down a career-changing acting-and-directing role because teaching—and Maeve—are all I’ve been thinking about for months. It’s like a part of me still wants to hide the truth away, to freeze time and pretend this is just a possibility me, Charlie, Trish, and Luna are talking about hypothetically.

“Well, for what it’s worth, I think you’re a really good teacher. You inspire the kids.”

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