Page 72 of Director's Cut

The choruses of “Valeria!” start, making my name not sound like my name anymore. The requests for a shot of “just me” come pretty fast. I glance at Maeve; she nods back. Even though it’s the last thing I want to do, I step a few feet from her. A clean shot for the dozens of cameras.

I go through the motions, adjust the way I stand, where I put my hands, how I angle my chin, and how I screw my face up to give my neutral glamor look. Give a few practiced smiles. Accidentally throw up a peace sign.

“Valeria, who’s the girl?” Shayne, one of the reporters I actually recognize and kind of like, says.

“My girlfriend.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I note how Maeve remains relaxed as I say the word out loud. So far, so good.

“Can we get some photos?”

I look to Maeve again; she nods. But she’s shaking again as I put my arm around her. “If you’re worried about your face, kiss my cheek. You always look good that way.”

“Lipstick?” she asks.

“It’s transfer-proof.”

She puts her arm around me, slowly relaxing into familiar territory. She looks to me, and copies what I do. No smiles at first, but neither of us can keep from them long. She kisses my cheek once, very quickly, though, clearly not in the full mood for hamming it up for the camera. Some of the photographers whoop.

I look over at Shayne, who smirks and asks, “Can we get a full kiss? For the gays.” A little joke between us that yes, I’m fully aware she’s gay too. “And name?”

I turn to Maeve, heart in my throat. It’s such a simple gesture, one we’ve done so many times, but I still feel like I’m on the downward slope of a roller coaster as I swoop in to kiss her. Closed mouth, my hands on her cheeks as she leaves hers around my waist. Her lips are so soft, and I feel so secure in her arms. It makes my heartbeat thrum and I get into it, kiss her a little longer than I probably should.

The photographers all look to Maeve. Her grip on me tightens. She opens her mouth, but her voice just cracks.

“Maeve Arko,” I say as we pull away.

But I don’t look at the photographers. I focus on Maeve, searching her features for any distress. Is this too much too soon, was that too long a kiss, anything. But she looks relieved. More than that. She’s got a smile plastered on her face, and she’s looking at me like I’m the only person in this crowded venue.

She leans in to whisper to me. “I’ve never had someone cheer for my PDA.”

I giggle, my hand naturally falling to her arm even though we’re separated now.

And it hits me.

I’m on the red carpet with a woman. I’m on the red carpet and I don’t have to pretend I’m dating Charlie or that I just wanted to bring my family. I’m on the red carpet with my girlfriend. We love each other, and we just kissed and the people around us cheered. Me, a girl, kissed my girlfriend on the red carpet, and nothing bad is happening.

Three years of agony, three years that nearly took everything from me, and it’s over. I never have to do that again. After so long thinking I’d never make it to the next day, let alone get to the other side, a place where I was happy. And now I’m there. I’m on that other side. I can finally be myself up here and everything is okay. It’s a spark of good in those months where I wondered if the invasive questions made coming out worth it at all.

I know it right then and there. It was all worth it.

I’m trying to blink back the tears, but they’re slipping down my cheeks.

“Aw, Val,” Maeve says. She reaches over and blots my tears. I hope I didn’t wreck my makeup.

The camera clicks snap around us, but it’s over so fast. The tears are gone, I’ve checked my makeup in a compact and it’s fine, and Maeve and I are walking toward the entrance to the Dolby hand in hand.

I can’t believe this is my life now.

I think Maeve’s enjoying herself. I hope she is. So far she’s gotten through the first half of the infamously long program. I get a camera recording some of my too-honest facial reactions to the usual weird shit they always pull. I’m actually in a decent mood but, as usual, by the time Charlie and I go up to present Best Supporting Actress, I’m starving (fuck when they stopped having late-night hosts try to outperform each other by delivering us food mid-show) and I’m ready to book it. In fact, if Maeve doesn’t want to go to an after-party, I think we’ll just go get food and head home.

Even though I’ve been doing public speaking for a long time now, being in front of this audience, knowing any flub I make will be part of a BuzzFeed article in two seconds, I’ll admit my heart’s racing a little. There’s a teleprompter I can still sort of see without my glasses, but the nerves are present and accounted for. I slide my glasses on. I can just see out of the corner of my eye Charlie leaning toward the mic.

“Just for some behind-the-scenes trivia, this is all scripted and she’s only wearing those to look hot,” Charlie says, easily improving as usual.

I shoot him a look as everyone laughs. I’m intending to jokingly slap his wrist away, but I end up making the fucking envelope unceremoniously tumble to the ground. The crowd’s laughter only gets louder as I put my hands over my face, half in shock and half to hide any changes to my complexion.

“Jesus Christ,” Charlie says as I bend down and slip forward, spending one heart-stopping moment where I’m convinced I’m falling off the stage—

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