Page 83 of Director's Cut

I haven’t told her yet.

I haven’t told her yet and it’s on Deadline. I haven’t told her yet, and I could’ve told her two days ago, a month ago, four months ago.

All that time I could’ve done it, and now it’s just been snatched from me.

The class is clapping. Students are asking questions. But it’s like they’re not speaking English, or like the volume is too low and I’m straining to hear them. Nothing makes sense, and even their faces are starting to blur so they’re splotches of color rather than humans I just spent the last hour interacting with. I can’t feel my feet on the ground, this room isn’t familiar, yet I know where I am. I know what was just said. I know, I know, yet I—

I touch my face, drag it down to my throat. My heartbeat is slamming against my fingertips, racing like a hummingbird. I must look shell-shocked. I can’t look this shell-shocked in front of the students. I swallow, but there’s no bile taste in my mouth this time. The anxiety is so fucking intense that it’s ascended to a new level that doesn’t affect my body at all.

“Congrats, Val,” Maeve says.

I hear her.

I hear the way she sounds confused, the way her voice cracks a little like I’ve hurt her. It feels like I cracked one of her bones. A wall of guilt descends on me.

I have to speak. I’ve been silent for too long.

“Thanks, guys,” I say, looking at the students rather than Maeve. “I can’t answer any questions about it, but I’ll keep you updated.”

I need my bag. I need my bag, and I need to get out of this room, and if I can just do that, everything will be okay. Maeve will be okay. I’ll be okay.

I laser focus on the bag. Grab it even as Maeve enters my peripheral vision. The lights go down as the La La Land screening starts. I dart toward the door, bumping into an empty seat in the audience, all but stumbling my way out. I know I’m awake, but I feel like I’m dreaming.

The doors are heavy, but I force them open. My eyes sting as the light of day burrows into my vision. The clack of heels follows behind me.

Then her hand’s on my shoulder. It burns. It’s the hand of the woman I love, the woman I’ve hurt. “Val, what’s going on?”

I force myself to turn to face her. Her lips are turned downward, and there’s a deep furrow between her brows. She drops her hand.

“I thought you only had your movie submitted for Sundance.” A twisted, confused smile plays on her lips. Like she wants to make light of this but can’t do it. “Why didn’t you tell me about Cannes?”

I have to say it. I have to say it I have to say I have to fucking say it. “I’ll have to be in the South of France the same day Ashlee is going to be watching your class for the grant. I’ll be there during study days and final grading too.”

She blanches, stopping dead in the empty courtyard. “I— Why didn’t you speak up when Ashlee said that week if you knew—you—there’s no way Deadline knew before you did.”

“I don’t know.” That’s not the right thing to say.

“Val, I’m”—she pinches her nose—“I’m so confused. How long have you known you had a potential conflict with class? Why didn’t you tell me?”

I never thought she’d be hurt by my lie. Angry, yes, but this—in the strangest sense, this isn’t what I expected to feel from her response either. It’s not worth hurting her. Not by a long shot. How could I have done this to her? “I don’t know.”

Her mouth hardens. Her frown shifts to a scowl. “How long have you known?”

I force a breath. “I knew about the possibility since December.”

“Since…?” Her hands rise as if to touch her ear, but she yanks them back tightly to her sides. “You’ve been lying to me since before we had this class planned? Why?”

“I don’t know…” I need to say something else.

“Were you—were you even planning on telling me?”

As much as it pains me to admit it, if Paul hadn’t said anything, I might not have told her. It sounds so fucking absurd, and I can’t justify it and never will be able to. “I was going to have someone come in to sub for me—an alternate. I’d help with the lecture still. I wanted that squared away so you wouldn’t have to panic.”

She throws up her hands, leans into me. I thought I knew the cold, angry look in Maeve’s eyes from back when we met, but no, this is true anger. Icy gaze, lips practically curled into a snarl. She’s getting right into my personal bubble when I want that bubble to be five fucking feet wide. My girlfriend, whom I want in every aspect of my life, is too close. I can’t breathe. “But why wouldn’t you tell me you were submitting to more festivals? I could’ve supported you through that. And the good news—I just don’t get it. We’re a team. Why wouldn’t you—?”

“I’m sorry.” I need a second to breathe. I’m not ready for the way her hurt oscillates into an anger on the verge of tears. Any good, rational response slips out of my grasp. My mind is blank, I’m scrambling for something, anything to say—

And I make a mistake.

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