Page 7 of Falling Like Stars

“How have we not met before?” he asks.

“They had me working in the second unit until last week.” And before I can stop myself, I add, “That was pretty rough, what you did tonight.

“Yeah, but something’s off,” Zachary says. “My brain is wound up tight with my own shit and Boyd’s shit, and I’m starting to lose track of the scene. I need to do something that includes Javier in the moment so it’s not just me flipping out like a maniac.” He smiles ruefully. “They’re going to think I’m a diva.”

Zachary’s too authentic for that and I would know; I’ve seen my fair share of divas on various sets over the last five years.

He shakes his head. “You don’t need me dumping all that in your lap.”

I hardly hear him; my eyes are on the coat rack in the corner of the office. “What about…?” I catch myself and shake my head. “Never mind. It’s none of my business.”

“No, tell me,” Zach says. “If you have an idea, I’ll take it. I’m drowning here.”

“Hugo wears the same scarf in almost every exterior shot,” I say. “It’s an identifying item. Personal to him.”

Talking about costumes—even just a stupid scarf—makes my stomach queasy, but Zach is nodding.

“Right,” he says. “Hugo takes off the coat and scarf before Boyd corrals him into the chair.”

“So what if he never gets a chance to take off the scarf?” I speak. “The whole point of the scene is that Hugo realizes Boyd has done something Very Bad to his family and is about to die, right? It’s all over. So maybe you could show the audience, and Hugo, that the transformation has reached its terrible conclusion when Boyd takes a piece of Hugo’s clothing and…I don’t know, does something with it. Nothing obvious or cliched but more of a Zach Butler-method-acting kind of thing.”

For a second, I think I’ve overstepped, or he’ll think I’m making fun of him. I’m going to get fired for sure, but Zach is nodding, his eyes full of thoughts.

“A conduit between Hugo and Boyd.” His head swivels to me, his eyes tired but lit up now. “Thank you, Rowan. I think you’ve just saved my ass. I’ll talk it over with Javier and—”

“No problem,” I say, and I’m already backpedaling away, blending and disappearing into the moving parts of the set.

Zachary has a powwow with Sam and Javier. At one point, he seems to be looking for me. I keep behind the video village where I can see Zach on the monitors, but he can’t see me. The men all nod, looking thrilled. My idea means reshooting the entrance, but I guess they all agree it’s worth it since, when Javier takes his place in the chair, he’s wearing the scarf.

The set grows quiet. The first AD does her checks and then Sam calls action.

My heart is pounding, watching, waiting to see what Zach is going to do. The scene progresses as usual, with rising intensity, before Zach lets it rip with the EVERYTHING line.

It’s supposed to end there, but instead, Zachary-as-Boyd cocks his head, studying his prey. Javier-as-Hugo is given the time to sit with exactly what’s happened—this madman has likely killed his wife and child. He begins to cry.

Boyd slowly pulls the scarf from around Hugo’s neck, an inch at a time. “Don’t be like that,” he says—an improvisation—and dabs Hugo’s tears with it. Gently. With sinister care. “It’s almost over.”

Hope flares in Hugo’s eyes. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe there’s a chance. But Boyd keeps pulling the scarf and slowly winds it around his own neck. A transfer. A symbolic becoming.

“Just a little more,” Boyd says gently, and the crowbar comes up. “Just a little more and then it’s over.”

The room is silent for a beat and then erupts into applause. Javier shakes off his pain like a mask, and he pulls Zachary into a hug, thumping his back. Sam Jenkins joins them in a huddle. The rest of the crew is all smiles. I allow myself a private one before that old familiar ache steals any pleasure I might’ve had. The one that says I could do more than fetch battery packs and water bottles.

That was a different life, I remind myself.

I take a breath and concentrate on what awaits me. My actual life, such as it is. The rest of the crew will go back into town, to the production’s hotel, but I have other plans. Another PA stops me on the way out.

“Hey, Rowan, you want a ride?” Jonathan’s smile is bright and obviously hopeful. But he’s too nice, ergo: not my type.

“Shit, you know what,” I say, “I forgot to sign out.”

“We can wait.”

“Nah, go ahead. I’m good.”

I don’t wait for an answer, but head back inside and loiter in the foyer, pretending to be engrossed in my phone. I have a new message from my dating app.

Clay Davis: Round two?

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