Page 48 of The Reunion

As far as trekking across Los Angeles is concerned, the drive from the London West Hollywood to Vienna’s hilltop bungalow in Silver Lake isn’t the worst. The house is a tiny, secluded little thing, and from the road, you’d never guess a renowned filmmaker like Vienna calls it home. Probably the exact reason she was drawn to it, now that I think about it.

“Liv!” she welcomes me, flinging the door open wide. “It’s beenages—you look stunning! Come in, come in.”

Vienna and I are close to the same age—she’s actually a year younger—but it sometimes feels like she has five or ten years on me. She knowsexactlywho she is and makes no apologies. Nowhere are those qualities more evident than in her work—that she trusts my creative input still feels like a mystery—but the decor here in her new place also feels carefully curated. Every wall is bright white, clearly designed to make the room look airy, and the floors are an immaculate blond wood. The overall feel is crisp, clean, and minimal, neutral grays with the occasional pop of jewel-toned accent colors, potted plants scattered in all the right places to add a touch of warmth and life.

All of this is the perfect backdrop to Vienna herself, who is anything but neutral. She radiates light and creative energy, from her messy topknot to the light denim cutoffs unraveling at a length that accentuates her toned, tan legs to the oversized cardigan knitted from thick wool she probably commissioned from someone on Etsy (someone, no doubt, who dyes their own yarn with indigo and henna).

“Have you eaten?” she asks, leading me into her postage stamp–sized kitchen. “I made a big batch of soba noodles with peanut sauce and lime—you’re not allergic to peanuts, are you? Or, hmm, let’s see… just made a trip to the farmers market yesterday, so I’ve got lots of produce on hand if you want something like that. Or I can make us tea? My sister sent me the most amazing shortbread cookies if you’d like to try those; I’ve got some plain ones and also some with orange zest that’ve been dipped in chocolate. Really, you’re welcome to anything, everything!”

I take her up on the tea, and ten minutes later we’re settled in on her back patio. Like the rest of the house, it’s minimalistic, a simple gray deck with walls made of stained wooden slats and some modern bohemian outdoor furniture. What it lacks in size, it makes up for in view—the LA skyline looks incredible from this vantage point, high up in the hills.

“So, Liv, thanks so much for meeting with me on such short notice,” she says, as ifshewere the one who initiated this and not the other way around. “Mars mentioned you’ve got a number of projects on your radar right now, so I’m happy to fill you in on the ideas I’ve been tossing around.”

Over the next twenty minutes, she cracks open the door to her brain, and it’s like being exposed to a sliver of white-hot sunlight, intense and sparkling and luminous. I drain my tea down to the dregs, listening to her vision for the project—a love story set in a cabin in some rainy woods, with an element of mystery and the sort of nonlinear, innovative structure where the viewer gets bits and pieces of the story in a strategic order that will require a good deal of nuance and subtlety on my part, and whoever is cast opposite as my love interest.

“I want to call itemit // time,” she says, jotting it down haphazardly on a page in her blank Moleskine sketchbook. “It’s a play on the structure and the theme, see?Timebackward—it’semit, which I kind of love, even though people will probably think it’s a really strange title. Honestly, that’s part of why I love it. And it’s a nice parallel withLove // Indigo, with the slash marks there.… I’m thinking you and I can title all our films together with this pattern from here on out, like a signature for our collaborations!”

My stomach flutters at the mention ofall our films togetherandlike a signature for our collaborations—she’s clearly several steps ahead of herself, seeing as how I have not yet been officially approached to sign on for eventhisproject, but it’s flattering and exciting nonetheless. Even though she’s been talking nonstop for half an hour now, I know from past experience that it would be a true collaboration, as it always is with us.

“So?” she asks, finally taking a sip of her tea that’s surely gone cold by now. “What do you think?”

I think it’s brilliant.

I think it would show my range as an actress, and Vienna has a particular talent for drawing out the best in me.

I think I want to do it.

And… I think I should probably ask some questions. Not to mention, have business affairs at the agency look over the fine print.

“It sounds incredible,” I say, careful not to say anything along the lines ofYes, sign me up yesterday—she’ll take it as a commitment.

“So you’ll do it?” she says, practically leaping out of her seat. “Ahhhhh, this is going to beperfect, Liv, it’s just so rare that you find a collaborative relationship like we have that I almost forgot we hadn’t actuallytalkedabout it yet until your agent reached out.”

“Yes, and speaking of,” I cut in before she can get another word in, “Mars asked to see the paperwork before I sign or commit to anything. You know how that goes.”

She freezes, only for a split second, just long enough that I can tell she forgot there are a number of dull hoops to jump through before I’m officially attached; Mars is a saint for always sorting all that out. But then Vienna breaks into a wide smile and says, “Of course, yes, I’ll have the producers get that to her before the end of the week forsure. Here, you havegotto try this shortbread—it’s utterly seraphic!”

I take one of the chocolate-dipped orange-zest cookies from the plate, and she raises hers together with mine as if we’re toasting champagne.

“To us!” she says, startling a lizard that’s just fallen asleep in the dirt of a nearby potted succulent. “And to my star, who might just winall the awards for this one!” Her energy is contagious—it’s one of the things I’ve always loved most about her. She has this uncanny ability to make even the loftiest dreams feel like they’re just close enough to take hold of, to make them feel like a sure thing.

And the thing is, she’s almost always right.

The first bite of cookie isn’t even halfway down my throat when I realize: the contract could be a prison sentence, for all perpetuity, as extends to the far reaches of the universe, and I’d probably still sign it.

Again, I say: Mars is a saint.

By the time I get home, it’s just after ten and I’m exhausted. This day feels like it’s lasted a thousand years—it seems impossible that Ransom was here, on my couch, less than twenty-four hours ago, impossible that we were on set just this morning and late into the afternoon. My head is spinning from everything I talked about with Vienna. It also doesn’t help that sound bites from my dinner conversation with Mars, Attica, and Bre are chasing themselves in a loop: all the bright, sparkling possibilities, followed by deep shadows of doubt, followed by hope and worry, and—finally—back around to the reassuring reminder that having so many potential options can only be a good thing.

Rinse and repeat.

My phone vibrates on my bathroom counter, loud against the white marble, as I wash the day off my face. It’s Ransom:missing you tonight, can’t wait for our rain check tomorrow… wanna hear all about vienna!

It was amazing, I reply once I’ve dried my hands.Will tell you all about it tomorrow xo

speaking of tomorrow, he writes back,your call time is at 6am, too, yes?

Yes… why?I glance at the clock on instinct, mentally calculating how much later I can afford to stay up before crashing tonight. Forty-five minutes—an hour, max, if I want to be fresh tomorrow. And I need to be fresh.

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