Page 23 of Steamy on Set

The feel of my wool jacket presses into my palm as I clench it in my fists. I search his eyes for an explanation, but all that is reflected back is pure rage.

“What are you talking about?”

“By changing the breakup outfit, you are changing the characters motivation. When you change their motivation, you change the script. It is not your place to change the script.”

The tears begin to flow as I widen my eyes in shock, letting them escape. I wipe the evidence on my sleeve before looking back at him. In the face of my crying, he softens a little, the anger looking more like slight irritation.

“I didn’t make that call.” Honesty bursts out of me, riding the waves of the feelings the last twenty minutes have stormed up.

“But Mira said—” He squints a little in confusion.

I shake my head, asserting my innocence again. This time I won’t take the fall for Mira. This time it’s gone too far.

He steps closer to me, hand outstretched.

“Farrah—”

I take the opening and run past him, not looking back as he calls for me once again.

“Farrah!”

Chapter 9

Thesteamfromtheshower brushes against my skin as I step under the water. I can feel the heat warming up my outside, making it match the burning frustration within me. To think Mira had a hand in what happened last night hurts, but I’ve finally found the reason Errol gets under my skin. He is a complete asshole. At the end of the day, no one told him to say the things he said to me.

Entitled.He thinks I’m entitled? I can add that to the growing list of words he has used to describe me. This one stings. As a plus-size Black woman, I have had to fight for everything I should have just gotten. For him to think this confidence is arrogance is infuriating. I’m scrubbing my body so roughly itshakes me from my thoughts. I rinse, trying to let my annoyance slide off me as easily as the soap does. Once I’m clean and drying off, I still can’t see past all the feelings clouding my eyes.

Clothes don’t bring me the same happiness they usually do. I barely contemplate the look. Instead, I just throw on jeans and a sweater. I finish getting ready with little flair, grab my jacket and purse, and leave to make my way downtown.

Today is Monty’s first big performance, and despite the shit-show that was yesterday, I promised her I would be there. The artist she is performing with is on the come up, so the venue is big enough to be noteworthy, but still small enough that if I don’t show up early, I might not get a good spot. So I’m standing in line, hair still wet, with thirty minutes to go before doors open.

Despite my best efforts, my mind returns to the conversation last night. He thought I changed the script? He thought me, in my minor position, thought it was my job to make these calls? I know I would never do something like that, but clearly he doesn’t. Why would he if he believed Mira telling him it was me? How could she do that? Having been friends for seven years, there’s a certain level of trust that is supposed to exist there. How can she throw that away to not get blamed for something that was her doing?

The line moves at pace with my thoughts as I sludge through all the questions that rise up in place of each one I think I answer. The radiating hurt doesn’t go away until I make it into the location, and joy takes it’s place. The show starts, and a smile instantly comes to my face while watching them perform.

When Monty dances, it’s like seeing the music come alive. Every part of her body thrums with the lyrics and beats, illustrating the way you should feel about the song.

Enthralled by her performance, my mind takes a break from the thoughts and lets me focus on her. As her arms move into various positions, her waist swivels in the opposite direction.She leans back and kicks her feet up, landing in a way that defies gravity. Her face is a mask of the harsh movements, despite the smile lining her eyes. I know I should be watching the singer, but I can’t look away from her.

When the show ends, I jump up and down to get her attention. With a nod, she confirms she sees me before moving backstage to change. I wait outside, keeping my mind trained on what I just saw instead of last night.

“Hey,” Monty says, turning me to face her.

“Oh my god! You were amazing.” I throw my arms around her, pushing all my excitement for her accomplishment into my hug.

“Thank you, thank you.” She bows, her braids cascading over her head to almost touch the ground. I pull her into another hug, not yet done with praising her performance.

“Honestly, we should celebrate.”

She nods and we walk down the street. I point at a bar that a lot of the concert goers seem to be hitting up, and we head in that direction.

“How did it feel?” I ask as we settle at a table. Her lips pull apart as she shakes her head in disbelief.

“It felt good. I dance for social media and teach some classes, but nothing is like a live crowd.”

I can’t get over how good she was and express it to her over and over again as we order drinks. Just as they hit the table, something unexpected also joins them as two men walk over to us.

“Hi there,” the one closest to me says as he deposits his drink onto the table like he was invited. I look up into half-lidded eyes of smokey gray.

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