Unscripted

CHAPTER THREE: Callback

The email came in at 11:42 p.m., just as I was brushing my teeth.
SUBJECT: Callback – West of the Night
BODY: We'd like to see you again for the role of Emma. Room 2, Wednesday at 1:30 p.m.
I had to read it three times before my brain caught up.
The first callback since I got to LA.
I didn't scream or jump around like I thought I would. I just stared at the screen with my toothbrush hanging out of my mouth and felt my stomach twist between holy shit and don't get ahead of yourself.

Wednesday came too fast.
I pulled on my favorite worn-in, off-shoulder tee—the one that slouched perfectly without looking staged—and a pair of light-wash jeans that somehow made my ass look better than therapy ever could. White sneakers. Hair down. Mascara and lip balm, nothing else.
The lobby looked exactly the same as it had two days ago—dim lighting, peeling paint, and a sad plastic ficus in the corner like it was fighting for its life.
I sat on the same ripped leather bench, knees bouncing, pretending to skim the sides again even though I'd memorized them last night in a burst of panic and caffeine. This was my first real callback in LA.
And my stomach felt like it had been replaced with a swarm of bees.
Everyone else waiting looked effortlessly cool. The kind of people who already had reps and headshots shot by some photographer named Stefan.
I had emotional baggage, Target lip gloss from a midnight breakdown, and a shirt that was maybe too loose in the shoulders.
The assistant called my name. "Room two."
I stood up so fast I clipped my elbow on the chair behind me. "Cool. Great. Totally fine."
The hallway was narrow, lined with doors that all looked the same. I passed the bathroom, took a deep breath outside the marked one—like I was about to either meet God or have a public meltdown—and then stepped inside.
And there he was.
Hat. Hoodie. That same sharp jaw. The guy from the lobby two days ago—the one I'd body-slammed into like a human wrecking ball.
My stomach dropped.
Of course it's him.
He was leaned back in a metal folding chair, scrolling on his phone like this was a dentist appointment, not a callback. He looked up when I came in. Smirked.
"Oh. It's you."
I blinked, mouth opening then shutting like my brain had blue-screened.
"Great," I muttered. "You again."
The casting director looked between us like we were about to hug. "You two know each other?"
"Something like that," he said at the same time I said, "Barely."
There was a tiny spark in his eyes, like he was already amused. I hated that I noticed.
"Alright," the casting director said, clapping once. "Let's run the scene."
It was a breakup argument. The kind where both people want to be together but are too stubborn to admit it.
I stepped onto my mark. He did the same across from me.
And then I let the breakup from Colorado bleed into my voice.
All the betrayal. All the loneliness. Every fake laugh at a party when I knew he was texting her. Every night I stared at my ceiling wondering what was wrong with me.
By the third line, my throat was tight. By the fourth, I could feel my eyes start to burn.
The scene ended with a near-kiss.
We held it—just one suspended second. My breath caught.
Then—
"Cut."
The director's voice yanked me back. I blinked, stepping out of the scene like I'd just surfaced from underwater.
"That was... electric," someone said quietly from behind the camera.
I didn't look at him. I didn't need to. I could feel him still watching me.
"First project?" he asked as we were thanked and dismissed.
"Yeah," I said, grabbing my bag. "Been... a year."
That was all I gave him. He didn't need my life story.
In the hall, a tall guy with kind eyes handed me a water. "You were great in there."
I smiled, distracted. "Thanks."
He lingered for another second, like he wanted to keep talking, but I didn't notice.
Calum did.

Two days later, the email came.
SUBJECT: Offer – West of the Night
BODY: Congratulations. You've been cast in the role of Emma. Your co-star is Calum Bennett.
I read it twice. Then again.
Calum Bennett.
The name meant nothing—so I Googled it.
It started normal: IMDb page, a string of films, a Golden Globe nomination. Red carpet photos, candid behind-the-scenes interviews, fan edits that made him look like he'd been blessed by movie gods.
And then... her.
Savannah Brooks. A hollow blonde fitness influencer with an activewear line, an apartment that looked like a beige Pinterest board, and the kind of obviously fake tits you could spot from a zip code away. She was draped over him in almost every paparazzi shot like a prop.
I clicked through three months of couple photos before slamming my laptop shut.
Great.
He was taken.
By her.
In forty-eight hours, I'd be sitting across from him at a table read.
And suddenly, the role I'd just been celebrating felt... heavier.