By midnight, I’d come to accept two very important things.
The first was that airline representatives have no souls, if their collective refusal to tell me anything about the airport’s reopening was proof enough of their stone hearts. As I’d expected, Sophie’s and my flight to L.A. had been delayed, first by an hour, then three, until the departure board was finally updated to read that it had been cancelled altogether. I begged and bribed the men and women behind the service desk for information after each status change, yet they’d done little more than look up from their computer screens with matching blank expressions.
“I’m sorry, sir,” the last representative that spoke to said with irritating calm. The nametag clipped to her blazer’s pocket read ‘Martha’ in neatly engraved letters. “We’re still waiting to receive clearance to resume our outbound flights. If you’d like to take a seat, we’ll make an announcement once we have new information.”
“That guy said the same thing an hour ago,” I protested, hoisting the strap of my duffle bag higher up on my shoulder and motioning towards the expressionless man beside her. “How is it possible that none of you know anything?”
“Sir, if you would please calm down--”
“No, listen, we need to be in L.A. by 9 A.M., so can you please just tell me if that’s going to be possible?”
Growing annoyed, Martha pointed out the window behind her with an angry jab of her thumb and my heart sank another notch when I saw the thick snowfall beating against the glass, wind lifting the flakes into wild flurries. If anything, the storm had gotten worse since we landed, not better. Dropping all pretenses of politeness, Martha snapped, “Look, hon, I don’t control the weather, alright? Everyone here needs to get somewhere, so please just take a seat and wait for us to make an announcement.”
“But--”
Wearing a dark pink baseball cap from the airport’s gift shop, Sophie strode up to the service counter from where she’d been waiting and rested a hand on my forearm to silence me. Turning to face the airline representative, she asked, “Since you don’t know how long we’re going to be stuck here, can you give him a pass to the first class lounge? We’re traveling together so it’d be nice if we could at least wait in the same area, you know?”
She pulled her boarding pass from her purse and set it on the counter, waiting for Martha to stop scowling at me long enough to look at it. Behind her oversized sunglasses, I had a hunch that Sophie was eyeing the woman with a similar look of thinly veiled disdain.
Sighing, Martha scanned the ticket, her eyes widening when she saw the name flash on her computer screen. She looked up at Sophie who remained nonplussed before looking back down at the ticket. “Of course,” she said, impeccably poised once again. Giving me a thin-lipped smile that threatened to curl into a sneer, Martha added, “May I see your ticket as well, sir?”
Once I’d been cleared to enter the walled off section of the terminal, Sophie and I tossed our bags onto adjacent recliners, though not before she whipped off her sunglasses to glare at me.
“What?” I asked, checking my phone to see three voicemails waiting, each close to a minute long.
“I realize the irony of me saying this to you, but can you please stop causing a scene every time you talk to those people?” Sophie sat down on the well-maintained leather seat, lowering the back until she was nearly horizontal. “It's not their fault that they don’t know what's going on.”
“I’m stressed,” I muttered, my finger hovering over the redial button as my screen simultaneously lit up with an incoming call. My stomach churned—Michael.
“Yeah, well, welcome to the club,” Sophie said, yawning and letting her eyelids flicker shut.
I stared at her in disbelief as my phone vibrated again, unable to understand how she could be so nonchalant. If there had ever been a time for her to play the self-entitled diva card, this was it, and yet, instead of using her status to lean on Martha for information, she was settling in for a nap. It was both frustrating and baffling, a combination of emotions that I’d sadly grown used to feeling around her.
“Whatever, I’ll be right back,” I said, getting to my feet and walking to a secluded corner before answering my phone. “Hello?”
The forty-five minute conversation that followed highlighted the second matter that I’d come to terms with, namely that working for Michael would be the primary cause of my premature hearing loss. I listened patiently throughout his enraged tirade, offering little more than apologies and agreement that, yes, I should have booked an earlier return flight, and yes, I did appreciate just how screwed Sophie would be if she missed her meeting with Kelly. After awhile, Michael began to cough, his throat dry from yelling, and he put me on hold as he went to get a drink.
I took the momentary reprieve to test my hearing, or whatever was hopefully left of it after enduring the latest round of his screamed displeasure. Balancing the phone between my cheek and shoulder, I snapped my fingers next to the damaged ear, wondering if worker’s comp covered supervisor-induced deafness. Although dulled by a high-pitched ringing that echoed throughout the left side of my head, the faint clicking that I heard filled me with relief that at least the pain wouldn’t be permanent.
“She’s cursed, man,” Michael said as he came back on the line, sounding calmer than he had moments before. I could hear the distinctive pop of a wine bottle opening in the background and, noting the steady tinkling that followed, assumed that he was either pouring himself an enormous glass or filling a bathtub with his bottom-shelf red. “There’s really no other explanation for half the crap that happens to her. You know, and I tried when I scheduled her for this audition, I really did, but… for God’s sake, no disrespect to your dad, she’s going to give me a heart attack.”
“What should we do about Kelly?” I interrupted, ignoring his last comment. There was a long pause as Michael presumably drained his glass, followed by the sound of it being refilled. “Should we call him to reschedule?”
“Are you nuts? You want to give a bear bad news, don’t do it while it’s sleeping.”
“So what are we going to do? I’ve talked to three different airline reps and the only thing they’re telling me is that the control tower wants to wait for the storm to pass.”
Pouring another drink gave Michael time to contemplate a response, which he did with a series of agitated grunts. “Alright, I’ve got it,” he finally said, his words slowing as he downed more wine. “If you make it to LAX by eight A.M., call me and then go straight to Century City; I’ll take care of Kelly and try to get you about fifteen minutes of leeway. Don’t stop for coffee, don’t take the four-oh-five,” he instructed, referring to the heavily-trafficked 405 Freeway that ran next to the airport, “and keep praying to whatever deity you see fit until Sophie’s inside Kelly's office with a script in her hand.”
“We’ll be cutting it close,” I pointed out, snapping my fingers again as I tried to focus on something other than the gut wrenching panic I felt when I thought about his plan.
“Really?” Michael replied, his voice laced with sarcasm. “Well, maybe you two should start running west then. Who knows, that might go faster.”
Biting my tongue to cut off a vulgar retort, I said, “Eight A.M. it is. What should we do if we don’t make it?”
“I’d rather not think about the career suicide that will come from pissing off Kelly O’Brien and his people, but if worse comes to worst, I’ve always thought it’d be nice to be buried in a mahogany casket.”
As I hung up, I fought the urge to punch the wall that I’d been leaning against, instead channeling my frustration by biting my thumbnail until the skin beneath it began to bleed. I wiped the scarlet droplets on my pants before returning to my seat, where I was startled to find Sophie on the ground, her eyes closed and her legs folded in a meditative position.
“What the hell are you doing?” I demanded as I looked around, expecting to see dozens of cameras aimed at her. A few elderly women cast us a wary glance, but thankfully most of the people in the first class lounge seemed too preoccupied with their own problems to worry about a skinny blonde girl doing yoga.
“Breathing exercises,” Sophie replied serenely as she brought her hands together and lifted them towards her chin. “Andrew texted me and suggested that I do them to relax—you know, to avoid a break out before tomorrow or whatever.”
“You look like a total lunatic, you know that, right?” I shook my head, sliding my laptop from my bag as I sat down on the recliner. “Can you please just get up?”
“Why? Worried about what the tabloids will say? Maybe something like, ‘Attention-seeking actress sits on ground of Denver airport during snowstorm—what will she do next?’”
“Actually,” I said, pulling my screenplay up on the dimmed screen. “That’s exactly what I’m worried about.”
“Last I checked Denver is hardly a hotbed of paparazzi activity. Besides, photos aren’t allowed in the lounge area, which is one of the major perks of paying for first class. You can join me if you want,” she offered, patting the ground beside her.
“I want you to sit in a chair.”
“Not yet.”
“You’ve lost it. Great,” I said. “That’s great.”
As the minutes passed, Sophie’s stretches grew more elaborate and her breathing became increasingly audible. The women who’d been watching had the courtesy to feign ignorance to her antics but that didn’t stop my ears from growing redder with each additional second that Sophie spent writhing on the floor. I jammed the keys of my laptop with aggression, filling a page in less time than it usually took me to write the introduction of a scene.
I hit the save button and then let out a cry of surprise when I realized that Sophie had crawled over to my chair, her chin perched on the armrest as she looked at my screen. I slammed the lid of the laptop shut.
“What?” I wondered what she’d seen and hoped that nothing in particular had caught her attention.
“I want to read it,” she whined, crossing her arms over her chest. “I'm so bored, I have nothing else to do.”
“What about breathing? You seemed to be enjoying that.”
“Obviously reading this mystery script of yours would be way more fun,” Sophie replied, a wicked twinkle in her eyes. “Please? I promise I won’t make fun of you if it sucks.”
“It doesn’t suck,” I grumbled, defensive of the work that I’d put into it, though worried that she could be right. “Why do you care so much?”
“Because I want you to get into your program,” Sophie replied earnestly, standing up and looking down at me. “Wasn’t the original point of our arrangement to help each other out?”
“I guess.”
“Then let me help.” Sophie moved over to the recliner that she’d been sitting on earlier and plopped down with arms outstretched. “I’ll even promise to stay in my seat, that’s a fair trade, right?”
Hesitant to give in, I reopened the lid and stared at the words on the screen as they came into focus. I groaned, desperately wishing that I had Michael’s ability to come up with excuses on the fly. “You’re going to hate me,” I admitted after a long pause, handing over the laptop with lingering reluctance.
“Why? Is it an ode to all the ways you hate me?” Sophie teased, scrolling to the top of the document.
“Uh, not exactly.”
“But sort of, right?” Sophie looked more intrigued than offended as she began to read aloud.
I closed my eyes--afraid to see the expression on her face as she spoke the words that I’d memorized. Scene. The camera pans over the skyline of downtown Los Angeles to reveal another sunny day. Shots of the homeless setting up their tents along the streets of Skid Row segue into images of the fashion district, the Staples Center, and finally the financial block. The camera lingers on one building in particular—quiet, calm professionals stride in and out of the lobby. Cut to the inside of a suite where a plaque for Martin and Jones Talent hangs on the wall. Workers are in pandemonium—papers flying, phones ringing, one man curled beneath his desk. Off screen someone yells to close the doors, but it’s too late. Enter Molly Summers—pretty, with an abundance of attitude, yet clearly intoxicated as she cradles a small dog under her arm…
Sophie stopped reading long enough to run her tongue over her teeth. Shaking her head, she looked at me and scoffed. “Molly Summers, really? I look like a Molly to you?”
“It’s not about you,” I said automatically and Sophie’s scoffs turned into outright laughter.
“Oh, okay, if you say so, Parker. Then I guess this tragic, tall, dark, and handsome fellow that you’ve introduced on page two isn’t supposed to be you either, right?”
“Of course not,” I muttered, grabbing for the laptop as Sophie yanked it just out of my reach. “They’re not—it’s just a story.”
“Right.”
“Stop reading into it.” The heat that was creeping up the back of my neck was nothing compared to the flames in my face as I reached for my computer and failed to secure it for the second time. “Can I have it back?”
“No,” Sophie replied, smiling at the screen. “This is actually really funny—completely offensive and unflattering, but strangely hilarious.”
“It’s not about you,” I protested, knowing that my claims were falling on ears as deaf as my left one remained.
I tore off a tiny sliver of nail and mulled over her compliment as she continued to read, laughing at certain parts and gasping at others. At one point Sophie slapped my arm and cried, “I would never do that,” before returning to the script, her eyes lit up with amusement. By then I’d stopped trying to contradict her assumptions, knowing very well that whatever moment she was referring to had likely been inspired by real life events.
After an hour of watching her reactions, Sophie closed the lid of my laptop and handed it to me with pursed lips. “Interesting,” she said, lifting her hat long enough to shake out her hair and tie it up into a ponytail.
“Interesting—so, it was terrible,” I said, cradling my laptop in my arms. Pushing aside my wounded pride, I rationalized that at least I still had a few months to rewrite the script. I’d be riding the deadline thanks to the delay in filming but at least the final product would be better than what I had now. Maybe I could use a sick day or two and devote them to editing…
“Oh, not at all,” Sophie said, glancing at me from beneath the bill of her cap as she put it back on. “I mean, there were a few lines that could be awkward depending on the delivery but honestly, I thought it was funnier than some of the comedies I’ve been in. You really don’t think you’ll get into your film school with it?”
“I don’t know, it wasn’t supposed to be funny.”
“That’s why it is,” Sophie replied with a shrug. “You know, there was just something sort of endearing about Hunter Fenway and all of his Hollywood mishaps."
“So you liked it,” I said, needing to hear her say it directly.
“If you need an extra, let me know,” Sophie said, giving me a crooked smile. “Ordinarily I’d insist on playing myself—sorry, Molly—but I really hate small dogs. Something about their eyes, they creep me out.” She stuck out her tongue and I chuckled, happy that my arm was the only thing that she’d slapped while reading the screenplay.
“Good to know,” I mused, inserting a new page in the document and picking up where I’d left off.
Sophie nodded, pulling out her cell phone and responding to various messages as I typed. Eventually her eyelids grew heavy and I watched her drift in and out of sleep during the hours that followed, envious of her ability to give into her fatigue as waves of adrenaline kept me fidgeting wildly, my body tired but my mind alert.
Around three, I looked up from my computer screen to see that Sophie had rolled over, knocking her hat into the space between our recliners. I reached for it instinctively, though as I did I was embarrassed to find that I’d been absentmindedly smoothing down wayward strands of her hair. I pulled my hand away guiltily when I realized what I’d done, holding my breath as I waited for her eyes to open and drill me with an accusing stare. Instead, she let out a soft snore, undisturbed by my brief touch and I sighed, happy to let her sleep until I finally shook her awake at half past five.
“Let’s go,” I said and Sophie stared at me with unfocused eyes. I tried to ignore the trail of drool on her chin as she wiped it away with the back of her hand.
“Where?” she murmured, clearly struggling to remain awake as I fumbled with the handle of her carryon.
“Airport’s open,” I explained, hopes lifting as I mentally calculated our flight’s potential arrival time. Two and a half hours was roughly the standard between Denver and Los Angeles, which meant that we should get there at eight if nothing else went wrong. “Our flight was the second one to get rescheduled for clearance, it’s boarding now.”
“Oh,” Sophie said, blinking furiously as she sat up and yawned. “That’s good.”
Half asleep, Sophie staggered after me as I hurried through the lounge, stopping only to text Michael that we were on our way. Once she caught up, Sophie took her bag from me and pointed towards the first class queue where Martha stood waiting with a forced smile. The bags under the woman’s eyes made me want to go over and apologize for the trouble that I’d put her through, though unsure of what to say, I decided not to approach her at all.
“Rest up,” I said with a subtle glance at Martha as I joined the rest of the zombies lining up for coach. “We’re going straight to Kelly’s office when we land.”
“Because showering is so overrated, right?” Sophie joked, grinning sleepily before heading off to let Martha check her ticket.
Although the ringing in my ear prevented me from hearing what was said, by the time Sophie finished talking to her, Martha’s smile had softened into genuine happiness and she scanned Sophie's boarding pass with a lighthearted laugh. I stared as Sophie neared the tunnel that connected to the plane, pink hat clutched tightly in her hand. As she walked, the clouds that had carried the snowstorm broke--just for a moment, but it was long enough for a beam of sunshine to bounce off the snow outside, refracting in a stunning burst of white. I blamed it on my lack of sleep but as that light filtered in through the glass, Sophie’s hair lit up in a golden blaze and I couldn’t stop myself from imagining that she'd replaced her baseball cap with a crown, or maybe even a halo.
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A/N: Huzzah, two updates in a week and the last "filler" chapter before things start picking back up in Los Angeles for our duo. Thoughts? Comments? I'll even take screamed anger if that tickles your fancy. As always, thank you so much for reading and if you catch any errors, please let me know. <33
Dedicated to @pam for being lovely and wonderfully supportive! It's been a great pleasure getting to know you and I look forward to future chats. :)