Dave either doesn’t notice that Logan is fast asleep, or he’s used to this behavior. He invites me to grab a seat, and I sit down awkwardly in between Scott Anders （five-time Oscar award winner, one of the greatest actors of all time, I could watch and rewatch his brilliant performance in Duchess Down a thousand times, and I’m pretty sure I have） and Monica Meyers （nominated for Best Supporting Actress five times, though she has not yet won, clearly a coup, especially for her heart-wrenching performance in The Sky Cries）。 Scott grins and shakes my hand and says he’s a big fan of my performance in Love Me Dearly. I have to force the inner fanboy to calm down, while Monica purses her lips, probably miffed that I’m late.
Copies of the script with each actor’s name on the covers have already been passed around. This is technically the second table read, but since I was brought on so late in the process, it’s my first. Writers and assistants and a ton of other people sit in chairs along the wall of the conference room with copies of the script, pens ready and laptops open. More people to perform for.
Dave sits at the head of the table and adjusts his ball cap. “Someone wake up Sleeping Beauty,” he says, opening his script.
Samantha rushes forward. She clears her throat and taps Gray’s shoulder. He doesn’t stir. She tries again. “Mr. Gray…？”
He grunts something, sits up—looks around the room like he’s forgotten where he is, and maybe he has.
Dave opens his script. “Gray, if you don’t mind removing your sunglasses so that we can see those beautiful brown eyes of yours.”
Gray doesn’t move for one long second as he stares at Dave silently. I shift uncomfortably. Heat begins to radiate in the room. Dave, again, doesn’t seem to notice as he licks a finger and turns the page of the script, but it’s clear to everyone that we won’t begin until Gray does what he was asked.
Logan removes the shades. There are a few （okay, maybe a little melodramatic, we are actors after all） gasps around the room. I swallow thickly. A purple bruise flourishes over Gray’s swollen right eye.
Dave glances up. “Oh, Jesus Christ.”
“Same old shit, right?” Gray says, voice hoarse.
“This isn’t a joke. God, fucking…” He twists in his seat to look at an assistant. “There isn’t any footage in the tabloids, is there?”
*
Video begins:
A crowd in a nightclub has formed. Streaks of light blur across the screen, but Logan Gray’s face is clear for one moment. Another man shouts unintelligibly. Derogatory slurs based on sexual identity are used. He is notably much larger than Logan. Logan only smiles, before he spits in the stranger’s face. There are gasps, the camera shakes. There is the distinct sound of a fist impacting skin.
Video ends.
*
From the awkward glances, it’s clear that there is footage in the tabloids. I haven’t seen it myself because I try to stay away from papers and gossip sites. That’s a one-way ticket into a weekend of self-pity and depression. Even the word tabloids makes certain phrases echo in my mind: “wannabe Tom Holland,” “Leonardo DiCaprio in his prime if Leo wasn’t as talented or cute.” Ouch.
Dave rubs his temples. “Damn it. Sam, set up a meeting with me and Logan’s manager. What’s her name again? Louise?”
“Audrey.”
“Let’s see if we can stop this man-child from ruining the film before it’s even begun.” Sam nods and excuses herself.
If Logan has any feelings on being called a man-child, he doesn’t show them. “Getting punched in the face hasn’t impacted my ability to read,” he says.
Dave’s eyes narrow dangerously for one moment, before he straightens. “Then let’s begin.”
The morning’s drama firmly put aside, the professionals around me open their scripts, and the table read starts. Richard, the AD, speeds through the narration and directions so that the actors can focus on their roles, the writers on edits and Dave announcing his own thoughts every now and then. Even though I play opposite the lead, I don’t appear until a few scenes in, so I get to sit back in my chair and watch the magic of my idols.
Gray is amazing, of course, even half-asleep, with a black eye, and possibly a hangover. He transforms into Quinn Evans: charismatic, smug, an asshole you can’t help but love. Monica already brings tears to my eyes with her reading as his mother, widowed and worried that Quinn will never open his heart to finding true love. Scott, Quinn’s boss, has too understated a role to really take advantage of his enormous talent, but I assume there are publicity reasons he’s been brought on, along with a ton of money. Keith Mackey, playing Quinn’s best friend and comic relief sidekick, lands all the laughs, even when Dave murmurs something to one of the head writers, who nods in agreement and starts to scribble red all over the script.
My heart begins to speed up. I’d started acting in junior high, but this fear—the jump before the performance—has never gone away. If anything, it’s only gotten worse. But once I’ve done it—once I’ve managed to leap from the cliff and fly through the air—the exhilaration soars through me, and every time I seem to forget how much I hate the feeling of nervousness that comes right before I open my mouth.
Keith leans back in his chair with a grin, swiping bleached hair out of his face. “Hey—pretty boy,” he says, glancing up at me.
I swallow. My words begin to blur on my script. “Sorry, do you mean me?”
I can hear the hollowness in my voice. It doesn’t ring true. There isn’t enough authenticity. I clear my throat. Scott glances up from beside me.
Keith goes on like he hasn’t noticed. “Is there anyone else around that you’d describe as pretty?” he says. He barks a laugh, then seems to crack himself up and keeps laughing. Smiles widen at the table.
My hands are hidden beneath the table in my lap. I tug on the end of my shirt. “No—uh, no, maybe not.”
The smiles around the table are a little tighter now. Gray watches me from across the room, eyes focused, calculating, dissecting my entire performance even though it’s only been a few lines. I try to block out the memory of the interview I’d seen, against my better judgment—but it was everywhere, all over social media and popping up in Google alerts every three seconds. A reporter shoves a mic in Logan Gray’s face on the red carpet and asks him, “What do you think about Matthew Cole joining the cast of Write Anything?” Logan didn’t hide his annoyance. He rolled his eyes. “He’s a shitty actor,” he said. “I hate people who get by on looks and charm and absolutely zero talent.”
I try to block out the memory of the interview, but Gray’s voice rises in my head with every vacant word I speak. “Wait, hold on,” I say, turning the page with sweaty fingers. “Aren’t you Quinn Evans? The author?”
The next line belongs to Logan. He doesn’t look away from me as he leans in his chair, rocking back and forth slightly with a squeak, squeak, squeak.
“Gray,” Dave says, annoyance a little more obvious now. “That’s you.”
Gray’s eyes don’t leave me. “So are we all just going to pretend this isn’t happening?”