“You sure you’re okay?”
“I’m doing the job I love with the man I . . .” She bites her lip and blows out a short laugh. “The amazing man I’m dating.”
The man I love.
I wanted her to say it. I wanted her to put words to this thing that was planted in me the first night I saw her onstage and has grown little by little ever since until now it’s full-blown. Those aren’t words I ever thought I would want to hear from a woman, much less consider saying them myself. But I find that I do. Not when two hundred people are waiting for us. Not when we have biopsies hanging over our heads. Not when things are this crazy.
But when the time is right, I do want to hear it from her.
And I do want to say it.
54
Neevah
Almost there.
Almost there.
Almost there.
I’ve been reciting that to myself all morning, but my body doesn’t seem to care or want to cooperate. I’ve thrown up three times between scenes, fortunately each time on a break. There’s an awful taste in my mouth, and no matter how much water I drink or how many mints I eat, it won’t go away.
A miasma fills my head, fogging my thoughts and clouding my concentration. I struggle to follow every word as it leaves Trey’s mouth when he delivers his lines. I know I’m next. I go to say the line . . . and nothing. There’s nothing there. My mind is a galactic void of nothingness. I open my mouth, hoping the words will tumble out on their own without me having to think about it, but there’s only silence while the entire cast and crew wait for me to find myself in this scene.
But I can’t.
Whatever holds my body, my mind hostage, overpowers my will. It stirs in my stomach and makes my head throb and spin.
“Cut!” Canon yells.
Trey touches my shoulder, concern etched on his movie-star-handsome face. “Neevah, you okay?”
I nod, though I’m sure by now it’s apparent I’m not. It’s not only the lines I’ve lost. It seems I can’t say anything. I open my mouth to try again, and another wave of nausea rises in my throat.
“Oh, God,” I mumble into my hand. I try to run, hoping to make it to the bathroom, but I can’t. I haven’t been able to eat much the last few days, but what is in my stomach is violently ejected out and all over Linh’s perfect costume.
I lean against a pole. Tears roll down my cheeks as people rush over to me. I’m a mess. Vomit all over the dress. My wig slips. The entire set is a Tilt-A-Whirl. The floor slides from beneath my feet. Trey catches me and yells for help.
And then the world goes dark.
“Her blood pressure is alarmingly high,” someone says.
I try to pry my eyes open, but it’s too bright and everything hurts. I can’t lift my head, can’t make my limbs work, can’t speak. I’m in some half-state of consciousness.
“Should we call nine-one-one?” someone asks.
“No hospital,” I manage to croak, fumbling to get the tight band off my arm. “I need to . . . to finish.”
“You will not finish,” Canon says. That harsh voice I would recognize anywhere.
Other bits of sensory information slowly filter in. The coolness of the ocean air drifts over my face. The waves roar in my ears, and I remember we were in one of the French Riviera scenes on the beach. Over the scent of salt is an awful, pungent smell. Linh’s precious costume she spent weeks sewing. I’ve ruined it.
“Change,” I mumble, forcing my eyes open. “I want to change clothes.”
Canon’s face is the first thing I see. I’m on one of the lounge chairs, and he’s on his knees beside me, his expression bent into a heavy frown. I reach up to touch his face.
“Beautiful,” I whisper, trying to smile. He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple moving with the effort.
“Neevah, baby, listen to me,” he says. “Your blood pressure is really high. We have to get you to the hospital. You—”
“Please let me change clothes. I threw . . . I threw . . .”
I dissolve into tears because I’m so tired and every part of me aches and I can’t imagine walking, but so many people are standing around watching me in this vomit-covered dress. I just want to sleep.
“It doesn’t matter,” Canon says. “You can change when you get—”
“Please. I think I’m going to be sick again if you make me keep this on.”
His scowl deepens, but he stands and picks me up from the lounge chair.
“Canon, I don’t want to get it on you.” I’m even more embarrassed for him to hold me this close. To see me, to smell this, to be here when this is happening to me. He strides through the set, and I tuck my face into his shoulder, as much from exhaustion as not wanting to meet the curious eyes of the cast and crew. I would prefer to go to my cottage, but wardrobe is closer so he dips into the tent, sets me down gently on one of the tables and pulls a privacy divider between us and the door. He starts unbuttoning the dress, but his fingers are shaking. “Shit,” he curses under his breath, slowing down to pull the tiny buttons loose one by one.