Scene 13

It was unlikely the sight of an eighty-one-year-old woman sitting in a plushly upholstered armchair would strike fear into the hearts of most people they encountered, but in my case, the moment I stepped over the threshold and laid eyes on the silver head of hair, I froze, immobilized with panic.

This wasn't just any eighty-one-year-old woman. This was Margaret Gilles. Thee Margaret Gilles. The author of Sand Seekers .

This was the woman who had stood toe-to-toe with the most powerful studio executives in Hollywood, for more than forty years, denying them the rights to turn her creation into a motion picture. The woman who penned a trilogy so epic, it had been translated into thirty-nine languages and sold more than 150 million copies worldwide, bypassing Lord of the Rings .

The woman who, five years ago when Spielberg had famously tried to woo her with the promise of "immortalization," had clapped back on the cover of Vogue with the quote "don't think you can dangle a rhinestone in front of a woman's face and tell her it's more valuable than the diamonds she already owns. I may be old, Mr. Spielberg, but I'm not an idiot." She'd gone on in the article to explain that eight-figure offers and guarantees of idolization were not something she was interested in. She had money. The fans had already canonized Sand Seekers and given her more than she ever dreamt of. What would it take for her to sign on the dotted line, allowing her words to be put to screen, the journalist had queried.

"Authenticity," had been her answer. "I want the story done justice."

It had been an admirable display of conviction, of belief in one's art, and holding true to one's own ideals.

And somehow, five years later, for reasons I couldn't begin to fathom, it had been Waylon MacArthur who convinced the stubborn Iowa author he was the man to tell her tale.

She'd accepted an offer from Universal for less than half of the other proposals on the table in order to maintain creative authority on the film.

But because of her famous principles and devout dedication to seeing her beloved characters done justice on the silver screen, it sent me into a tailspin when I walked into the table read and found the frail, hunchbacked, gray-haired woman sitting beside L.R. at the head of the room. She was smiling warmly, welcoming the actors who would turn her words and imagination into a living, breathing being.

I'd already been suffering from an intense wave of what-if self-doubts. What if I wasn't the right person for the project? What if I was too inexperienced, too boring, too… me ? What if L.R. had made a huge mistake? What if today, at this first read-through, they realized I was nothing more than a fraud?

It was imposter syndrome at its finest.

It hadn't been until the complete script arrived three days earlier that I'd gone into full panic mode. I'd been wavering on uncertainty, but it was nothing like the surge of terror that struck me after finishing the screenplay, when I'd come to realize the magnitude of the role in which I would play.

I'd read the books. Four times I'd read the books. Beginning in junior high, when I discovered the series at the Scholastic Book Fair, and then again when I first heard about Universal's obtainment of the rights. And twice more over the months I'd been auditioning.

I'd felt I had a solid understanding of the character arch, the plot, the message. I was comfortable with what I thought Margaret Gilles wished to convey.

In short: I'd felt prepared.

Which should have been my first indicator that I had no idea what I was getting into.

In the novels, the six main characters were an ensemble piece, without any single one standing out above the rest. But when the entirety of the script was hand delivered to my apartment by a runner for the studio, sealed and marked confidential, I discovered the cast had been revised for the sake of filmmaking, and my own role amended. Previously, with only partial sides to go off of, it had been impossible to judge the complete weight of my part. But after a full read-through, I found the ensemble piece had been overhauled to highlight three main leads—the standout of which clearly belonged to me. Suddenly, instead of sharing top-billing with half a dozen equals in a film projected to be the first to reach the billion dollar mark its opening weekend, I found my role, Addison Riley , leading the cast.

I was the central hero. I was the principle focus, supported by a star-studded list of names.

It was horrifying.

I could hardly make eye-contact with Margaret Gilles, even when she rose to bypass my outstretched hand—fingers shaking—and kissed me on the cheek.

"You are brilliance personified, my dear." Her midwestern accent held that gentle warble of a woman well past her prime. "L.R. was right—you're everything I envisioned Addy to be."

I stared at her, struck speechless. I was about to let this woman down. This woman who had held on to her principles in defense of her art. This master storyteller whose cherished words had transcended generations, captivating the minds of millions with the world she had built.

I managed a mumbled thank you—it was better than boy, won't you be disappointed , and took my seat.

I felt like the only nameless face in the room. If L.R. Sims wanted Addison Riley to be an unknown, he'd had the polar intention for the supporting cast. Aaron had called me a week prior—two headlining names had been leaked.

Grady Dunn.

Elliott Fleming.

Two of the hottest young actors working in the industry today.

Grady was a two-time Academy Award nominee, and had taken home the Oscar last year for his exquisite portrayal of Martin Luther King, Jr. in the film, King . A movie that had snagged every prestigious award the industry had to offer—including Best Picture. He was textbook handsome, and rumored to eat, sleep and breathe his characters from pre-to-post production, without a moment's break in between.

And Elliott Fleming was just… Elliott Fleming. He was the Leonardo of my generation. An actor whose versatility rivaled the likes of Timothée Chalamet, Christian Bale, Edward Norton. He'd headlined three features in the last twelve months alone. There was nothing he couldn't play. And from those who'd worked on set in his films, he was said to be charming, brilliant, sincere. Talented beyond comprehension.

Both men were established Hollywood elite.

They would play Noah and Oliver. Protagonist and antagonist. The love triangle of the story.

Grady. Elliott. And me .

And until I saw Margaret Gilles, they had been my paramount concern—the terror that I would seem like nothing more than a star-struck fan girl, out of her league.

But disappointing them took an immediate back seat to the overwhelming certainty I would let down the mastermind behind the epic saga—that I would fall horrifically short of her expectations of me.

By nothing short of a miracle, I stumbled my way through the first few scenes without breaking down in the tears that threatened my every breath. I was supposed to be strong. Forceful. Dogmatic, even. A girl who rises as a leader in a post-cataclysmic dystopian society in the midst of a nuclear winter. But I felt the furthest thing from it. I knew I was stiff, wooden, wrong in every way. I could feel L.R.'s stoney gaze focused on me. I knew he'd made a mistake. He knew he'd made a mistake. And from across the room, behind the plume of his bourbon-scented vape, Waylon MacArthur made no attempt to conceal his disgust unfolding with every line I uttered.

After MacArthur cleared his throat in unmistakable annoyance for what felt like the hundredth time, Margaret Gilles looked up from where she'd taken a seat beside me, her quick, dark eyes unaffected by age.

"Are you in need of a throat lozenge, Mr. MacArthur?" She didn't care that she was interrupting the scene. She hauled her bag onto the table—the stereotypical old lady purse with the contents rivaling an estate sale from the seventies—and rummaged through it noisily. What wasn't seen, however, was the hand she tucked under the table and pressed to my knee.

"I'm fine," Waylon barked, his chin sinking further into his chest as the vapor clung in a cloud above him. "Let's get on with it."

Over the commotion, Margaret gave me a reassuring squeeze. "Breathe, love. Just breathe."

I don't know why her simple gesture—her whisper of encouragement—touched me. Why her words soothed the disintegration of my thundering heart. Maybe it was seeing a woman—old, frail, seemingly weak—stand up to a man like MacArthur, challenge him as an equal, undaunted by his overbearing presence, his wealth, his esteem. Or maybe it was simply the gentle reassurance from a stranger that moved me in my time of need.

Whatever it was, it helped. We started again, and this time, I felt like I could find something of myself. Something of the resolute, competent person I knew I could be. I could finally focus on the words—the lines I'd read two dozen times. Maybe I could do this. Maybe this wasn't out of my reach.

When it was over, I knew I wasn't up to par, but I hadn't failed colossally. L.R. told me we'd talk soon to go over some notes he wanted me to focus on for the coming weeks.

It meant I wasn't fired. At least not yet. And Grady and Elliott and the rest of the cast were warm and welcoming.

Margaret Gilles hugged me, whispered in my ear that I was everything she ever envisioned for Addy, and slipped me her cell phone number on a gum wrapper, telling me to call her if I wanted to discuss anything. I assured her I would, and wished I'd known how to better thank her. For everything. Even Waylon MacArthur grumbled Merry Christmas as I passed him at the door on my way to the street.

I'd survived day one, even though all the way to my car I half expected L.R. or Waylon to rush out and fire me. But they didn't, and as I hit the 101 North, I wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry or scream.

There were twenty-one days until we started principal photography. But before that, I was scheduled for a handful of role discussions, combination rehearsals, costume fittings, and camera tests. Which meant I didn't have much time to get my head on straight, to figure it out, and prove I belonged in this industry.

However, despite my professional concerns and the attention they demanded, there was another thought that had been hammering on my door, waiting all night to be granted admission. I hadn't permitted my thoughts to wander during the table read—I wasn't so scattered as that—but now that it was over…

I flipped off the Christmas tunes humming through my radio and checked the time. It was shortly after eight. Dillon would have landed several hours ago—probably around the same time Waylon MacArthur was trying to figure out a way to justify cutting me from his cast. But Waylon was no longer forefront on my mind.

Dillon had flown to California… to stay for the holidays. She'd signed up for a charity race in Santa Monica, and while I wasn't entirely sure what that entailed, I knew it meant it wasn't rated and she wouldn't get paid. This trip was on her own dime, her own agenda. And it wasn't Santa Monica she'd come to see.

The thought was almost thrilling enough to wash away the vision of Waylon MacArthur glowering at me through his vapor haze.

I knew I wouldn't see her tonight. The race was first thing tomorrow morning. And if I'd learned one thing about Dillon Sinclair over the last two months, it was that nothing could disrupt her focus before a race day. Even an unrated one. She disappeared. Closed herself off. Ran her race. And then, picking up wherever she left off, reappeared as if she'd never missed a moment.

A habit I could probably benefit from in my own career. If I'd only had that kind of laser focus.

But here I was again—not ten minutes off the backlot, with my entire career in jeopardy—thinking about her. Daydreaming about her arrival. Wondering if it would be okay to text her? It wasn't that late, but I knew she was obsessive about her sleep.

Still, she'd only arrived a couple hours ago. She probably wasn't sleeping.

"Hey Siri, text Dillon." ApplePlay swirled to life, ready to do my bidding.

"Just finished with the read-through. Rough night, but survived by the skin of my teeth." The message immediately showed read , but there was no reply. I told myself not to take it personally—I already knew she'd be in her competitive mode. I'd see her tomorrow. Until then, well—I knew it was best to leave her be.

I pulled off on Melrose and inched my way through Hollywood. By the time I got to my apartment it was after nine PM.

I parked, grateful to find a spot two blocks over, since the shared driveway was full, and hurried for my front door. I'd lived there almost a year now—the neighborhood was decent—but I still didn't care to walk home by myself after dark. Even with two self-defense classes under my belt and can of pepper spray in my purse.

"Hey."

I startled, tripping over the short walkway step, almost falling on my face. I'd been searching for my keys and hadn't noticed the figure sitting on my stoop, or the bike leaning against my door frame.

"Holy shit." I stepped back, then laughed, unable to hide my smile. "What are you doing here?"

Her hair was matted to her head, her helmet hanging off the crook of her arm, her bare feet stretched out in front of her with her bike shoes still attached to her pedals.

"You said you had a rough evening. I thought I might swing by to wish you goodnight."

"Shouldn't you be sleeping?"

"Sleep is overrated."

This, I knew, for her was a lie. She slept ten hours a day, minimum. Without fail. Without regards to outside circumstances. It was part of her job. As important to her as training. Diet. Rest. Recovery.

Maybe I wasn't the only one neglecting my profession.

"Do you want to come in? Have a cup of coffee?" I panicked thinking about the mess on my kitchen sink. The post-it notes all over my dining room table. I'd planned to tidy things tomorrow morning, since Dillon had insisted I not come to watch her race. It was too trivial of a competition, she'd insisted. When I came to watch her—I'd loved that word, when —she wanted it to be something worthwhile. Something she could be proud of. I'd conceded.

"Can't." She stopped me before I got the key in the door, rising to her feet in that languid style of hers, like a cat waking from a nap. "Early morning."

"You really rode all the way here from PCH just to say goodnight? I thought you were supposed to rest before a race?"

"A pre-race ride didn't turn out so bad in Hana," she smiled. "I just wanted to see you, Kam-Kameryn." Leaning over, she kissed my cheek, then collected her bike, and disappeared down the poorly lit walkway.