Off set, past the cameras, past the rest of the cast and crew, and out into the cool May air of a Tennessee night, my feet motor across the pavement like I’m trying to hit a speed-walking world record.
The sun has already set, and the moon is starting to make its presence known by softly lighting up the dark sky, but I couldn’t care less about any of it. I’m solely fixated on getting inside my trailer and away from everyone and everything.
When I spot the small white door that has my name plastered on the front in even black letters, I pick up the ankle-breaking pace, and the second I step inside, I slam the door shut behind me.
Deep down, I know it’s okay to have a bad day. I know it’s okay to be slightly off my game every once in a while. These are all things I know to be rational and true, but rationality left the building about ten minutes ago, after my fifteenth fuckup, when I saw the exasperated look on Howie’s face.
It doesn’t help that I have a lifelong track record of being a stubborn perfectionist.
Pretty sure I get that from my granny. She was a wizard at baking pies, but God forbid one of her pies wasn’t up to snuff for the church bake sale. The woman went on the warpath, mad at everyone and everything, but mostly, ticked off at herself.
Goddammit. I’m just like Granny.
I want to cry. I want to scream. I want to push this painful weight of stress off my shoulders, but when I shut my eyes tight or open my mouth to let it all out, nothing happens. All those emotions that were boiling beneath the surface have disappeared, and the knot in my chest is so constricting it makes breathing feel like a chore.
“Birdie?” The sound of Andrew’s voice and two knocks to my trailer door startle me, but I stay rooted to my spot with my back to the door and my eyes fixated on the wrinkles in the carpet beneath my feet.
Maybe he’ll just go away…
When I don’t answer, the door slides open, and the sound of footsteps makes its way up the two steps and into my trailer.
Shit.
“Birdie? Are you okay?” he asks, and the door clicks shut.
“I’m fine,” I whisper, and I hate how shaky and unsteady my voice sounds. I swallow hard against the stupid emotion that all of a sudden wants to show up to my pity party, and I make no move to turn around. “Nothing for you to worry about.”
Two strong arms find their way around my shoulders and pull me back, tight against his firm chest. “We all have bad days,” he whispers into my ear. “Don’t let what Howie said get to you.”
I don’t respond, the surprising kindness in his voice only making it harder to keep the tears at bay.
“You’re drawn tight like a damn bow, sweetheart,” he continues, his voice smooth like honey, and I have to shut my eyes tight to keep the emotion behind my lids. “Keeping this all bottled up inside will only make it worse. You need to let it out. Just cry, scream, whatever you need to do, just let it out.”
A part of me wants to fight against him, push him away and tell him I’m fine. But his words are the equivalent of Miley Cyrus on a wrecking ball, breaking straight through my emotional dam.
Tears slip from my lids and my shoulders shake, and Andrew turns me around and hugs me tight to his chest. A part of me wants to resist this, resist him, but I simply can’t because he’s right. I just need to let it out.
So, I do. With my head resting on his shoulder, I let myself fall into his embrace while my tears soak into the old leather jacket that’s part of his Cal costume.
And Andrew just stands there, holding me, letting me cry it out.
He doesn’t say or do anything else but that.
“I don’t know why I kept screwing it all up,” I eventually whisper once I’ve cried the knot in my throat away.
He leans back to look down at me, and his grayish-blue eyes show no judgment or scrutiny, just warmth and tenderness.
“Birdie, we all fuck up sometimes,” he says. “It’s impossible to be perfect with this kind of production schedule. Hell, Serena wanted to wring my neck the other day when I couldn’t keep a straight face during a scene