Behind the Scenes

Ash Stewart leaned forward on the couch, the only piece of furniture in her spacious, atrium-style living room. Buying furniture was so taxing. A television and Xbox sat on the floor in front of her. She blinked as she met an untimely demise. The rocks protecting her stronghold exploded as Amphib the Destroyer and his minions swarmed. Her health status dropped to zero.

"Go again?" Ash's friend Emma sat cross-legged on the sofa, looking like a prep school boy in her rugby jersey.

"How do you do it?" Ash tossed the controller on the sofa. "You don't even play Death Con Six."

The game's theme song played. The screen asked if they wanted to restart from the last chapter.

"You're old." Emma grinned. "I've been playing since I was in the womb. You got an Xbox when you were, like, an adult."

Ash was forty. She should defend forty. Forty was prime of life. But she'd stayed up until four a.m. drinking Mountain Dew, which should have made her feel like one of Emma's young gamer friends, but it didn't.

"I was playing Super Mario Bros. before you were a dirty thought," Ash said.

"You want to play Pong?"

Who knew the word Pong could be imbued with so much loving condescension?

"Damn you, Gen Z." Ash picked up her beer.

"Millennial by one year," Emma said. "You want to play again?"

"As much as it's nice to be crushed by a man with a frog's head…" Ash nodded to the screen. "No."

On-screen, Emma's character flexed his muscles, waiting for the game to resume.

"I need to get back to work." Ash sighed. She had to bring the rough cut of the Portland Outfitters commercial to the owner to see if it struck the right balance of hip and rustic. Then she had to study Senate candidate Grayson Beller. Shooting his campaign ads would be good money, but she wasn't going to work for him if he had some cut-school-funding, kill-the-trees voting record. She had to finish storyboarding the Wag and Browse Bookstore and Dog Kennel ad. If there was any way to make that not sound like the strangest combination ever, she'd find it.

And then there was the other project. The most important one. The impossible one. Her movie: Inevitable Comfort. Her last chance at getting back into directing when no producer would touch her except maybe, just maybe, iconic, iconoclastic, devil-may-care billionaire Irene Brentworth. The longest of long shots. Ash should stop thinking about it.

"And I've got to get us ready to shoot that historic preservation bit in St. John's," she said, continuing the to-do list out loud. "There's the lighting…maybe a new filter for the Canon 4K…make sure we've got everything charged. I should go back to the studio. Did I plug in the Canon 4K?"

"There's something interesting about that," Emma said.

"What's that?"

"That's my job."

Yes. Technically. Emma was her cameraperson. And yes, Emma was awesome. If something needed to be charged or repaired or updated or light-tested or sold on the black market or conjured out of thin air by sheer force of will, Emma would have already done it, which was why Emma felt fine playing Amphib the Destroyer all afternoon. All afternoon was how long Ash had promised Emma she'd relax. But all afternoon? That was a long time to go without the distraction of work.

"Amphib the Destroyer wants to dominate you again," Emma said.

"I can't take the pain."

"Okay." Emma drew out the word like Ash was in trouble. "I have a different game." Emma logged Ash out of the Xbox and pulled up her own credentials on autofill. "You'll like it. It's really slow…like the nineties."

A moment later, a pastel farm scene appeared on the screen. Balloon-like animals bounced in place.

"I think you're more of the bunny." Emma clicked the bunny and nodded for Ash to pick up the controller.

"A kids' game?"

"Nope."

The bunny wrinkled its nose. "I'm hungry. Let's get some carrots," it said.

"Really?" Ash raised an eyebrow.

"Go on."

Ash moved the joystick. The bunny bounced slowly out of the frame.

"Slow down and enjoy the day," it said.

Sunlight streamed through the two-story windows. The hardwood floor gleamed. (The almost total lack of furniture showcased the hardwood.) The smell of pines blew in from the forested hill below Ash's deck and her spectacular view of Mount Hood. There was a lot of peacefulness floating in on the breeze, a lot of time for thoughts.

Ash moved the joystick again. The bunny floated away.

"Woah, too fast," it said. "Let's breathe together. In." The bunny inflated as it drifted back down. "Out. In. Out."

"The game teaches you to slow down and breathe," Emma said.

"I don't need to slow down and breathe."

"Literally anyone who says they don't have to slow down, has to slow down. Namaste."

Coming from Emma, namaste sounded like something you called to your teammates before you tackled someone. Emma threw an arm around Ash's shoulder.

"Work-life balance. You're such a millennial…by one year." She shook Emma off with a smile so Emma knew she was just playing. "Work-life balance is where success dies."

"It's biofeedback," Emma protested. She waved the game controller. "It's because science."

"Is Death Con Six biofeedback?"

"I'll give you some biofeedback." Emma gave Ash a friendly shove. "Play."

The buzz of Ash's phone saved her from the floating bunny.

Ash flipped the phone over. Her heart stopped. BRENTWORTH OFFICE flashed on the screen. They were calling to say no to Inevitable Comfort. They'd heard the logline. They'd read the treatment. But no, they hadn't read the script. No, they hadn't advanced the idea to Irene Brentworth. A romantic comedy with a queer disabled ex-firefighter was too niche. Maybe if it was a man or an able-bodied woman, think Lara Croft Tomb Raider except a firefighter in the Pacific Northwest with bigger breasts and one arm that was a machine gun.

"Ash Stewart Productions," Ash answered.

"This is Mark from Irene Brentworth's office."

Ash mouthed Brentworth. Emma's eyes went wide.

"I…yes…I mean hello…"

Time slowed down. Ash tried to catch her breath. In a second, she was going to know. Was it advertisements for life or did she have a chance at filmmaking again? A second chance at her career. A chance for all her crew to soar. Yes, she hoped they'd stay with Stewart Productions, but after a Brentworth production they could do anything. And maybe they'd all stay together. They'd look back on today as the start of an empire. But Brentworth wasn't going to back Inevitable Comfort. Ash had to face the news. This was the moment when she had to give up the last shred of hope.

"Brentworth would like to see the whole pitch deck," the man said, a little wearily. "That'll include green-locked script, budget, any actors you've attached, résumés for any crew you want to bring with you, storyboards, marketing plan, comps. And a ten-minute proof of concept."

"Yes. Of course. I…let me find a pen."

Emma rolled her eyes and opened the voice recorder on her phone.

"Tell it to me," she whispered.

"Okay, um, yes," Ash said. "Can you say that all again?"

She knew what went in a pitch deck. It was just that every cell in her brain was busy celebrating and panicking at the same time. She was going to pitch to Irene Brentworth. She couldn't handle it. She'd crack. She'd fail spectacularly. She'd win. She'd be one of the best directors in the world…again. Her ex-wife would come back. We were good together, Ash. Let's make movies again. She'd never have to film another screaming used car salesman commercial again.

She repeated the items the man listed.

"Brentworth would like to see you at three thirty p.m., June tenth."

"Of course."

"In LA. I'll email you the details."

The man hung up. Ash stared at her phone.

"I…we…that…" she said.

June tenth ricocheted through her mind like a bullet. She couldn't do a proof-of-concept film that fast. She didn't have actors. She hadn't scouted locations. She barely had enough crew to make commercials. And the business side of filmmaking. That had always been her ex's job. Victoria was the producer. Ash was a director. How did you even figure out a budget for a film?

"Irene fucking Brentworth wants to hear your pitch!" Even Emma, who managed to look cheerfully nonplussed about everything, stared at Ash, mouth agape. "You did it."

It had taken years to write the script. A year to work up the courage to tell Emma she hadn't given up her dream of being a director…to which Emma had offered an anticlimactic No shit. Ash had labored for months over the treatment and longer over the logline. How could it be that hard to write two sentences? And Brentworth was going to hear their pitch, and if Brentworth wanted the movie she'd fund it. People would fall in love with the leads and their story of redemptive love.

Was it possible?

"I have to text everyone I've ever met," Emma said. "We have to have a party."

"We don't have time for a party. We have to get to work!" Ash leapt off the couch. "I'm going to the studio. No more floating rabbit."

"You have to play with the floating rabbit," Emma said more seriously than those words should ever be spoken.

"I don't have time."

Emma was quiet for a moment, then very slowly, in a tone Ash had never heard her use before, she said, "We're not going to finish the pitch deck in time, and we're not going to get the money."

"Trust me," Ash said. "I'm going to throw myself into this one hundred percent. Every. Waking. Minute. I will make this happen."

Emma stood up, too. She put her arms around Ash in a real embrace. Ash stiffened. Emma didn't do real hugs. She gave noogies and headlocks. Those Ash could tolerate; the soft weight of Emma's arms made her stomach tighten.

I'm fine.

"You," Emma said quietly, then released Ash, "are the reason we won't win the pitch."

Her words hit Ash in the gut. Everyone else in Hollywood knew Ash as the woman who tanked a twelve-million-dollar movie because she couldn't get her shit together. But Emma never reminded her. Emma never said anything mean. She teased. She poked at Ash like a little sister trying to get her big sister's attention. But behind that was the no-nonsense love of a good friend. She never went too far. But this was too far.

"I can. I'm fine," Ash snapped.

"You're an amazing artist and an amazing employer," Emma said. "And when we're shooting something, even if it's just that guy who yells at you to buy new tires, you bring everything you've got. But you're dropping the ball. You're saying you'll do things, and you forget. You're doing half our jobs for us, or trying to."

"Is it because I messed up the reservations in Burns?"

"That hotel was a biohazard, but no. It's not Burns. It's this." Emma gestured to the Xbox.

"It's dead to me," Ash said. "No more Death Con Six until we've won the pitch."

"You don't get it. We want