Chapter 11: The Distance Grows
The studio smelled of lemon verbena and hot tools. Golden afternoon light cut across the black-and-white tile floor, catching the swirl of dust motes and the faint, lingering haze of hairspray. Dee’s fingers worked on autopilot, twisting a section of honey-blonde hair around a curling wand. The sizzle was a satisfying sound. Control. Predictability.
Her phone buzzed on the marble countertop, skittering next to her silver jewelry box. The client in her chair, a podcast host named Chloe, was mid-sentence about boundary-setting with co-parents. Dee murmured an acknowledgement, but her eyes were on the screen.
A photo. A sad, beige croissant stuffed with what looked like grayish ham and processed cheese, perched on a napkin stamped with a blurred film logo. The caption underneath: ‘They call this craft service. I call it a war crime. Miss your cooking.’
A laugh punched out of her, loud enough that Chloe stopped talking. “Sorry,” Dee said, wiping at her eye. “Just… a dumb text.”
She tapped out a reply, her thumbs flying. ‘That’s not food, that’s a cry for help. I’m sending a care package of actual nutrients. Try to hold on.’
She set the phone back down, the smile still playing on her lips. It faded as she wound another section of hair. The curl was perfect. Springy, shiny. She checked the time on the oven-style timer she used for processes. 3:17 p.m. LA time.
Which meant it was… 12:17 a.m. in Budapest.
He was texting her at midnight his time. Probably just wrapped, still buzzing from the day, alone in his trailer or hotel room. The thought was a warm one. Then the other thought, cold and slick, followed right behind.
His last proper call was three days ago. A five-minute check-in where he’d sounded fried, his voice thin with fatigue. ‘It’s a night shoot, sweetheart. I’m a vampire now. I’ll call you tomorrow.’ Tomorrow had become a flurry of short, logistical texts. ‘Moving to the new location.’ ‘Line changes sent.’ ‘Thinking of you.’
She’d watched his press interviews for the film. A five-minute segment from some Hungarian entertainment show, subtitled, where he’d laughed effortlessly at the host’s jokes. He’d been seated next to Elara Vance, his co-star, a willowy British actress in her twenties with a laugh like wind chimes. Elara had touched his arm twice. Leaned in. It was nothing. Professional. Friendly.
It had felt like a gut-punch.
Chloe was looking at her expectantly in the mirror. Dee realized she’d stopped moving, the curling wand hovering dangerously close to the client’s perfect highlights. “Shoot, sorry,” she said, forcing her attention back. “Boundaries with the ex. You’re totally right. You have to be a brick wall.”
After Chloe left, twirling her new waves with a satisfied grin, the studio felt too quiet. The hum of the mini-fridge was suddenly oppressive. Dee cleaned her station with aggressive efficiency, wiping down mirrors, capping products, the citrus scent sharp in her nose.
She opened her jewelry box. Inside, nestled in worn velvet, were pieces she never wore for clients. A heavy silver ring shaped like a fist, a gift from her grandmother. A delicate chain with a tiny, flawed emerald. A pair of brutalist titanium earrings she’d bought after her first big breakup. Secrets. Armor.
Her phone screen lit up again. Not a text. A notification. ‘Matt Bomer on Navigating Action Scenes and On-Set Chemistry.’ Another interview. Probably the same one recycled on a different site.
She shouldn’t.
She tapped it.
The video loaded. There he was, in a sleek hotel lobby somewhere, looking tired but handsome in a charcoal sweater. The reporter asked about the physical training. Matt gave his standard, charming answer, crediting his stunt double. Then the question. “And Elara Vance! Such sparks on screen. Is the chemistry as easy off-camera?”
Dee’s throat tightened.
On screen, Matt gave a practiced, dimpled smile. “Elara’s a pro. Makes my job easy. We have a lot of fun between takes, yeah. She’s hilarious.”
A lot of fun between takes.
The phrase echoed. It was the same kind of vague, pleasant thing he’d said about dozens of co-stars. About her, for years, to reporters asking about his glamorous hairstylist. ‘Dee’s the best. We have a lot of fun.’
She locked the phone, screen-down. The silence was a physical presence.
He’d promised. Even if it’s just to hear you sigh and tell me I’m being extra.
But he was the one on a punishing shoot, in a new time zone, building a new world with new people. Her world was here. The same four walls, the same smells, the same quiet waiting. The old script, the one where she was the steadfast friend orbiting his brilliant, transient life, started to play in her head. It was a familiar, corrosive track.
He’s just busy.
You’re overthinking.
He texted you twenty minutes ago.
It’s been three days since you heard his voice.
She picked up the phone. His text thread was open. Her joke about the care package sat there, unanswered. Probably because he’d finally crashed. Probably.
Her thumb hovered over the call button. The action felt monumental. Heavy with need. Calling was pulling on a thread. What if he didn’t answer? What if he sounded distracted, his attention split between her and the mountains of work waiting for him at dawn? What if he was… not alone?
The thought was a quiet, venomous thing. Unfair. Undeserved. But it was there, fed by pixelated images of a beautiful woman laughing at his jokes.
She didn’t call.
Instead, she typed. The words looked stark and pathetic as she formed them. ‘Saw your interview. You look tired. Hope you’re getting some sleep.’
She deleted it. Too motherly.
‘The Elara Vance chemistry questions are already starting. Try not to enjoy them too much.’
Deleted. Too brittle. Too revealing.
She settled on: ‘Let me know when a good time to call is. No pressure.’
She sent it. The whoosh sound was final. It was a retreat. A handing over of the power. You decide when I’m allowed to need you.
Almost immediately, three dots appeared. Her heart lunged into her ribs.
They danced. Then disappeared.
A full minute passed. The studio clock ticked. The dots didn’t return. He’d seen it. He’d started to type. And then he’d stopped.
The reasons were a swarm. He was called to set. His phone died. He was trying to formulate the perfect response. He was… with someone.
Dee slid the phone into her back pocket, the metal and glass a cold weight against her skin. She finished closing the studio, her movements precise and empty. She turned off the lights, leaving the golden afternoon to die outside the windows.
Walking to her car, the LA sun warm on her shoulders, she felt the distance not as miles, but as a creeping, cellular silence. The new script they’d talked about, the one they were writing together, felt like it was written in disappearing ink. And she was alone on her side of the ocean, watching the words fade.