Page 34 of Double Standard

“You’re young. Inexperienced. You shouldn’t beat yourself up about that. Like I said, it took me fifteen years to figure this out. Here’s where it gets even more complicated, though. My guess is you probablydidthink about her, and at some point, you decided you didn’t want to make her riled up about something that might not be a big deal. Do I have that right?”

“How could you possibly know that?”

“Because I do it too. Sometimes I make choices for my wife that I think are for her benefit, and then I feel good about myself. I’m protecting her, and all that. But you know what she sees?”

“Hmmm?”

“To her, it’s infantilizing. She doesn’t need me to make calls for her. She’s a strong, smart woman, and she can make decisions for herself.”

“Shit.”

“Yep.”

“I fucked this up.”

“You aren’t the first and won’t be the last, I’m afraid.” He winks at me through the mirror.

“Thanks, man. This is... thanks.”

For the last ten minutes of our drive, thoughts whip in my brain. I think about Ana, about betraying her trust, about how to apologize. I think about my family, about my deep-seated belief that all I do is disappoint people. When I took this job, I thought choosing my career over my family and the farm was the issue. But maybe it was that I didn’t consider—much less recognize—how that choice would affect them. Leaving without any sort of goodbye or acknowledgment, I considered them even less.

Or Ana’s history of being lied to and then placated. I didn’t truly consider that either when I chose to keep Colt’s words to myself. And if what Edwin is saying is true—that people who mean something want to be considered, even if it doesn’t change the outcome—the opposite is also true. Without that consideration, people think they don’t mean anything.

This realization claws at my chest and squeezes my lungs.

XXII

Ana

“Cut! Take ten to reset.”

My arms collapse at my sides the second the scene ends. Sweat sprinkles my forehead, my palms, and gathers beneath the draped linen covering my chest. My shoulders rise and fall as I catch my breath and take a moment to come back into myself. I slip out of Athena like she’s a cloak I can drape carefully over my forearm until I need to put her back on.

“Ana, can you come here?” Francesca asks.

My eyes shift to her standing next to the primary camera, squinting as she watches playback. With tired steps, I make my way over.

“Take a look—when you’re approaching Ares from behind, I’m not getting the full weight of your emotion because your face stays blocked by his shoulder a hint too long.”

I see what she’s saying and tell her as much.

“For the next take, try to swing wider so we can feel the anguish and the audience can dwell there, just for a second, before Ares notices you and the scene continues.”

“Of course, that’s a great call. Thank you, Francesca.”

“Thankyoufor really digging in here; I know this isn’t an easy scene to film.”

“I want to get it right.” I smile.

“I know you do.”

I’ve been stewing on what to do with this Colt revelation, and I decide on my move. “Hey, could I stop by your trailer after the shoot today? I’d like to talk through something with you.”

“As long as you don’t mind a late night. In the meantime, go get something to drink, sit down for a minute. We’ll be ready to go again in five.” She shoos me toward craft services, and it’s remarkable, really, how different it is having a female director on this film. It feels like all my weariness from years spent on sets with every note given through the male gaze has been erased in the months that I’ve been working under Francesca.

She’s so different than I thought she’d be after that tense meeting in the conference room before filming started. She’s focused, with high expectations for our performance, but she’s also encouraging. More and more, I’m realizing that she’s a lot like me, with a reflex to protect herself and what she’s worked for. I think she recognizes it in me now too.

Cast and crew members hover around trays of muffins, veggies, and tubs of hummus. My eyes bounce around, looking for someone to hitch myself to, to engage in conversation with. But of course, they fall to him—he’s right there, fifteen feet away, talking with Colt. My stomach drops to my toes.