19
Remy
It was four months after that fateful night at Wesley’s cabin, and one of the last days of filming for the movie.
The flowers from “Your Baby Daddy” awaited me, right on top of the director’s chair. They brimmed with life, their yellow petals capturing the light streaming in from the large windows in the little San Francisco church we were filming in that week. Now, at five months pregnant, I lifted the flowers from the chair and fell into their place. My body felt strange, alien to me, with the belly popping up beneath my dresses. “Do I look pregnant, or just fat?” I’d asked several members of my film crew lately, teasing them and testing them. “Be honest, Jeffrey. I can take it.” Of course, Jeffrey had just looked sheepish in return, fumbling with the boom and pretending to talk to someone else. The answer? I was definitely growing. Fat, pregnant, whatever it was—it was happening.
We’d been filming for about six weeks. It had been difficult, in the beginning, to secure permits to film in all the locations I wanted to film in, and beyond that, we’d struggled endlessly with finding the proper sets and set designers. Sam had helped me with much of that search. We’d even driven to Los Angeles once, to scout out some old now-strangers, but soon found ourselves shuffling back to San Francisco, eager to shake out the memories of our Los Angeles years.
“Just don’t call Tyler, all right?” Sam hands had gripped the steering wheel tightly. “You haven’t heard from him at all since you left?”
I pressed my lips together, my heart surging with apprehension. In actuality, in the previous few months, I had heard from Tyler. His texts had been surprisingly kind, almost funny, although our relationship had been anything but. “If you ever come back to Los Angeles, I know we could try again,” one of them had read. “You were always the one for me, Rem. I knew it ever since I laid eyes on you.”
“It’s not like I want to see him again,” I sighed to Sam, slipping my sunglasses over my eyes to block out that penetrating Southern California stream. “He was absolutely atrocious to me.”
“Well, so was Wesley,” Sam offered. “And it seems like you guys are—well, I’d be surprised if you’re not fucking. I know you don’t want to talk about it. But…”
“Just. I don’t need any judgment,” I’d sighed in return, making long scribbles down my notebook.
I hadn’t wanted to tell Sam about fucking Wesley because I didn’t want to rationalize it or try to build it up in my mind as anything but just that. But each time we did—although it was becoming a bit more difficult, with my growing belly—I fell deeper into him, imagining him holding our child in his muscular arms, imagining him using his large hands to dot a tiny diaper on our child, to hold his hair while he cried…
Of course, I was still too chickenshit to ask if he planned to stick around. To ask if this world mattered to him at all.
When we’d found out the gender of the baby—a boy—Wesley had held my hand so tightly, I’d lost all the blood from the fingers. Within seconds of leaving the doctor’s office, he’d scrambled his phone to his ear to call his own dad. “It’s a boy, Dad. I know. I’m going to have a son.”
I’d never heard such sincerity in his voice. Such promise.
But that didn’t mean he was going to stick around.
It was thirty minutes before the actors would arrive on set, leaving me a bit of time to prep. The cameramen positioned themselves and then began their light banter, nibbling on doughnuts and slurping burnt coffee. I simmered in the director’s chair, holding the flowers against my chest. I knew these were an apology. That Wes was anxious I was angry about him missing half of rehearsal a few days ago. In truth, when I looked at the situation realistically, I’d been shocked that he hadn’t missed more rehearsals and shoots in the previous few weeks—knowing only that “Wesley was unreliable,” that he couldn’t care about my project as much as I did. Quintin echoed these words to me constantly. “Just the fact that he’s showing up to more than fifty percent of them should make you happy,” he said. “He barely came to fifty percent of high school classes.”
But Jesus, no. It didn’t make me happy. It enraged me, made me stay up many sleepless nights, cursing myself for ever involving Wesley in my art project. Sure, he was damn good at acting—he really lit up the screen and filled the character, providing a gruff, almost animalistic quality. But was it worth it? It seemed to be ripping at our quasi-relationship: one of pure fucking, and the occasional ill-conceived hope that maybe, just maybe, Wesley would want to settle down. To be with our son and me.
It was a consistent thing I had to fight back against. “He doesn’t want that. And you don’t need it,” I’d muttered to myself, time and time again. “He’s just a means to an end for you.”
Sam arrived on set, her trench coat streaming behind her. She slipped her sunglasses from her nose and eyed the floral arrangement with pressed lips.
“So. He’s apologizing, is he?” she sighed.
“It appears so,” I said, my voice sarcastic. “As if a few flowers are going to mop up the fact that we lost like three hours of work.”
“Did you really think it would go any other way?”
“I thought he fucking knew that this movie was the only reason I was doing any of this,” I scoffed. “I mean, I wouldn’t be pregnant if he hadn’t dangled this money, saying you can finally make your dreams come true. Blah blah blah.”
Sam chuckled slightly, her eyes still burning. “Not to mention what it’s doing to the rest of the cast. Gwen told me she had to reschedule a doctor’s appointment because of the asshole. Any idea where he was when he bailed? Or is it just one of these magical, mystery things that old Wesley does to keep you on your toes?”
“I don’t know,” I sighed, shrugging. “I mean—”
“Well, he is coming today, right?” she asked, cutting me off. “Because this scene between me and him— Well, it cinches the entire climax of the second act,” Sam said, speaking in a high-pitched, know-it-all tone.
“Jesus, Sam. Sometimes you talk like you’re the one who wrote the goddamn movie,” I sputtered, standing quickly. I hobbled back toward the bathroom, my bladder full and sloshing all over again. When I reached the mirror, I gazed at myself—an unrecognizable force, as of late. A bulbous woman. A bubble.
I heard Wesley before I spotted him. I angled back from the bathroom and watched as he spoke to one of the cameramen, a San Francisco native named Eric, with gruff words. His tone was that of a bad boy, filled with arrogance—so unlike the man who’d tucked me into bed a few nights before, telling me that the baby and I would be safe.
“I tell you, I mean, don’t mention this to Remy—” Wesley said to Eric, his voice growing lower. “But I was out on Highway 1 and I got the itch in me, right? I just tore down the state on my bike, knowing I had to get back for rehearsal. Knowing she would fucking kill me if I missed it. But it’s like I can’t… do anything right now. Or go anywhere. Or live. It’s like being on my bike is all I have left, you know?”
“Man, you really think you can raise a baby like this?” Eric asked, scoffing slightly.
“It’s not really what we planned, anyway,” Wesley offered, slipping toward the center of set. He wheeled back toward Eric for a final note. “I mean, Jesus. I’ve technically done my part. Get her pregnant. Give her the cash.”
“But man, she’s got your baby in her,” Eric said.
“Think I don’t know that? I just, man, I just don’t know how to keep being myself. If I have to do that, too.”
I was something like fifteen feet away, lurking behind several pieces of camera equipment. My eyes moved from Wesley to Sam, who joined the men in the center of the church. Wesley knocked a cocky head forward to mutter something to Sam. Something I couldn’t hear. My heart burned with a jolt of jealousy. Confusion.
Why the hell had he agreed to be in my movie? I’d known he hadn’t thought it would take so much time to get going. Explaining to him the effort involved in securing permits, in aligning actors’ schedules, was colossal. Yet, he’d often muttered about taking a “final trip” before the baby arrived, even flirted with the idea of coming back just a few days before the baby was due. “How could he do that?” I’d whispered to myself, countless times, while falling asleep. “How could he abandon us?”
“He’s just getting cold feet,” Sam had said often, speaking haughtily. “I mean, come on. He was on his own for twelve years. He can’t just turn off his human nature.”
On set, the crew grew restless. I fumbled toward the director’s chair, my cheeks burning. Even after four months of occasionally making love, it was clear to the cast and crew that Wesley wasn’t my boyfriend. He wasn’t anything but the man who’d knocked me up and was now financing my movie. It wasn’t like you could keep things like that under wraps in such a small crew. Rumors sped like wildfire.
“All right, everyone. Let’s find our places!” I called out to the cast and crew. As I spoke, Wesley’s eyes darted toward me, catching mine. I gave him a sour look, my hands growing into fists. But I knew that tearing toward him and ripping him apart in front of the cast and crew would only waste all of our time. I made a mental note to articulate my feelings to him later—my finger digging into that muscled chest, my large pregnant belly growing between us.
Finally, I found the strength to speak. “If we start the shoot now, we can break by two.”
I barely recognized my own voice. Anger, resentment throttled through me. This wasn’t the man I’d cuddled against, just weeks before. This wasn’t the man who’d whispered that it would “all be all right,” when I’d had that minor freak out about, you know, the “big leap” of becoming a mother. The incredible intensity of bringing another life into the world.
But I couldn’t waste another moment. This was to be one of the final scenes with Wesley, and one of the final scenes, period.
The scene in the church, between Sam and Wesley, involved a great deal of sexual tension, of power play. Sam’s character, Hallie, had dated Wesley’s character, Mark, throughout high school, just before her mother had left her behind. Now, Mark has returned to San Francisco and discovered Hallie’s dive bar, beneath the bed and breakfast. He’s struggling with it, thinking that Hallie could have been so much more.
“What the hell did you think, hiring a stripper to populate your fucking bar, huh, Hallie?” Wesley spewed, as Hank.
“She’s a professional,” Sam said, lifting her chin high. “And you know what? She brings me in at least an extra one hundred fifty bucks a night. Maybe that doesn’t sound like a lot to you. But around here? Jesus, Mark. I still have to eat. And now, I have to feed my mother.”
“I keep telling you. You should kick her out,” Wesley answered. “She wasn’t a part of your life for almost a decade, and now she’s trying to destroy everything you built.”
“Hmm. That sounds pretty fucking familiar, Mark,” Sam said, her eyes burning. She had the perfect face for this closeup camera work. Her face told a story, her eyebrows arching and her chin set. She almost didn’t need the words.
“Just because I wanted to get out there and actually make something of my life,” Wes scoffed. He slid across the screen, stopping at the church pulpit. He stared up at it, his eyebrows lifting. Much like Sam, the camera absolutely adored him—made him look like an old Hollywood star, all muscle and deep, penetrating eyes. Eyes that seemed filled with boundless emotion.
“Don’t you remember when you said you wanted to get married here?” Wes, as Mark, finally said, turning toward Sam. “When you said getting married to me was the only thing you wanted in your life? That we could have a family?”
“Sure. Fuck it. Of course I remember,” Sam shrugged. “But that was a million years ago, Mark. I’ve had to grow up. Learn a better way to make money. And dammit, this is the only thing I’ve come up with.”
“CUT!” I cried from behind the camera. My heart simmered, knowing we’d gotten a very good take. Slipping from behind the camera, my hand pressed against my stomach, I joined Wes and Sam in the center of the set, my eyes still focused on Wes.
The words—yes, the ones I’d written—churned in my head, bringing back a million horrific memories. How we’d bickered about “making something” of ourselves. How we’d so yearned to live these volatile, fiery lives. Well, Wes still thought he could have that, while I remained here. Pregnant. My body giving way to his father’s desire for an heir. Yes, I had my movie—was cinching up the last minutes of it over the next few days—but I still didn’t have Wes. He was a curse, a black cloud over the past fifteen years of my life.
“How was it?” Wes asked. His eyes were wide, innocent, like a child who’d done something wrong and was struggling to get away with it.
“Brilliant,” I said, my voice hard. I watched Sam strum her fingers through her hair, watching us. I sensed that the cast and crew wouldn’t respect me if I didn’t take Wesley to the side. If I didn’t line the rules out before him, explain to him that this thing we were all working on, it wasn’t just a “casual” thing he could drop in for whenever he wanted.
“Mind if we head outside and have a brief chat, Wesley?” I asked, my voice formal.
Immediately, Wesley sensed the darkness. He twitched, his own eyes tracing across the cast and crew. Everyone kept their heads down, like wild animals, hoping not to be hunted. He slid a hand across his brow and took arrogant steps toward the large church door. “All right, then. If you don’t want to get another take out of that.”
“We’ll do another take when I say we do,” I said, my voice electric.
I struggled to keep up with him, my legs wobbling beneath me. Wes’s face was stony, his tongue ready to fire anger at me, but he paused, ensuring the walk through the door was fluid, easy. On the stone step, gazing out at the Mission District, he allowed the door to click closed.
Now I was ready.
“Nice flowers back there,” I said. “As if they could make up for all the lost time the other day. What the hell were you doing, wasting everyone’s time? Wasting my time, Wes?”
Wesley brought himself up to his greatest height. He towered over me, his nostrils flared. “I told you. I was busy.”
“Yeah? Well, I just heard you telling Eric back there that you just decided you wanted to be ‘free’ or whatever that day. What the hell does that mean, Wesley? Does it mean that I’m not ‘free’ enough for you? Does it mean that this commitment of knowing me, of getting me knocked up for your own personal gain, is too much for you?” I was seething now, struggling to catch my breath. “Because I didn’t have to do this for you, but I did.”
“I didn’t have to be your goddamn actor in your movie, Remy, but here I am!” Wesley said, his voice growing lower, wilder. “Ever since this all began, I’ve felt fucking belittled out there. Like just because you’re behind the camera, you can arrange my entire schedule? You can tell me where to be, what to do, every second of every day?”
“Wes! That’s kind of the fucking point of being the director!” I howled. “If you don’t align yourself with the rest of the cast, then how do you expect us to film?”
“I sincerely doubt some of those assholes in there have anything going on, Rem. I think they can change their schedules like that.” He snapped his finger, cockiness making his smile grow crooked. It was handsome, like a movie villain—the one who was endlessly sexy but also there to ruin you.
“Jesus Christ, Wesley! This isn’t about you. It’s about the film!” I cried. “I asked you to give me this, before running off on another one of your adventures. Tell me, Wes. Did you ever actually learn anything about yourself on those trips across the country? Did you ever actually grow as a person? Because sometimes I feel like I’m here talking to a seventeen-year-old version of Wesley. And I’m almost thirty-one years old. I don’t fucking need that.”
Wesley strode down the steps of the church, staring up at me with that same arrogant smile. His eyes burned with a mixture of anger and amusement. “Tell me you get off on being angry at me,” he said finally, shoving his hands into his pocket. “Tell me you were just waiting for me to fuck up your movie so you could yell at me out here.”
“That’s not true.” Rage made my stomach grow tense.
“Fuck off, Rem,” Wesley said, walking across the street now. “I just need some space, OK? You’re making me feel like I can’t breathe.”
“You’re exactly the same as you always were.” I said, watching as he disappeared behind the school across the street. My voice echoed down the street.
I was shuddering when Sam found me out on the front stoop of the church. My hands stretched out over my belly, and my shoulders sagged. Despite months of feeling seconds from crying, I forced my eyes to remain dry. I continued to stare out after Wesley, my tongue sharp.
“What the hell happened out here?” Sam asked, breathless. “I mean, I haven’t heard you guys fight like that in years.”
“Oh, we were due for a big fight,” I stammered, still spinning with anger. “He can’t just treat me like that. He can’t treat his son like that. Abandoning him? It’s out of the question.”
“But didn’t he have you sign that contract, saying he didn’t have to be involved after the birth?” Sam asked, lifting her eyebrow high.
I whirled toward her, on a rampage now. I shook my head back and forth, my nostrils flared. “That was before. Before he heard his baby’s beating heart, for crying out loud. Doesn’t he have a soul? Doesn’t he see what this could be?” Sweat beads streamed down my cheeks, and my eyes felt glassy. I knew I wasn’t logical. That Wesley had no obligation to me, to us, according to this damn contract.
I’d known it would come down to this. That he would prove himself to be the Wesley Adams I’d always known. But I still quivered with anxiety at the fact of it, knowing that—barring a huge shift in the universe—no one would ever change. You couldn’t get off on trying to make it happen.
“Well, shoot,” I said, shrugging to Sam. I swept my hands along my cheeks, trying to draw myself back to the present. I was the director, the dominant force on set. I couldn’t be anything else. “Good thing you guys killed that scene. I think we got it in the first take. Which means we don’t need Wesley on set again.”
“Do you think you’ll see him again soon? Let yourself cool off a little bit?” Sam asked, leaning against the wall. Her dark blue eyes studied mine. I’d spoken to her countless times, post-fight with Wesley. She seemed to look at me as if she already knew the answer.
“Maybe it has to be done,” I told her, crossing my arms against my chest and letting out a big sigh. “I’ll always be connected to him. I’ll always have this child. But Wesley, he doesn’t have it in him to be a father figure, nor a partner in anything.”
“He’s not good enough for you. He never will be,” Sam affirmed.
With that, she strode back through the door of the church, whipping her arms into the air and calling out across the cast and crew. “Seems we’ve lost that asshole for good!”
I remained on the steps, listening to Gwen and the others cackle at Sam’s outrageous announcement. As much as I hated the thought of him—as much as I wanted to tear into him, declare that he was the worst possible person in my life—I still kept my eyes at the street corner where he’d disappeared, wondering if he’d dart back around with an apology already brimming on his lips.
I waited two minutes more, my shoulders growing heavier, my knees folding up. He still didn’t appear. And I knew, in the back of my mind, that the show had to go on without him. We still had hours of filming left to go for the day. And that night, I would fall asleep alone, knowing I’d done the best I could—in my art, and for my child.