“Dude, you ready?” Wright asks, walking up beside us.
“Yeah.” Canon breaks our stare, his smile disappearing as quickly as it came. “I’m whipped. Let’s go.”
“Neevah, so good to see you again.” Wright pulls me into a side hug and squeezes. “Congratulations.”
I look up at him, offering a smile. “Thank you again for coming.”
“Wouldn’t have missed it. You were great. If you’re ever in LA, don’t hesitate to hit me up.”
“Will do.” I studiously train my eyes on Wright’s face, and do my best to ignore his taciturn friend.
The two men turn and take the few steps that lead them away from me and this extraordinary night. I’m about to join my friends and head toward the subway when I feel a light touch on my arm. I look up and shock rolls through me. Shock and a thrill. It’s Canon.
“Did you forget something?” I ask, my breath refusing to push in and out as per normal respiratory patterns.
“You were exceptional on that stage,” he says softly. “The best in the show.”
Vines sprout from the sidewalk and wrap around my ankles, trapping me where I stand. Immobile. I should say something, not just stand here like I’m starstruck, though there is a part of me that is.
“What you said tonight about making people feel when you perform,” he says, his eyes never straying from my face. “Keep that.”
And then he turns and walks away.
5
Canon
“You were especially pleasant tonight,” Monk says when we climb into the Uber that met us at the corner.
“I was, wasn’t I?” I settle back into the seat and close my eyes. “Thank you for noticing.”
“You were on your phone the whole time.” His voice holds little sting because he knows I don’t respond to that guilt shit, especially not when it comes to being social.
“I was convincing Mallory to fly out to New York as soon as possible. Lots of protests and texting back and forth.”
“Your casting director? Why does she need to come to New York?”
“I want her to see some auditions out here.” I open my eyes and grin crookedly. “I found my Dessi.”
“What?” Monk’s brows shoot up. “When? Who?”
“Tonight.” I hesitate, watching his face for a reaction. “Your friend Neevah.”
Flabbergasted.
“The fuck?” he says after a moment of his mouth hanging open. “Neevah Saint?”
“Yeah. The one we watched perform. The one we had dinner with.”
“First of all, we did not have dinner. I had dinner with them folks. You were the same antisocial bastard you usually are, and they still were all up your ass.”
“They’re actors. I’m a director. They want work, so the forecast is always partly fawning with a high chance of kiss-ass.”
“Second of all, you barely looked at Neevah, much less spoke to her. When did you decide she’s Dessi Blue?”
“Pretty much as soon as she stepped onstage.”
“It’s the way she looks? That’s why you want to cast her?” Censure, though unspoken, lurks in his voice.
“Get the fuck outta here. You know me better than that. You think I find the story of a lifetime, put my whole ass career on the line to tell it, take almost a year to fund it, then search for the right actor for six months only to cast a girl because she has a great ass?”
“Oh, so you did notice her ass.”
And every other part of her, but that’s not pertinent.
Her ass. Her tits.
Her flawless coppery skin. A face so expressive it’s like a blank canvas she paints every emotion across in vivid color, in broad strokes. Big brown eyes that in one moment offer everything and in the next seem to hoard a thousand secrets. A man would ransom his soul for those eyes, for those secrets.
Each of her physical features is remarkable.
And completely irrelevant.
If all it took was a pretty girl, I could have cast this part six months ago. Dessi Blue requires more than a pretty face.
I want that light Neevah lets out when she sings. I want that conviction behind every word she spoke onstage. I want that little volcano of a woman to erupt on my set. I want everything she has to give because I knew immediately she was one of those who gives everything. And I’m the man to get it out of her. The right director (me). The right story (mine). And she’ll be touted as a rare talent. It didn’t take me all night to know that. I knew it right away.
And it’s never happened to me before. Not like this.
“Her ass won’t tell my story,” I respond after a few seconds. “The studio wasted all that money and time looking for Dessi the last six months and I found her making her Broadway debut. Randomly.”
“Not sure they’ll agree. What did Mallory think?”
“Let’s just say she’s skeptical. She’s never heard of Neevah, so of course she’s got reservations.”
“You mean that Galaxy won’t trust a budget that big on an actress no one knows on the strength of . . . what? Your gut?”
“Don’t underestimate this gut.” I pat my stomach and wink. “It knows. And, yeah. The studio will give some pushback.”
“Forget the studio. You won’t get it past Evan.”
He has a point. Evan won’t be feeling this, trusting the project of a lifetime to an unknown with little to no movie experience.
“You let me worry about Evan. Once he sees her, he’ll agree with me. That’s why I want Mallory to come out here immediately. Catch Neevah onstage this week before that other chick returns from vacation or whatever. Then get a screen test with her as soon as she’s back to doing standby. I don’t want to throw too much at her when she’s got this Broadway thing going on.”
“This Broadway thing is her dream. Were you not listening?”
“Were you? Performing is her dream. That’s what I heard. So you telling me I offer her the starring role in a Black biopic with a monster budget and me directing, and she turns it down to play backup on Broadway? Shiiiiiiit.”
“Do you know you’re a narcissist?”
“Of course. Narcissism comes with the territory. You aren’t the dude who believes he should get millions of dollars to tell a damn story if you aren’t just a little bit of a narcissist.”
“The only thing that saves you from being a complete asshole is your mama raised you right.”
That she did.
Whenever I’m smelling myself, as Mama used to say, her voice in my ear is the dose of humility that reins me in. She tethers me to my past. She prepared me for my future. Everything, anything good in me, Remy Holt put there. Thanks to my first documentary, everyone knows it.
I took all that footage Mama captured, all her sunsets and soliloquies, and bundled them into The Magic Hour, my first professional documentary. It took the grand jury and directing prizes at Sundance. I sailed through that awards season with her as the wind at my back every time I accepted a new, unexpected honor. It was her indomitable spirit that inspired audiences all over the world. Her fierce commitment to art even when her body betrayed her. It was her sage advice lit by the golden hour setting the world on fire that year.