Page 82 of Over & Out

HOPPER: You know that’s apparently not a real thing?

CHRIS: What’s that?

HOPPER: Over and out.

I send her the link where I read this. Over means passing the mic over to the other person, so you’re waiting for a response. But out means the transmission is over. That is, done.

CHRIS: The words are a contradiction.

HOPPER: Exactly.

CHRIS: Kind of like us?

HOPPER: Hell no. We’re a perfect match.

CHRIS: If the pilot didn’t know that, imagine what else he didn’t know! I can’t believe we didn’t crash.

HOPPER: What a way to go, though, right?

That was three days ago, my first day on set after our trip to LA. I had to restrain myself from skipping everywherebetween takes. Like, physically, my body wanted to jump around like my work boots were made of clouds. Toni had to keep cutting takes because, quote, “You’re supposed to be agrumpylumberjack, Donnach, what the hell is with that goofy grin?”

“I’m not grinning!” I insisted.

“You were, and now you’ve got a goddamned twinkle in your eye.”

“Am I twinkling?” I asked Charlene.

“You’re twinkling,” she said, giggling.

Three days later, though, after eleven hours of filming yesterday and today with barely a break, I’m not twinkling. I’m cranky and sore, and I desperately want to get back to Chris. It’s been three days since we got off the plane and I had to head straight to set. Three days since I’ve seen Chris’s beautiful face.

But it’s been one day since I got a call from Mabel that threw a dark shadow on my mood. I was so thrown by it that I crashed in my trailer last night, knowing I didn’t want to bring that energy home to Chris. Despite how fucking badly I miss her. On top of all that, even with all the workouts I’ve been doing, my whole body aches from swinging an axe for three days straight.

“Cut!” Toni yells.

I throw the hatchet down with a thud into the stump in front of me. “I’m getting perilously close to losing my shit, Toni.”

“Nearly there,” she insists. “These takes are much better. You’re nailing the grumpy lumberjack vibe. I’m sure we’ve got it in the next take.”

We don’t. Not the next one either.

I pull out my phone as hair and makeup flitters around me. It’s been an hour since Chris texted last, and I’m getting fucking desperate.

HOPPER: I miss you.

HOPPER: I want you.

HOPPER: I can still taste you.

My phone buzzes back.

CHRIS: I’m at the grocery store!

I groan. It’s been like this all day. She’s been keeping professional, like we agreed we needed to be after our texting turned dirty the other night. I have absolutely not.

As we set up the next take, I close my eyes like I’m centering myself.

Instead, I replay the last time I saw her for the hundredth time today.

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