Page 51 of Marisol Acts the Part
After wrapping my last scene for the day, I make a beeline straight for the exit. No point in stopping by my trailer to wipe off my full face of makeup when I can easily do that once I’m home. While I can’t avoid Jamila forever, considering we have a handful of scenes left together before we wrap next month, I can at least stay away from her until I’m able to think about the way she ran off on Saturday without feeling like I’ll burst into tears.
“Marisol!” Esther calls out, chasing me down before I can slip off set unseen. “Rune made some adjustments to your scenes for tomorrow. I left the new script on the table in your trailer.”
Well, there goes that plan. I give Esther a tight-lipped smileand “thank you” and head toward the trailers instead. No need to panic. Jamila’s next scene isn’t for another half hour, but that doesn’t mean she’s hanging out in the trailer. She could be grabbing lunch at the bistro she loves down the street or hanging with Miles or with the wardrobe department because one of the costumers always brings in fresh-baked cookies for Monday morning shoots.
But no. She’s sitting smack in the front of the trailer when I walk in.
“Hi,” she says, eyes locked on me the second I come through the door, as if she was waiting for me.
It’s then that I spot the lack of a script on the dining table beside her. My brow furrows as I put the pieces together, realizing I may have walked directly into a trap. “Did you get Esther to trick me into coming here?”
“I need to talk to you,” she says instead of directly answering my question, standing up but not approaching me.
I scoff, crossing my arms and leaning against the closed door behind me. The smart thing to do would be to leave, but she has this way of luring me in. “Doesn’t seem like we have much to talk about.”
“I’m sorry. I was an asshole on Saturday.” Her eyes close as she exhales slowly, like she’s doing a grounding exercise mid-conversation. “I…panicked.”
“Because we kissed?”
That much should be obvious, but I don’t understand it. I can understand if maybe I misread the vibes between us; I’d apologize for making her uncomfortable and be extremely embarrassed, but would move on nonetheless. What I can’tunderstand is her completely ghosting me. To the point that she couldn’t even tell me if she was alive. I’d spent all night lying awake in bed, waiting for her to text back.
“No. I—I mean yes. I mean…it’s complicated.”
“Are you not out?” I ask in a whisper, as if someone could overhear us, though it seems unlikely. There were several photos of her at different Pride events on her socials. Even the confidence she’d had when she told me she was a lesbian, and that there was nothing to worry about between her and Miles. Nothing about her has ever screamed “buried deep in the closet.”
“No, I am. Everyone I know is well aware that I’m very,verygay….” She collapses back onto the couch, running her hands down her face before looking back up at me. “When I first signed with my agent, I told her I really wanted to focus on queer roles. Characters that felt like me—the kind I didn’t get to see growing up. And she said that was fine, we could try for those types of roles later down the road. But…not now.”
I step farther into the trailer, though keep my guard up. “Why not now?”
“Because it’s hard. Because there are barely any projects that have sapphic leads out there, and the ones that do wind up getting canceled after a season or two if they’re lucky enough to get picked up.”
“What does that have to do with us?”
Jamila swallows hard, avoiding my gaze to focus on her hands instead. “She said I should keep my personal life private. For a while.”
“She’s making you go back into the closet?!” I don’t mean to say it as loud as I do. I also don’t mean to launch myselfinto the seat across from her, our knees almost touching and my hands almost grabbing hers to force her to look at me and get that this isnotokay.
“No, I mean…I guess. Sort of?” Jamila groans, rubbing the back of her neck. “It’s not like I can’t tell anyone I’m a lesbian, but she doesn’t want me shouting from the rooftop about my gayness. Or…dating anyone super publicly. She doesn’t want me to be typecast into one role.”
Then it clicks into place. Maybe if she’d kissed another girl that night, it wouldn’t have been a problem. But she kissed me. A girl who couldn’t even go to a nightclub without having to wear a disguise. Who has millions of followers and knows how to walk a red carpet like the back of her hand. Whose most recent breakup was splashed all over the news.
It’s me. She shouldn’t be dating someone likeme.
I bristle, but don’t say anything.
“That’s bullshit,” I mutter bitterly after several seconds of silence. Both because, duh, it is, and…because it sort of makes sense.
Delia is as intense an agent as they come, but my coming out didn’t have much impact on the trajectory of my career. She threw a like on my post, commented a heart, and that was that. But I also already had a series regular role on one of the most successful teen dramas on cable. Plus, a longstanding relationship with one of TV’s up-and-coming golden boys. My career was in its early days, but it wasn’t in its infancy anymore. I had some level of clout—proof that I could play a cookie-cutter girl from the suburbs whose only experience with romance was falling for her male childhood best friend.
Jamila is starting from the bottom.The Limitwill buy her aton of favor in the industry, that I’m sure of, but it’s impossible to say how far it will take her. With a performance like hers, she deserves every series regular role she reads for. Leads. Bigger casts, bigger buzz. But we all know this industry is fickle. Giving the best performance doesn’t always guarantee you the lead roles. Especially if you’re someone like Jamila—brown and (somewhat openly) queer.
“I know, but what am I supposed to do?” Jamila chokes out, her eyes glossy. A pang strikes through my heart. “She’s an incredible agent. She got me this part and has lined up some serious auditions for me since then. And…maybe she’s right.” Jamila toys with her fingers again, picking at a burn on her ring finger. “It’s unfair, but isn’t that what everyone says about this industry? That it’s unfair?”
The worst part is she’s right, and we both know it.
I slide onto the couch beside her, wrap an arm around her trembling shoulders, and pull her close. She leans in until her head disappears in the curve of my neck. Her shallow breath is warm and wet against my skin, but I don’t dwell on the chill that it sends down my spine. I focus on holding her, running my hand along her arm until her body relaxes into mine.
“So…” I pause, unsure how to continue. How to address the elephant in the room. “We shouldn’t be…uh…involved. With each other.”
