Page 13 of Flipping the Script
"Always writing," Solen observed with a smile. "I like that about you. Most people in this industry are so busy performing their creativity, they forget to actually create anything."
Quinn closed the notebook and held Solen's gaze. "Ready to get out of here? I think we gave Diego enough material for at least three think pieces about authentic connection in the age of manufactured celebrity relationships."
"Lead the way," Solen said, sliding out of the booth with fluid grace. "But next time, I'm choosing the location. Somewhere with terrible lighting and uncomfortable seating, just to see if your organizational superpowers extend to restaurant selection."
As they walked toward the exit, Quinn realized their first public test had succeeded beyond her calculated expectations. More surprisingly, she was already looking forward to the next one.
6
FIRST READ
The morning light streaming through Soundstage 7's industrial windows created geometric patterns across the concrete floor, transforming the cavernous space into something almost cathedral-like. Solen pushed through the heavy double doors, her vintage leather messenger bag bumping against her hip as she took in the controlled chaos of a production in motion. Lighting technicians adjusted towering rigs while camera operators rolled equipment into precise positions, their movements choreographed by years of experience.
Her fingertips found the brass compass at her throat, the familiar weight grounding her as she navigated between thick cables snaking across the floor. She'd been on countless sets, but this one felt different—more charged with possibility and terror in equal measure. The script pages in her bag seemed to rustle with their own anxiety.
"Solen!" Marcus's warm voice cut through the ambient noise of equipment and crew chatter. He approached with his characteristic unhurried stride, reading glasses dangling fromtheir chain and a genuine smile creasing his weathered features. "How are you feeling about today?"
"Like I'm about to perform brain surgery with oven mitts," she admitted, then immediately regretted the confession. Professional confidence, she reminded herself. Fake it until you feel it.
Marcus chuckled, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "That sounds about right for a first table read. The good news is that everyone here wants you to succeed." His eyes crinkled at the corners. "Well, almost everyone."
Solen followed his gaze to where Quinn sat at the large conference table, surrounded by what appeared to be the contents of a small office supply store. Color-coded pens lay in perfect rows beside multiple copies of the script, each bristling with carefully placed sticky notes. Her leather-bound notebook lay open, revealing dense handwriting that looked more like architectural blueprints than casual notes.
Quinn's wire-rimmed glasses caught the overhead lights as she made another notation, her movements precise and economical. She wore a navy blazer over a crisp white shirt, her dark hair pulled back in that same low bun that Solen was beginning to recognize as armor rather than mere style choice.
"She looks like she's plotting world domination," Solen murmured.
"Quinn approaches every project like she's defusing a bomb," Marcus said, affection clear in his voice despite the words. "It's actually quite admirable once you get used to it. She cares deeply about the work."
Caring deeply—that Solen understood. The difference was that Quinn's caring seemed to involve spreadsheets and contingency plans, while Solen's more closely resembled free-falling and hoping for the best.
As if sensing their attention, Quinn looked up from her notes. For a moment, their eyes met across the bustling soundstage, and Solen caught something unexpected in that sharp green gaze—not the criticism she'd braced for, but what might have been curiosity. Or possibly indigestion. With Quinn, it was hard to tell.
Marcus guided her toward the table where other cast members were already gathering. The supporting actors chatted easily among themselves, scripts open and coffee cups multiplying like rabbits. But Quinn remained in her organized bubble, occasionally glancing up as if cataloguing each person's approach to preparation.
Solen claimed the empty chair to Quinn's left, dropping her bag with perhaps more force than necessary. A few of Quinn's perfectly arranged pens rolled slightly out of alignment.
"Sorry," Solen said, though she wasn't entirely. "I'm not great with spatial relationships before coffee."
Quinn's lips quirked upward—barely perceptible, but definitely there. "I brought extra." She gestured toward a thermos that probably cost more than Solen's monthly coffee budget. "Fair warning: it's strong enough to wake the dead."
"Perfect. I've been running on fumes and anxiety since five AM."
"Only since five?" Quinn poured coffee into a second cup she'd apparently brought for exactly this purpose. "Amateur."
The unexpected teasing caught Solen off guard. She'd prepared for intense professionalism, maybe some passive-aggressive comments about script adherence. She hadn't prepared for Quinn to be almost... playful.
Marcus settled into his director's chair, the kind with his name embroidered on the back in understated lettering. "All right, everyone, let's make some magic." His voice carried easily through the space, drawing conversations to a naturalclose. "Before we dive in, I want to say how excited I am about this project. Quinn has written something special—a story about finding unexpected connection in the most unlikely circumstances."
Solen risked a glance at Quinn, who was studying her hands with unusual intensity.
"We're going to take our time today," Marcus continued. "This is about discovery, not perfection. I want you to feel free to explore, to make mistakes, to surprise each other." His gaze swept the assembled cast. "And please, ask questions. The script is our map, but you're the ones bringing these characters to life."
They began with the opening scene—a coffee shop meet-cute that Solen knew was supposed to be charming but felt like navigating a linguistic minefield. The words seemed to shift and blur on the page, letters rearranging themselves with cruel creativity. She'd read through it a dozen times the night before, but under the weight of everyone's attention, the familiar anxiety crept up her spine like cold fingers.
"Whenever you're ready," Marcus said gently.
Solen took a breath and began, her character's voice emerging naturally despite the text swimming before her eyes. But three lines in, she hit a wall—a particularly dense piece of dialogue that felt like trying to read through water. The words "serendipitous convergence" might as well have been written in ancient Sumerian.
