Page 26 of Flipping the Script
"It's pathetic, I know."
"No." Solen stepped closer. "It's not pathetic. It's heartbreaking." She reached up to touch Quinn's cheek. "Because you're not just useful, Quinn. You're brilliant and funny and kind, and anyone who doesn't see that without needing proof is an idiot."
Quinn's eyes went suspiciously bright. "Even when I'm controlling and rigid and completely neurotic about scripts?"
"Especially then." Solen's thumb traced along Quinn's cheekbone. "Besides, I like your neurotic tendencies. They balance out my chaos."
They were standing too close now, the pretense of lunch preparation forgotten. Quinn's hands had somehow found their way to Solen's waist, and Solen could count the small gold flecks in Quinn's green eyes.
"This is real," Quinn said quietly, and it wasn't a question.
"Yeah." Solen's voice came out rougher than intended. "It is."
Neither of them moved to close the distance between them, but neither pulled away. They stood suspended in Quinn's bright kitchen, surrounded by the ordinary domestic scene of shared lunch preparation, while the extraordinary reality of genuine feelings settled around them like afternoon light.
"So what do we do about Tasha?" Solen asked eventually.
Quinn's expression shifted back toward determination, but her hands remained on Solen's waist. "We give the people what they actually want to see."
"Which is?"
"Us. Actually us." Quinn's smile turned almost mischievous. "But maybe we keep the actually us part just for ourselves for now."
12
SCRIPT CHANGES
The early morning light streaming through Soundstage 7's industrial windows caught Quinn off guard. She'd arrived thirty minutes before their scheduled script session, armed with her leather-bound notebook and a manila folder thick with precisely organized revisions, expecting to find the cavernous space empty. Instead, Solen moved through the constructed living room set like she belonged there, speaking Quinn's dialogue aloud while her hands traced the air, bringing shape to emotions Quinn had struggled to capture on the page.
Quinn paused in the doorway, watching Solen inhabit her fictional protagonist with an ease that made something flutter uncomfortably in her chest. The actress wore dark jeans and a cream sweater that moved with her as she paced, her auburn hair catching the work lights. She held no script—apparently she'd memorized the pages they were reviewing today.
"The thing is," Solen said to the empty soundstage, testing different inflections on Quinn's carefully crafted line, "I never learned how to want something without expecting it to disappear."
The vulnerability in her voice made Quinn's grip tighten on her notebook. She'd written those words thinking of her own relationship with success, with stability, with the constant fear that any achievement might evaporate. Hearing Solen speak them felt like watching someone read her diary.
"You're early." Quinn stepped onto the set, her flats silent on the fake hardwood flooring.
Solen spun around, hand flying to her vintage compass necklace. "God, you move like a cat. I didn't hear you come in." Her surprise melted into something warmer. "I hope you don't mind. I got here and the words just... they wanted to be said out loud."
Before Quinn could respond, Marcus Eduardo Thorne pushed through the soundstage doors with his characteristic energy, reading glasses already perched on his nose and a coffee cup steaming in his hand. His salt-and-pepper beard couldn't hide his grin as he spotted them both on set.
"Perfect. My two leading ladies, ready to dig into some character archaeology." He settled into his director's chair, pulling out his own marked-up script. "I've been thinking about yesterday's footage, and I want to explore some deeper emotional territory in act two."
Quinn's analytical mind immediately catalogued the implications. Deeper emotional territory meant changes. Changes meant disrupting the careful structure she'd spent months perfecting. She flipped open her notebook to the color-coded revision notes she'd prepared.
"What kind of exploration?" The question came out more clipped than she'd intended.
Marcus gestured toward the set's kitchen area. "The scene where Maya finally tells her ex-girlfriend why she's been avoiding commitment. Quinn, your script has all the right storybeats, but I think we can push the emotional authenticity further."
"The emotional authenticity is calibrated to serve the overall narrative arc." Quinn heard the defensiveness in her voice and tried to modulate it. "Each revelation is strategically placed to maximize character growth and audience investment."
Solen perched on the arm of the set's couch, studying Quinn with those warm brown eyes that seemed to see too much. "What if we just tried reading it a few different ways? See what the character wants to tell us?"
The suggestion made Quinn's eye twitch. Characters didn't want things—writers made deliberate choices about how characters served story structure. But Marcus was already nodding enthusiastically, the way directors did when actors fed their collaborative instincts.
"Brilliant. Solen, take it from Maya's entrance. Quinn, watch how the words feel in the space."
Quinn wanted to point out that words didn't feel anything, that emotional impact came from precise word choice and timing, not from improvisation in a fake living room. Instead, she clutched her notebook and watched Solen stand, rolling her shoulders like an athlete preparing for competition.
