Page 71 of Score
When Mel doesn’t answer, I shoot her a sharp glance.
“Mel, please tell me Tessa’s taking her meds.”
Mel lifts both brows, stirs the ceviche, and drinks her beer. “I’ve been trying to tell her.”
“Oh God. No! Why didn’t you tellme?” My heart gallops at the thought of what could happen. “Shehasto take them. You know that.”
“Dammit, that’s so unfair, Verity.” Mel slams her bottle down on the table in front of her. “You’re off in LA living the high life, while I’m here making sure Tess doesn’t go off the deep end. I’m the one making sure she showers and eats and doesn’t slit her fucking wrist when she’s not running all over the city spending our rent money on thousand-dollar purses for the unhoused in our neighborhood or getting up in the middle of the damn night to go on a run.”
“I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s just a lot.” Mel massages her temples. “I know it’s not easy for youguys living with this condition, but maybe you don’t realize how hard it can be livingwith yousometimes.”
Her words slice me right down the middle, the pain so sharp, so visceral, that for a moment, I can’t breathe imagining how much it would hurt to hear those words from a man or woman I loved.
“Verity, I’m so sorry,” Mel gasps, her expression horror-struck. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
I don’t respond, but nod jerkily. She was simply telling the truth; a truth I’ve known for years, which is exactly why I don’t do relationships anymore. I live with this, but I don’t have to expect anyone else to. Maybe there is someone who will stand by my side if things get really ugly, but I’ve never wanted to give anyone that much power to disappoint me.
“Do me a favor,” I say, my words short and sharp. “Remember this conversation the next time you try to convince me I need that partner and kids.”
“Shit.” Mel squeezes her eyes shut. “I shouldn’t—”
“I better go. I don’t want to be late.”
“Verity, I love you.” Mel’s voice breaks. “Honey, I’m sorry.”
My heart cracks and I imagine myself in her shoes. This diagnosis is hard on Tessa and me, but it also takes a toll on the people walking this journey with us.
“I know, babe,” I tell her. “I love you, too. We’ll get through this. Bye.”
“Bye.”
I disconnect the video call and make a mental note to check on Tessa, but right now I can’t get distracted by this, not when I’m embarking on the biggest project of my life. In most cases, my job would be done now. Typically, once a script was finished, the director might have a few questions here or there, but I could move on to the next project.
Not this time. Not with Canon.
When he said he wanted me involved, he really meant it.
I’ll be on set more than I have ever been for any other film. We’ll be listed as cowriters on the screenplay, and I have no problem with that at all. The script has been our collaboration of love; a process that has onlydeepened my respect and admiration for the famous director, but I’m also a consulting producer, given my expertise on the era and African American history.
Canon is even better than everyone claims he is, which says a lot since he’s considered one of the great filmmakers of this generation. I’ve never worked with anyone who demonstrated this level of care and intention. It has challenged me as a creative to dig deeper than I have before. We went to Alabama to meet Kitty, Dessi’s daughter, who had a huge trunk of keepsakes she’d never really gone through. If I didn’t know before that this project was meant for me, I did after that trip. Neevah, the lead actress, accompanied us and discovered a box with letters, clippings, and journals about Tilda, Dessi’s roommate when she lived in New York.
Turns out they were more than friends. They were lovers.
Black and bisexual for the win, baby.
That commonality made me feel even more connected to Dessi, like her life, her voice, was calling out to me through the years, and this project is my answer. We had a working script before the trip, but we learned things about Dessi that reshaped what we had on the page. Recounting the story of a woman who shared so much of my identity, in a time when it was even more erased and judged than it is now, is a gift. I want to honor all three of Dessi’s great loves: her music; her husband, Cal; and her Tilda.
Not even the script I won the Golden Globe for carried this sense of purpose. It’s bittersweet, since the opportunity of a lifetime comes with one catch: working on set with Monk.
I’ve been standing by my car outside Canon’s house for maybe five minutes, working up the courage to go in.
“Girl, this is crazy,” I chide myself softly. “You really letting some dude you dated for a hot minute back in college throw you off your game like this?”
Still, I settle against my car’s passenger-side door and fold my arms, watching Canon’s house in the buttery light of late afternoon. It’s a modern structure, crafted in clean, straight lines, with lots of dark wood and glass. Several cars are parked in the long, steep driveway, along with a few on thestreet. It looks like most of the team has already arrived, and I can’t delay this much longer.
“I think the meeting’s inside.”
