Unspoken (Prequel to "Letting Him Go" and "Behind the Curtain")

Chapter 7 - Screen Test II

**Hi! So this is a relatively shorter chapter because I didn't want to keep you guys waiting for too long...This is how I imagined the scenes from the screen test, and as promised, I included the part about his earring ;) Thank you @willwrite4wine for your suggestion! I promise I'll try to keep updating regularly! Enjoy :) xx**

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"That's perfect—thank you," I carefully step back from my place behind the camera, nodding at the short, middle-aged man who peers expectantly up at
me through his thick-framed glasses.    

I had asked Stefani for the name of a cinematographer that she enjoyed working with and "Janusz Kaminski" was her immediate reply. No kidding— he's a two-time Academy Award winner for Best Cinematography, and he had directed her "Alejandro" music video a couple years ago. He now stands beside me, his arms folded tightly across his chest and his cropped hair glistening like thin silver spikes, asking for my approval on the positioning of his camera equipment.

"Of course," he huffs in his thick Polish accent, his dark eyebrows scrunched in concentration as he bends down to take a look through the lens himself.

She sits on the edge of her bed, holding a pillow in her lap and patiently waiting for my cue. The scene behind her is almost entirely muted into one white blur as the golden sunshine envelopes her figure, illuminating her and only her. The camera clings onto every detail of her face, capturing the innocent glow in her sea green eyes and stealing a splash of the afternoon sunshine to highlight the steep bridge of her nose. I want her to be seen in a way that the world has never seen her before.

"Perfect," Janusz hums into my ear. I turn to him and smile as he gives my elbow a reassuring squeeze. "I am ready when you are," he tells me, his hand hovering over the record button of his bulky professional camera.

I walk over to her, suddenly flooded with an unplaceable wave of anxiety. I feel the blood rush to my head as my hands grow damp with nervous sweat— I fumble with the buttons on my shirt to dry them, hopelessly smoothing the creases of my collar. She watches closely as I lower myself onto the edge of the bed, shifting my weight to face her ever so slowly as if I'm afraid that any sudden movement will scare her away.

"You're nervous," is the first thing she says, her lips curving up into a tiny smile. I allow myself to laugh breathily, the tightness in my chest dissipating as I look up to meet her gaze. The sunlight is warm against my face and her eyes are warm pools of golden green— I want to reach out and touch her porcelain skin, to brush my fingertips across the freckles that dot her cheeks, and to feel the familiar straightness of her Italian nose. She looks so unreal. She blinks at me through a dark tangle of lashes and I stare back.

And suddenly she's gesturing to my ear. My hand unconsciously flies up to feel the small silver hoop I had decided to put in— something of an experiment with my character's rockstar appearance.

"Tell me about this earring," she says, rocking forward as if to further examine my style choice. "Who is Jackson Maine?" She rests her chin in the palm of her hand, whispering into the thinning air between us. I break our lingering eye contact and look up at the white ceiling in search of some clarity, carefully formulating my answer.

"Jackson is an artist— a talented musician and rockstar who's been broken by fame and...by a lot of the shitty things that have happened to him in the past that have never quite left him," I close my eyes and scrunch my nose, trying to remember the detailed notes I had written in Jackson's character description on the script.

"He's an alcoholic." My body flinches instinctively as the all-too-familiar words leave my mouth. "Music has always been his escape from the harsh reality of the life that he navigates, but now he finds it to be...a reminder, a haunting of his suffering...He drowns every trace of the past in liquor and deafening guitar chords, but he is never really able to escape it."

I open my eyes to an unexpected look of puzzlement on her face. Her eyebrows are furrowed and her lips are twisted into a slight frown as if she's digesting my words with great effort— trying to make meaning out of the unconfident nonsense that I just spewed out into the open air. I sigh. She's not convinced— she doesn't like it.

She answers my thoughts in one swift motion, swinging her legs off the bed and moving to stand in front of me, looking me up and down with thoughtful green eyes— deeply lost in concentration. Before I can ask what she's thinking, her hands are tousling my hair, freeing my locks from the thick coat of gel and letting them fall in unruly waves atop my head as they usually do. She then quickly diverts her attention to my left earlobe, skillfully removing the small hoop earring and discarding it into my open palm. The bed creaks as she sits back down beside me, her eyes wild and her cheeks flushed with exhilaration.

"Okay— now tell me again," she breathes, "Who are you, Jackson Maine?"

And then I understand. Realization floods my veins with sudden warmth as I think of the only story she's asking me to tell: my own.

"Just Jack," I correct her, "I hate being called by my full name." She smiles widely, encouraging me to continue as she sinks back comfortably into the heap of pillows behind her and stretches out her legs— I feel her little toes brushing against my thigh.

I take a deep breath and squeeze my eyes shut again, the grin slowly fading from my face. This time, I try to remember what I've tried so hard to forget.

"Rock bottom," I say, clearing my throat and finding my conviction. "I'm on my way to rock bottom...and I know it in the back of my mind, but I just don't care anymore— the fear of dying doesn't exist if you can make it disappear with another drink." I swallow, keeping my eyes closed— afraid to keep going, but even more afraid that I'll stop if I see the look on her face.

"Maybe love exists, and if it does, then I haven't known it...but I have this sort of feeling that it's the only thing that will save me. My dad..." my voice begins to shake, and I press my palms into the mattress to steady myself. "All I ever wanted to be was just like my dad. And that is the only love that I can seem to remember. But he's dead and I'm still angry...I find myself wondering sometimes, what's the point of living if things won't ever change?" My fingers are gripping the covers now, clutching the soft fabric so tightly that I feel my nails digging into my flesh. It's been years since I've spoken those words out loud, since I've confronted the man that I used to be— the man that even ten years of sobriety and rehab hasn't quite erased.

Suddenly her cool breath is next to my face. My eyes fly open as her arm carefully snakes around my shoulder and her fingers knot themselves in the hair at the base of my neck. I bow my head. I can't look at her.

"I think I— Jackson is waiting, dying for something more," I mumble into my chest, "and this movie is the story of something more...even if it ultimately destroys him."

I exhale sharply, breathing out the dark, overwhelming familiarity between my story and Jackson's. I finally raise my chin to meet her eyes, and she's crying. Tears spill from the overflowing seas of deep green, getting caught in her lashes and leaving glistening trails on her cheeks.

"I'm sorry, I don't mean to—" She starts.

I cut her off, swiftly looping my arm around her waist and leaning forward to embrace her, my hand gently pressing between her shoulder blades to hold her against my chest.

"Don't cry," I whisper as buries her nose into my collarbone, choking out a muffled sob. "Thank you— sometimes I need to remember who I am— no matter how hard it is— and to realize how far I've come," I tell her, "because this movie is for the thousands of other Jacksons out there who are waiting to hear that they aren't alone."

Her breathing slows against my neck, and I realize that my thumb has been moving slowly up and down her back. I lift my head, suddenly aware of the room around me— the bedroom windows are open, and the soft afternoon breeze ripples through the thin white curtains.

I feel her slowly lift herself from my arms just as my eyes lock on a blinking red light just above the tangle of wires and recording equipment in the corner of the room.

The cameras have been rolling the entire time.