Reel: A Forbidden Hollywood Romance

When the show reaches its climax, at the very end, the song pries the final note from my diaphragm, pulls it from my throat and suspends it—leaves it throbbing in the air. The theater goes quiet for the space of a breath held by 800 people and then explodes.

Applause.

The relief is knee-weakening. I literally have to grab John, the lead actor’s, arm for support. He doesn’t miss a beat, pulling me into his side and squeezing.

“Bravo,” he whispers, a broad, genuine smile spread across his face. The last song made me cry, and my face, still wet from those tears, splits into a wide, disbelieving grin.

I did it. I survived my first Broadway performance.

The lights drop and we rush backstage, a cacophony of laughter and chatter filling the hidden passageways. When the curtain call begins, the cast return to the stage in small waves, the applause building as the principals take their bows.

And then it’s my turn. On legs still shaky, I leave the safety of the wings, the long skirt of my costume belling out around me. I take center stage. The applause crescendos, approval vibrating through my bones and jolting my soul. Someone thrusts flowers into my arms and the sweet smell wafts around me. Every sense, every molecule of my being strains, opens, stretches to absorb this small slice of triumph. I can’t breathe deeply enough. The air comes in shallow sips, and I’m dizzy. The world spins like a top, a kaleidoscope of colors and light and sound that threatens to overwhelm me. The whirl of it makes me giddy, and I laugh. Eyes welling with tears, I laugh.

These are the moments a lifetime in the making. We toil in the shadows of our dreams. In the alleys of preparation and hard work where it’s dark and nothing’s promised. For years, we cling by a thread of hope and imagination, dedicating our lives to a pursuit with no guarantees.

But tonight, if only for tonight, it’s all worth it.

I’m still floating when Takira bursts into the dressing room.

“Neevah!” she screams, throwing her arms around me and rocking me back and forth. “You did it. You chewed that performance up and spat it out. You hear me?”

I laugh and return her squeeze, new tears trailing down my cheeks. It’s relief and reward and, in some tiny corner of my heart, regret. Regret that my mother isn’t here to hold me. Regret that if my sister were here, I wouldn’t even know where to start wading through our shit so we could celebrate together. You know what? Tonight is about tonight, not past drama with Mama and Terry, and I’m determined to enjoy it.

“Thank you.” I pull back to peer into my friend’s face. “I can’t believe it.”

“Well, believe it. You served notice.” She snaps her fingers and grins. “Neevah Saint is here.”

“Now to do it seven more times.” I laugh and start taking pins from the wig, which is as hot as a herd of sheep on my head.

“Oh, you got it, unless Elise hears how amazing you were and cuts her vacation short.”

“Not happening. She was ready for a break, but she’d never missed a show.”

I strip off the costume and stand in only panties, unselfconscious. Modesty is one of the first things to go in this business. I’ve undressed hurriedly in a roomful of actors and dancers in smaller shows where there was a dressing room, so we get real communal real fast.

I tug on skinny jeans with a tight-fitting orange sweater, and layer it with a brown leather jacket, scarf, boots. I wipe away the heavy stage makeup. It feels like my skin can breathe for the first time in hours. I assume there will be some fans at the stage door, even if it’s just a few. They’ll have to get the real Neevah because I don’t want anything more than a slick of lip gloss and a bit of mascara. A brown, orange and green plaid newsboy cap covering the neat cornrows I wore under my wig is all I’m doing for hair. Slim oversized gold hoops in my ears finish the look.

“Ready?” I ask Takira, hefting a slouchy bag on my shoulder.

“Let’s do this. Hopefully your adoring fans won’t take all night, ’cause your girl is starving.”

We’re still laughing, and I’m so preoccupied with my empty stomach, I’m completely unprepared for the crowd at the stage door. Are they here for John? For some principal player because surely they’re not all here for the understudy.

“Neevah!” a young girl, maybe ten or eleven, calls. “Can you sign this?”

She thrusts a pen and a Splendor playbill toward me. She glows, her smooth brown cheeks rounded with a wide grin. Her eyes shine with . . . pride?

“Oh, sure,” I mumble dazedly, taking the pen and signing my name.

She’s the first in a long line of girls, all shapes and colors and ages, saying what it meant to see me onstage. Mothers whispering how impactful it was for their Black and brown daughters to be in the audience tonight. The impact is on me; what could feel like a weight or burden or responsibility feels like a warm embrace. Feels like strong arms encircling me. Supporting me. The first time I saw someone who looked like me onstage, it planted a seed inside of me. It whispered a dream.

That could be you.

It makes me emotional to think I might have done that for any of these girls tonight, and I spend the next twenty minutes scribbling my name on playbills through a film of tears.

“Neevah!” a deep male voice calls from the back of the now-thinning crowd.

I squint at the tall man, frowning until I place him.

“Wright!” I take a few steps and he meets me halfway, giving me a tight hug. “Oh, my God. You were here tonight?”

“Was I here?” When he pulls back, a warm smile creases his handsome face. “You blew it out of the water. I knew you were good, but damn.”

Laughter spills out of me and I don’t think this night could get more perfect. I randomly met Wright Bellamy a few weeks back at a gig when he subbed for the pianist, giving the audience more than they bargained for with such a famous musician tickling the ivories that night.

“Thank you.” I step away and shove my hands into the pockets of my jeans, huddling in the leather jacket against the chill of an October night. “I was nervous as hell.”

“Didn’t show. Your voice is spectacular. I knew that from the gig we did, but I had no idea you were that good. Wow. Glad I saw your post on Instagram or I would’ve missed it.”

I’m stone-still, shocked that he came tonight specifically to see me perform. “I’m so glad you made it. You’re still in LA, right?”

“Yeah, but I’m here for some stuff. Heading back home in a few days.”

Takira walks up, linking her arm through mine. “Girl, if we don’t get some food,” she whispers.

“Oh, yeah. Sorry.” I turn back to Wright. “Takira, this is Wright Bellamy. Wright, my friend Takira.”

“Nice to meet you,” Takira says. “You got any food on you? I’m about to eat your hat.”

As usual, Takira never meets a stranger and has us laughing right away.

“We’re actually headed to Glass House Tavern,” I tell Wright. “Come if you want. It’s a group of us from the show. Just some of the cast celebrating, but you’re welcome. We can catch up.”

A small frown dents between his thick brows and he glances over his shoulder.

“I mean, no pressure obviously,” I rush to assure him. This is one of the biggest names in music, and here I go, inviting him to dinner with a group of strangers.

“No, it sounds cool,” he says, looking back to us. “Lemme check with my boy. Can he come?”

I glance over his shoulder and spot a tall man turned away from us, his broad shoulders and back straining a wool blazer, a hoodie pulled up to cover his head and face in the cold. His hands burrow into the pockets of his blazer and he’s nodding like he’s talking to himself.

“He’s on the phone,” Wright explains. “But lemme see if he wants to roll.”

He steps away toward the man and Takira immediately squeezes my hand and squeals.

“Shit, Neeve.” Her eyes are wide and bright. Mouth dropped open. “That’s Wright Bellamy.”

“I know. He’s cool as a fan.”

“You know him? How—”

“We’re in,” Wright says, stepping back up beside us. “He’s finishing a call, but we’re ready. Lead the way.”

It’s just a few blocks, and the three of us chat about the show and what Wright’s been doing in New York. All the while his friend’s deep voice rumbles a few paces behind. I don’t want to be rude or nosy and look back, but the rich timbre, his towering height, his face obscured by the hoodie—I’m intrigued. He hangs back on the sidewalk, still on his call, when we enter the restaurant.

Our friends already have a table and a shout goes up, congratulating me on popping my White Way cherry. My three understudy buddies came. John’s here, too, and one other principal. A few from the stage crew. Our little troupe has become a family and, as if eight shows a week isn’t enough time together, we gather and eat every chance we get.

“You’re not paying tonight,” John says, holding out the seat beside him. “And drinks are on me.”

“Awwww.” I plop into the chair and drop my bag to the floor. “You’re so sweet. You don’t have to do that.”

“You were fantastic,” John says, baby blue eyes sincere and smiling. “Let’s do it again tomorrow.”

Takira is already sitting beside me, so Wright takes the seat next to her.

“Hey,” he says to Janie across the table. “Could you hold that seat beside you for my friend? He’s wrapping up a call, but’ll be in soon.”

“Sure.” Janie blushes. “I love your work, by the way. The score of Silent Midnight . . . gah.”

“Thank you. That was a special project. Lots of fun,” Wright replies with a smile. “Now tell me about the show.”

Wright’s a genius, but he’s so unassuming and modest. A man as famous as he is could easily make this conversation about him, let everyone at this table give his ego a real nice hand job, but he doesn’t. He talks about our show, compliments the performance, asks John about his process. I liked him when we did that last-minute gig, and we’ve interacted some on social media since. My impression of him holds up. He’s a good guy.

Not to state the obvious, but also fine. Like fine fine.

He has this Boris Kodjoe vibe. Real smooth. Kind of golden–brown. Clean-cut, close-cut. I can objectively recognize his appeal, even though he’s not my type.

Not that I have a type lately. I’m so deep in this dick drought I’m past the point of thirst.

At first I thought it was merely the grind. Auditioning constantly, taking craft classes, doing commercials and voiceover work to not just keep bills paid, but to save. This business is feast or famine. I’m eating now, but I’ve been hungry before. Not again. I’m thirty. Too old to still be living gig to gig and buying into that starving artist thing. I need health insurance and regularly scheduled meals, thank you very much. So yeah, the grind could account for my semi-disinterested libido, but I suspect it’s more.

Maybe I’m disinterested.

I’ve always been guarded with men. It only takes your fiancé sleeping with your sister once for you to be wary. It’s beyond my cynicism, though. I need a man who doesn’t think that because he has a dick and I don’t that I should defer to him—shrink my dreams down to a more manageable size. I almost did that with Brandon. I dreamt of something else; something that brought me to New York, to that stage tonight, to this moment. And I almost reneged on my dreams for a man who cheated on me and got my sister pregnant.

So, yeah. I’m cautious not only about who I share my heart and body with, but I’m also protective of my dreams; of my ambition. I won’t endanger my future for a man who can fuck. Though . . . a man who can fuck? I wouldn’t turn it down, but it will take more than that to pique my interest.

“What are you getting?” Takira asks, leaning over to read my menu instead of hers. “Anything here meet your high standards?”

I roll my eyes. My standards aren’t that high. I’ve just cut out red meat and stopped drinking as much alcohol. My health demands it. “You’re the one who said my scalp would thank me if I changed my diet,” I remind her.

“Yeah, but you took it to that next level.” She elbows me and flashes a grin. “Always being extra.”

“I’m thinking about the salmon, but I—”

A chair scraping across the floor catches my attention. Wright’s friend has finally come inside to join us. The table shrinks immediately when he settles his imposing frame into the seat beside Janie. He peels the hood away from his head and I bite off a gasp.

It’s Canon Holt.

Like the Canon Holt.

The director I, and probably every actress at this table and in this dining room, would sacrifice a pinky toe to work with. Canon Holt is at my table sitting across from me.

Takira’s expression doesn’t register this massive earthquake of a revelation, but she kicks me under the table and hisses from the corner of her mouth. “Did you know?”

I pretend I need to reach for something on the floor so I can whisper back, “Do you think I would have kept my shit together this long if I knew?”

“True. True.” Takira casually glances up from her menu and smiles in Canon’s general direction, but he’s not looking at her. He’s studying his screen. He’s apparently in an exclusive relationship with his phone, and no one at this table tempts him to stray.

Which means I can look at him.

Good. God.

He’s not that handsome, but that’s irrelevant. Some might even call his features, examined on their own, unremarkable.

They’d be wrong.

It’s a Maker’s sleight of hand. Now God knew this man did not need lashes that long and thick, a paradox against the hard, high slant of his cheekbones. Canon hasn’t looked twice at anyone here as far as I can tell, but I’ve stolen enough glances to know there’s a fathomlessness to his dark eyes that is arresting. His unsmiling mouth is wide, the lips full in the blunt elegance of his face. A five o’clock shadow licks the ridge of his jawline. There is a geometry to him—angles, lines, edges—that disregards the individual parts and illuminates the compelling sum.

Our food comes out on steaming platters just as he lays his phone on the table.

“Excuse my reach,” the server says to him, distributing plates and drinks to the rest of the table. “Is there anything I can get for you, Mr. Holt?”

He doesn’t even blink when she calls him by his name.

“Macallan?” he asks. “I don’t see it on the menu, but—”

“We’ll figure it out,” she assures him with a smile.

I’m sure folks just go around figuring things out for him all the time at this point in his career.

“So Mr. Holt,” Janie says, all pink and flustered. “I loved your last documentary. I heard you’re working on a movie next. What’s it about?”

“It hasn’t been announced.” He truncates the words, his expression shut down. He looks over his shoulder like the restroom might offer an escape from this banality.

“Oh, you can tell us,” Janie cajoles.

One dark, imperious brow elevates. “But I don’t want to.”

Okayyyyy.

An awkward silence falls on the table. Seemingly oblivious, or uncaring, he picks his phone up and starts typing again.

So fine as hell, but a jerk.

My lady parts shimmy back into their shell. I don’t have time or patience for narcissists who think the sun and stars were made for them. I may find it hard to stop looking at him, but it’s increasingly easy not to like him.

“So when did you know you wanted to be on Broadway, Neevah?”

My fork is halfway to my mouth when Wright asks. I’m too hungry to forego this bite, so I take it, chew thoughtfully, and consider his question.

“You know,” I say and sip my water, “it wasn’t as much Broadway specifically, as it was that I knew I wanted to perform. That I wanted to be an actress.”

“So when was that?” Wright presses.

I shuffle through my memories to locate all the scents and sounds and sights that made the experience singular.

“I was eleven years old.” I begin, recalling everything good about that summer. “We’d have family reunions every June.”

“Us, too,” Takira pipes up. “Whoo. The Fletchers can throw a reunion, and I got a whole line of family tree T-shirts to show for it.”

“So do I.” I laugh. “My cousins lived in New York at the time, and they’d always come down to North Carolina for the family reunion. When I was eleven, they suggested we come up north for a change. We got a bus and drove. They took us all over the city, and on our last day here, we got tickets to Aida, the original cast.”

“Oh, Dame Headley,” Janie breathes reverently.

“Exactly. When Heather Headley sang ‘Easy As Life,’ I don’t think I breathed until she finished.” I shrug helplessly. “She had this monstrous talent that devoured the whole room. When she was done, I just sat there and everyone around me seemed to be as stunned as I was. That’s when I knew what I was supposed to do with my life. I was supposed to perform and make people feel the way I felt in that moment. And it didn’t go away. Not when the show was over. Not when I got back home to North Carolina. Not when my parents told me acting was a long shot and I needed a backup plan. From then on it was only ever this.”

When I look up from my plate, my gaze collides with Canon’s dark eyes fixed on me. Ever since he sat down, his glance has skidded over everyone, never settling, like a bee who can’t find a flower worthy of pollination. But he’s looking at me now, and I’ll be damned if I can look anywhere else. My breath is snatched under his scrutiny. It’s intent and discerning, his stare. I feel like something under glass he may add to his collection.

“Refill?” the server asks, snipping the chord stretching between Canon and me.

“Uh, yes.” I offer her a smile and my empty glass.

By the time I look back, Canon is on his phone again. Maybe I imagined that moment. Not that we shared a glance, but that it was somehow as intense for him as it was for me.

I shake off the effects of that exchange and demolish my meal, digging into the food with relish. It’s a good group, and our camaraderie is infectious. Wright fits in easily, telling jokes and stories that crack us up. You’d never know this man has Grammy awards and Oscar nominations and platinum records to his credit. He’s down to earth and more “normal” than most artists I know. Much less intense and off-putting than Le Directeur across the table hooking up with his phone.

But every once in a while, Canon actually does talk with John and even thaws some with Janie, who is, no two ways about it, trying too hard.

Once the plates are cleared, I reach for my bag so I can pay my portion, despite John’s offer.

“Don’t bother,” Wright says, placing his hand over mine. “Canon already got the bill.”

“Oh.”

I look at Canon, whose wide mouth curls at the corners, head inclined toward Janie’s as she tells him something I can’t hear. He doesn’t quite smile, but at least he’s not scowling.

We file outside and cluster on the sidewalk. By nature I’m a people watcher, and I find myself observing the pods of conversation going on around me. Takira’s embroiled in a passionate discussion about Dreamgirls, for some reason. John is laughing with some of the crew over a missed cue from tonight’s show. Wright chats with one of the cast members who’s working on a new album. I catch snippets of their exchange. Coltrane. Miles Davis. Genius. The cast member is a jazz enthusiast, so I can see how they’d click. Janie is still working her angle with Canon, and his expression says his longsuffering may be on its last legs. How can Janie even bring herself to keep talking with him looking at her that way? It’s actually pretty comical, and before I catch myself, I’m chuckling under my breath.

“What’s funny?”

I look up by centimeters, certain he can’t be talking to me because he hasn’t all night, but he’s looking right at me. Head turned away from Janie, who has wandered over to join Takira’s small circle.

“What?” I manage, stalling.

“You laughed. What’s funny?”

“No, I—”

“So you didn’t just laugh, standing here by yourself?” he asks, no smile in sight.

“Not laugh exactly.” I bite my lip and shove my hands deeper into my jacket pockets.

His brows raise knowingly.

“Okay, so I chuckled. Maybe snorted. I snuckled.”

He tilts his head, and low and behold, those full lips twitch at the corners the slightest bit. “So what made you snuckle?”

I shake my head and hope he’ll let it go.

He doesn’t.

“Tell me,” he says, crossing his arms over his wide chest.

Incidentally, that blazer and hoodie really is a very good look for him.

“Oh, good grief,” I huff. “It was the look on your face.”

“When I was talking to . . .” He tips his head in Janie’s direction and I nod. “What was the look?”

“It wasn’t impatience exactly.”

“Are you sure?”

“And not irritation.”

“It may have been.”

“It was more this kind of . . . forced tolerance.”

His almost-smile deepens a little. “That does sound accurate.”

We stare at one another for a few seconds, the plumes of our breath mingling in the cold night air. And then we grin together. It’s the first full-fledged smile I’ve seen from him. It’s dazzling, sketching grooves into his lean cheeks, and I feel such a sense of accomplishment, winning that smile. I retract everything I thought about him not really being handsome.

Because when he smiles, he is. He so is.

“Dude, you ready?” Wright asks, walking up beside us.

“Yeah.” Canon breaks our stare, his smile disappearing as quickly as it came. “I’m whipped. Let’s go.”

“Neevah, so good to see you again.” Wright pulls me into a side hug and squeezes. “Congratulations.”

I look up at him, offering a smile. “Thank you again for coming.”

“Wouldn’t have missed it. You were great. If you’re ever in LA, don’t hesitate to hit me up.”

“Will do.” I studiously train my eyes on Wright’s face, and do my best to ignore his taciturn friend.

The two men turn and take the few steps that lead them away from me and this extraordinary night. I’m about to join my friends and head toward the subway when I feel a light touch on my arm. I look up and shock rolls through me. Shock and a thrill. It’s Canon.

“Did you forget something?” I ask, my breath refusing to push in and out as per normal respiratory patterns.

“You were exceptional on that stage,” he says softly. “The best in the show.”

Vines sprout from the sidewalk and wrap around my ankles, trapping me where I stand. Immobile. I should say something, not just stand here like I’m starstruck, though there is a part of me that is.

“What you said tonight about making people feel when you perform,” he says, his eyes never straying from my face. “Keep that.”

And then he turns and walks away.