But white actors were never denied roles that potentially perpetuated negative stereotypes about their race. So why was I being denied the role of a badass superhero?
It’s so dumb, it’s brilliant.
“Honey, I know you’re upset. But on the bright side, they’re thrilled with the last script, and the pages you already sent in for Smash-Girl. They still want you involved.”
I tucked my chin to my chest, slouching in my seat and glaring unseeingly at the inside of the trailer. I didn’t respond.
“Sienna? Are you there?”
“Yes.”
“There will be other roles.”
“I know.”
She hesitated, then asked, “You’ll continue to send pages? For Smash-Girl?”
I didn’t respond.
“Sienna,” she firmed her voice, “keep sending those pages, do you hear me?”
“I have to go.”
“Sienna, you listen to me—”
I ended the call and turned off my phone, tempted to throw it. I didn’t. Instead, I steeped in my frustration. But the super odd thing was, I didn’t know if I was more upset about losing the part, or about the reason I lost the part. Yes, I was profoundly irritated I’d been passed over because of my ethnicity . . . but losing the part—and therefore all the associated pomp and attention attached to it—actually felt like a relief.
A knock sounded from the door. I ignored it. The knocker tried a second time, louder. I ignored that, too. The person knocked a third time, and I was just about to holler in response when I heard the door open.
“Sienna?”
I closed my eyes, blocking out the world, because the persistent knocker was Jethro.
He didn’t wait for my response, just let himself in the trailer, closing the door behind him. I sensed him cross to where I sat slouched in the chair, felt his eyes move over me.
“Hey,” he said, nudging my foot with his boot. “Are you okay?”
I swallowed an abundance of emotions. I was frustrated. And as I’ve mentioned previously, when I’m frustrated I cry.
Once I was certain I’d be able speak without crying, I said, “I’m fine.”
Jethro was quiet. I felt him still watching me, so I opened my eyes and met his. His handsomeness felt overwhelming, his presence in my trailer confusing.
So I asked, “What are you doing here?”
“Cletus said you were getting some bad news.”
“So?”
“So.” His gaze sharpened; clearly he found my question wearisome. “I was worried about you.”
I frowned at his statement, how he’d said he was worried about me as though it was obvious. It wasn’t obvious, not to me. Not when one minute he was kissing me like I’m the most delicious thing since Daisy’s doughnuts, and then the next minute he leaves. He picked me up this morning, and then used his brother as a third wheel so he could keep distance between us.
While I debated whether or not to ask him why he’d kissed me, and if he had plans to do it again, Jethro pulled his phone out of his pocket. He frowned at the screen. He tapped and scrolled with his thumb until he found what he was looking for. Without warning, music reverberated from his phone.
I recognized the song but didn’t recall the title. It was an old recording. A woman’s voice singing French words filled the space between and around us.
“What song is that?”
Jethro’s warm gaze moved over me, an alluring smile just curving his lips. “La Vie en rose.”
“It’s beautiful.” It was beautiful, but it wasn’t helping my mood.
Then Jethro held out his hand. “Dance with me.”
Blinking, first at his offered palm and then at his features, I asked, “Why?”
Not immediately replying, he reached for me, pulled me to my feet, and slid an arm around my waist. I allowed him to hold my body against his, fit our hands together, and sway to the lovely music. Begrudgingly, I admitted to myself he had great rhythm. Someone had taught him to dance.
Jethro dipped his mouth to my ear, his beard tickling my neck as he finally whispered an answer to my question, “Because you want me to hold you, but you don’t know how to ask.”
We were walking through the prairie holding hands.
HOLDING. HANDS.
My brain shouted this fact at odd intervals, because it was both confusing and exciting.
We’d danced in my trailer, “La Vie en rose” on repeat, until I was finally ready to tell him about the bad news.
Upon retelling, I grew agitated all over again. He suggested we go for a walk under the guise of checking the bear traps. The rhythm of the walking, paired with the loveliness of the park—plus the approaching sunset streaking the sky blue and purple—made recounting my tale of woe easier.