Wednesday, February 1, 2023
'Ugh… I'm exhausted,' Owen thought as he let himself fall onto the bed in the hotel room.
It was only the first day and it was already past six in the evening.
It hadn't even been a real shooting day.
Only a few hours had passed since he landed at Boston's main airport, and from that moment on there hadn't been a single minute of pause.
First, making sure everything was in order. Everything paid and confirmed. This wasn't a small team, they were 83 people.
The main technical crew was the largest block. Derek as director. The first and second assistant directors. The director of photography. Script supervisor. Camera operators. Sound team. Wardrobe, makeup artists, and more.
Then the main cast: Cranston, Ethan, Emma, Jacob, Gaten… and a few supporting actors with concentrated shooting days.
The extras, of course, weren't staying at the hotel. They were hired per day.
In production there was Lianne, the line producer, the person responsible for controlling the budget day by day and making sure every dollar was justified, the production manager, coordinators, and Larry, his personal manager, who had traveled to support him and help out, of course. In total, about ten people just in production.
The team was split between two three-star hotels close to each other. Nothing luxurious like when he went to Sundance. If he had housed that many people in a five-star hotel, the budget would have skyrocketed.
It was functional, efficient, and nice.
After landing came the massive transfer to the hotel. Check-in for more than eighty people. Room assignments. Technical equipment separated. Schedule coordination.
Then a general meeting where they did a read-through of key scenes. Later, Owen had an additional rehearsal with Cranston and Emma.
The first day had been exactly that: a mix of logistics, final rehearsals, and preparation for the real start.
But the work hadn't begun in Boston.
For weeks beforehand, Owen had already been on top of everything: municipal permits processed with the city's film office. Complex authorizations with Harvard and MIT, delicate negotiations that Lianne handled very well and that took weeks to be approved. Streets blocked at specific hours.
And the sets.
Not everything would be exterior. The offices and some academic interiors were built in a mid-sized studio rented in Boston. The build had started four weeks before shooting.
Much of that machinery was led by Lianne, with the experience Owen still lacked. And the other producer helped keep the structure solid.
But even so, Owen couldn't relax. Not just because the money was his. But because he wanted to learn, to improve as a producer in future projects.
Being the lead already meant enormous pressure.
Not just because of the hours, which were far more than almost anyone else on set, but because of the constant mental weight of wanting to get it right. Of carrying the film and making sure every scene worked.
But on top of that came another layer, or two.
Producer and financier.
The millions invested in this project were his. The risk was real. There was no studio absorbing a potential failure. Every decision, delay, or adjustment carried a different weight when the capital came from your own account. Even if Owen had made many millions from the sale of IP.
Because of this, his days wouldn't be normal. It wasn't simply about waking up, being transported to set, and filming the assigned scenes. He had producer responsibilities.
His daily workload would be greater than ever.
As Owen thought about the month he had set for himself, somewhere between nervous, anxious, and exhilarated to finally begin shooting, the phone resting on the nightstand began to vibrate.
The sound pulled him from his thoughts. He sat up slowly and picked up the phone.
'Jenna,' Owen read the name on the screen.
He remembered then that she had texted him earlier. Several messages. He hadn't had time to respond between the arrival, the general meeting, and the rehearsals.
He swiped and brought the phone to his ear.
"Hello?"
"Ashford, are you still alive…?" Jenna's voice came through with sarcasm.
Owen let out an exhale that was almost a laugh. "I somehow survived another meeting with Derek," he replied with light dramatics. "It was intense."
Derek took everything very seriously. Especially the acting. And even more so Owen's.
It didn't matter that he was also the producer, or that technically he was everyone's boss. On set, for Derek, he was the lead actor.
Full responsibility. Total expectations. No special treatment. Owen appreciated it. He knew it elevated the project. But that didn't make it any less exhausting.
Jenna laughed on the other end. "Looks like making a twelve-million-dollar movie isn't as simple as making a twenty-thousand-dollar one."
Owen let his head fall back, staring at the ceiling.
"No doubt," he admitted. "I think I underestimated the level of wear and tear, and overestimated my ability to split myself into five people."
Pre-production, without real money on the line, had been manageable overall. Time, writing, and planning. Long hours, yes, but alone. It had been controllable, even satisfying.
Then the first executive phase had been more intense, hiring people, meetings, contracts, but he enjoyed it. Being creative with Lianne and Derek in finding actors who fit the roles and everything else.
But these past few weeks had been heavier.
There was a brief silence before Jenna's voice came through again. "You'll be okay, right?" she asked.
Jenna knew what Owen was doing wasn't normal. Nobody in the industry, at the age of twenty-one, was leading a multi-million dollar project.
Owen smiled when he caught the hint of concern in her voice. "Of course. I'm just exaggerating a little. I've got Lianne's help, Robert, and Larry will be here the entire shoot."
Robert was the other producer he had hired on Lianne's direct recommendation. Professional and meticulous, the kind who never left loose ends.
"Mm… that's true," Jenna replied, sounding more at ease. "Besides, if anyone can pull it off, it's you."
Owen was quiet for a second. "That was a little cheesy… but thanks."
A soft huff came from the other side.
"It wasn't cheesy. It was logical," Jenna shot back, almost defensively. "Considering your work ethic, your obsession with double-checking everything, and your inability to let something be just 'good enough,' the odds of this going well are in your favor."
Owen let out a more relaxed laugh. "Okay, okay, not cheesy, and I appreciate it. Thanks to that comment and hearing your voice, I'll have enough energy not to collapse before eight."
"Now you're the cheesy one," Jenna countered instantly.
"I don't think so. Trust me, there are way cheesier people out there. This doesn't even qualify."
"Sure, sure," she said with mock seriousness. "Either way, you're the indie genius. You'll handle it."
Owen made an automatic face at the nickname. "You know I don't like that nickname, and you're abusing it by using it so many times."
"That's exactly why I do it, and I don't care if I'm repetitive," Jenna replied, amused.
Owen fell silent for a moment.
Then, as if an invisible lightbulb switched on above his head, he remembered an article he had read not long ago.
A piece about Jenna.
The headline had been striking. And if he wasn't mistaken, it wasn't the first time they had used that same term alongside her name.
"Modern scream queen," Owen said.
There was no immediate response on the other end.
That small pause confirmed what he had suspected. He smiled.
Given Jenna's personality, that nickname must make her uncomfortable. She loved horror, yes. Her filmography already included several titles in the genre. But "queen" implied something too grand, something more solemn than she was willing to accept.
A few seconds passed.
"Truce?" Jenna finally said, her tone dry but restrained.
Owen nodded to himself. "Truce. For now."
She changed the subject naturally, as if nothing had happened. "So how's the weather? Similar to Utah?"
Owen got up from the bed and walked toward the window. He pulled the curtain back slightly.
The city was dark. It was only a few minutes past six, but the sun had set long ago. Streetlights lit the roads with a faint yellow glow.
"Yes and no," he replied, looking outside.
"It's cold," he continued. "And there's snow. But it's not as extreme as Utah. Over there we were practically glued to the mountains, and it was January."
He remembered Park City during the Sundance Film Festival. The cold there had been harsher. Here, it was different, much more tolerable.
The weather can sometimes include lots of snow, lots of sun, and sometimes no snow at all. It's unpredictable.
Now there was snow.
"I'd say it's a more civilized kind of cold than Park City. Boston is very cinematic this time of year, I have to admit," Owen added.
"Are you already thinking about the aesthetics?" Jenna asked.
"I can't help it," Owen replied with a slight smile.
The conversation stretched without either of them noticing. Seconds turned into minutes that passed without urgency.
Jenna told him about her plans for the month. She had offers on the table, yes, but this time she hadn't accepted any. She wanted to do things differently.
She was reading scripts with a magnifying glass. No rush. And not letting herself be carried away solely by opportunity or the impulse to diversify her image. She was no longer so obsessed with breaking out of typecasting.
With Miller's Girl, she could have made the leap into something more adult and provocative, moving away from the teenage profile that still followed her. But she also knew that kind of project could backfire, too much controversy, too much morbid fascination around the story. Especially now that she had become so famous because of Wednesday.
The shoot had probably already wrapped, and the film would be in post-production, with a release planned for the end of the year or the next.
There was nothing wrong with exploring different characters. But the script had to be solid.
The conversation gradually softened. It was no longer a quick exchange of ideas or jokes. Until eventually, they fell into silence.
Then Jenna spoke again, her tone a little softer.
"We won't see each other for a full month."
It wasn't a complaint, nor was there dramatics in her words, just a simple acknowledgment.
"Yeah…" Owen replied, still looking out the window.
A month sounded short when you said it quickly. But it wasn't.
Even though they saw each other in their apartments, sometimes at his, sometimes at hers, and had never established fixed days, in the past few weeks it had almost become a habit to see each other at least once or twice a week. Without planning it too much. It just happened.
"It'll go by fast. It's February, it has fewer days," Owen added, trying to sound light.
"Sure," Jenna said, almost under her breath.
Another silence followed, heavier this time.
They weren't officially together. But they weren't just friends either.
And precisely because of that, they had set certain rules when they decided to start getting to know each other and see if there could be a future as a couple. No demanding time. No prioritizing each other like a newly formed relationship might. They were both absorbed in their routines and commitments.
They exchanged a few more words, shorter now.
"Goodbye, Jenna."
"Bye… take care."
The call ended.
Owen slowly lowered the phone and stared at the dark screen.
For a few seconds, he did nothing.
Then he remembered that conversation.
The one after New Year's. The one that, without explicitly saying it, marked the beginning of whatever this was, something that still didn't have a name.
As he recalled it, a faint smile formed on his face. They had been absurdly methodical.
They had talked as if they were negotiating terms and expectations. Almost as if they were drafting a contract instead of simply starting to get to know each other like two normal people.
So structured.
But there was one line from that conversation he remembered: If we have time, we make it work.
That was it.
Owen dialed Jenna again and brought the phone to his ear.
She answered almost immediately.
"Owen?"
"Yeah… I remembered our conversation after New Year's. You know which one I mean?"
"Yes. Our terms and conditions," Jenna replied, her tone blending irony and complicity.
Owen chuckled softly. "Exactly. That's the one. I remember you said that even though we weren't going to demand time from each other, if we had time, we could make it work."
"That's true," Jenna admitted, recalling it. "So… are you proposing we arrange something for this month?"
"Exactly. Like this call. But structured. Deciding how many days, what time, and for how long."
There was a brief silence on the other end. It seemed slightly strange to Jenna, but also completely consistent coming from him. And, if she was honest, from her too.
"I'm fine with that," she finally replied. "As for me, I could do it every day. I can make time without much trouble. What about you? I know you'll have an intense month. It doesn't have to be daily if you can't."
"Let me think…" Owen said, mentally reviewing his routine.
Call time at six. Shooting until late. Production reviews… Still, there would come a point when he'd be back in his room with some free time.
"Yeah. Every day works for me too. I can make room. It's not like I'm working eighteen straight hours."
"Perfect. What time? Since you're shooting, it should probably be at night, right?"
"Yeah," he replied. "Does nine work for you?"
"Yes," Jenna answered immediately. "And for how long? Half an hour? An hour?"
But before Owen could respond, she continued, already mentally organizing the calendar.
"You wake up at six. If we talk for an hour, that's nine to ten at night. That would leave you just enough time to try to get eight hours of sleep, although I know you won't. Realistically, you'll sleep six or seven. So it should last between thirty minutes and an hour."
Owen smiled. "Yeah. I agree."
"Thirty minutes guaranteed," she added. "If one day it can be sixty, even better."
"I like that. You can't disconnect before the thirty minutes are up," Owen said playfully.
"Don't turn it into a contractual clause."
Contractual clauses are specific and binding provisions within a contract that define the rights, obligations, and responsibilities of the parties involved.
"Too late."
Jenna let out a small laugh. "Then it's settled. Do you want to add anything else?"
Owen stayed quiet for a moment, thinking, until he finally said, "Yes. Add video calls every few days."
There was a brief pause.
"Oh, you want to see my face, huh?" Jenna replied, clearly amused. Owen was sure she was smiling triumphantly on the other end.
"Don't exaggerate," he shot back. "I want to take the chance to see Juan Antonio. I don't want him to forget me."
The fat orange cat.
"Sure, it's just for Juan Antonio," she said in a tone that made it clear she didn't believe him at all.
"Exactly."
"How about two days regular call, and on the third, video call?" Jenna proposed, dropping the teasing.
Owen took barely a second to answer. "Yeah, perfect."
There was a small silence, but this one wasn't heavy or uncomfortable. It was light. They had turned a month of distance into something structured, measurable, and sustainable.
"Then it's officially established," Owen said.
"Thirty minutes guaranteed," she repeated.
"And rotating video calls."
They talked for a few more minutes, and the call ended. This time, when Owen looked at the phone in his hand, there was none of the bitter aftertaste the first goodbye had left. No awkwardness. No ambiguous feeling of something unfinished.
Now he was at peace.
'That's how things are done with a potential couple,' he thought, satisfied.
Clear structure. Realistic expectations. No unnecessary dramatics.
And yes, he had agreed to talk every day because he genuinely wanted to. He knew that if he had proposed less, Jenna wouldn't have been upset. That had been precisely the agreement, no demands.
He replied to a few pending messages from his family. Then he set the phone down on the bed and checked the time.
About twenty minutes to seven. Enough time for a quick shower and to head down to the hotel restaurant for a light dinner before going to sleep.
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