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The first day on set always feels the sameâlike the first day of school, but with higher stakes. No one's wearing name tags or nervously introducing themselves, because everyone here already knows who everyone else is. There's no hiding when your face has been on movie posters since you were a kid.
I step out of the car and adjust the strap of my bag on my shoulder. The crisp morning air carries the scent of coffee and freshly painted sets.
People buzz around like they're in some kind of organised chaosâgrips hauling equipment, assistants talking into headsets, and the faint hum of generators keeping everything running.
My driver, who I barely know because my parents always handle this stuff, closes the car door behind me. I give him a small nod of thanks before heading toward the building where the table read is scheduled.
I pull out my phone and glance at the message from my publicist, Kate:
"Don't forget to smile and make a good first impression. This is a big deal!"
I roll my eyes. As if I need reminding. Being "on" is second nature to me, and it has been for years. Still, I tuck my phone away and take a deep breath before walking through the glass doors.
The production team has rented out an office space for pre-filming activities, and it's the usual blend of sterile professionalism and Hollywood extravagance. A cheerful assistant greets me and leads me to the conference room where the table read is taking place.
"Good morning, Ava," she says, flashing a wide smile.
"Good morning," I reply, turning on my polite, approachable voice.
When we reach the door, I pause for a moment, steadying myself. I've done this a hundred times before, but there's something about today that feels... different. Maybe it's the pressure of the project, the weight of knowing this film is already being buzzed about as the blockbuster of the year. Or maybe it's the thought of meeting Walker Scobell.
I've never met him before, but I've seen his interviews. Everyone talks about how grounded and funny he is, how he's managed to stay normal despite his rising fame. It's refreshing, but it also makes me nervous. I've spent so much time perfecting every detail of my public image that the thought of being around someone so effortlessly real makes me... uncomfortable.
I push the door open, and all the noise from the hallway fades into the quiet murmur of the room. The cast and crew are scattered around a large, rectangular table. Scripts are neatly placed in front of each seat, along with bottles of water and pens. The director, Laura Danvers, looks up and waves at me.
"Ava! Welcome!" she says, her voice warm and inviting.
"Hi, Laura," I reply, smiling as I make my way to an empty chair near the middle of the table. My heels click against the polished floor, and I can feel the weight of a few curious stares.
And then I see him.
Walker Scobell is sitting a few chairs down, leaning back casually in his seat like he's in a high school study hall instead of the first table read of a multimillion-dollar movie. His dark blond hair is slightly messy, and he's wearing a faded Marvel T-shirt and jeans. He's got one foot propped up on the chair beside him, and he's scrolling through his phone, completely unbothered by the formality of the situation.
He doesn't even look up when I walk in.
For a moment, I don't know whether to be offended or relieved.
Most people make a big deal when they meet meâoverly enthusiastic greetings, nervous laughter, compliments that feel rehearsed. Walker, apparently, couldn't care less.
I sit down and smooth my jeans, trying to shake the awkwardness. Someone passes me a script, and I flip through it, skimming the lines I've already read a dozen times at home.
"Alright, everyone, let's get started!" Laura claps her hands, bringing the room to attention. "First, I want to say thank you to all of you for being here. This project is going to be something really special, and I couldn't have asked for a better cast."
There's a round of polite applause, and I join in, though my mind is elsewhere. I sneak another glance at Walker, who's finally put his phone away and is chatting with the actor next to him. His laugh is loud and unrestrained, and for some reason, it catches me off guard.
"Ava, Walker," Laura says, snapping me back to reality. "Since you two will be spending a lot of time together on-screen, I'd like to introduce you officially before we dive in."
Walker finally looks at me, and his eyes light up with recognition. He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table.
"Ava Monroe," he says, a grin spreading across his face. "The legend herself."
I feel my cheeks flush, but I force a smile. "Walker Scobell," I reply, keeping my tone even. "The rising star."
He laughs, and it's a real laugh, not the kind people give when they're trying to impress you. "I don't know about 'rising star,' but thanks. It's cool to finally meet you."
"You too," I say, though my voice sounds more formal than I intended.
There's a beat of silence, and I suddenly feel self-conscious. His easygoing demeanor is so different from mine. While I'm busy calculating how I come across, he seems completely comfortable just being himself.
Laura interrupts the moment by diving into the script, and we all turn our attention to the table read.
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The words come to life as the cast begins to read their lines, and for the first time today, I feel a sense of calm. Acting has always been my escape, my way of silencing the noise in my head.
When it's time for my first scene with Walker, I glance at him, and he gives me an encouraging nod. His character is supposed to be witty and charming, and he nails it effortlessly. His delivery is natural, and his timing is perfect.
When it's my turn to speak, I feel the familiar rush of adrenaline. My lines flow smoothly, and I can feel the room's energy shift as everyone tunes in. It's a good feeling, the kind that reminds me why I started acting in the first place.
By the time the table read ends, I'm feeling a little more at ease. Laura thanks everyone for their hard work, and the cast begins to disperse. I linger at the table, organizing my things and trying to avoid the rush of people heading for the door.
"Hey, Ava."
I look up to see Walker standing a few feet away, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his jeans.
"Hi," I say, my voice softer now that the room is mostly empty.
"You were amazing," he says, his grin easy and genuine.
"Thanks," I reply, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. "You were too."
He shrugs, like it's no big deal. "Eh, I just wing it. You've got that whole polished, professional thing down. It's kind of intimidating."
I blink, surprised by his honesty. "Intimidating? I don't think anyone's ever called me that before."
"Well, you are," he says with a laugh. "In a good way. You know what you're doing. I'm just here trying not to mess up."
I laugh, though I don't fully believe him. He seems so relaxed, so confident in his own way. It's not the kind of confidence I haveâthe kind that comes from years of training and endless pressure to be perfect. His confidence is effortless, unforced, and it makes me feel... off balance.
"Well, you're doing a good job so far," I say, trying to match his tone.
"Thanks," he says. "And hey, if you ever want to, like, hang out or run lines or whatever, let me know. I'm not good at the whole Hollywood thing, but I figure it's better when you've got someone to talk to."
"Yeah," I say, though the thought of spending more time with him makes me both curious and nervous. "I'll keep that in mind."
He smiles and gives me a little wave before heading toward the door, leaving me standing there with a strange mix of emotions.
As I gather my things and head outside, I can't help but replay our conversation in my head. Walker Scobell is everything I'm notâlaid-back, genuine, unpolished. And for the first time in a long time, I feel like I don't quite know where I fit in.
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