Total pages in book: 139
Estimated words: 138072 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 690(@200wpm)___ 552(@250wpm)___ 460(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138072 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 690(@200wpm)___ 552(@250wpm)___ 460(@300wpm)
“I told you I didn’t have a wife.”
“Yeah, well, that’s not what your people tell me.”
I start to say I don’t care what people tell him, before it strikes me how he worded that. “My people? Where are you getting your information?”
“Sorry, buddy, but I’m taking that to the grave,” he says. “I swore my secrecy on the dotted line a long time ago. No going back on that. My sources are confidential.”
He doesn’t realize it, but as he says that, he just confirmed what I’ve been suspecting for a while. No PR is bad PR. That's Cliff's motto. He invented Johnny Cunning that morning sitting in his office, a character I agreed to play, and I've been giving him the performance of a lifetime without even realizing every moment of my existence has been scripted.
“How’s my little snowflake doing?”
“The best!” Madison says, her excited voice rattling the speakerphone. I tried to FaceTime her, but she refused, saying I couldn’t see her costume until show time. “Are you on your way now to come home?”
“Not yet, but soon,” I say, sitting in Jazz’s chair in the Hair & Makeup trailer, getting ready for the last day of filming. “I have to finish my work first.”
“But you’ll be there?”
“I promised, didn’t I?”
“But promise again.”
“I promise I’ll be there.”
“Okay, Daddy!” she says. “Bye!”
“Wait, Madison, don’t hang up! I want to—” CLICK “—talk to your mother.”
Jazz laughs as I let out a sigh.
She hung up on me.
Opening my texts, I send a quick message to Kennedy. Madison hung up before I could tell you I love you, so this is me, telling you I love you.
Does it really count as telling me if it’s being texted?
I send her back the emoji of the little yellow guy shrugging.
Well, in that case, I love you, too.
I stare at my phone.
I read that message over and over.
My fucking heart is battering my ribcage as I text her back. Do you really mean that?
Her response comes right away.
The emoji of the yellow lady shrugging.
I want to continue the conversation, but the mood is disrupted when the trailer door yanks open and Serena storms in with her scrambling assistant. Cliff is behind them, nobody looking happy this morning. Serena wasn’t around for pickup, and there was no answer in her room, so Cliff stayed behind at the hotel to find her.
Serena drops down into a makeup chair nearby, big sunglasses shielding her eyes. The stench of alcohol clings to her, making my nose twitch.
“I am so not in the mood for this,” she says. “I don’t see why we can’t delay it. It’s one day.”
“They don't have one day,” Cliff says. “They delayed it already too much because of Johnny.”
“Johnny, Johnny, Johnny,” she grumbles, swinging the chair to face me. “It’s always all about Johnny.”
“Well, he is the star,” Jazz says.
Serena scoffs, still looking at me. “Why don’t you go ask them to postpone it until tomorrow? I bet they’ll do it for you.”
“Not happening.”
“Figures,” Serena mutters as she takes her sunglasses off and turns to gaze in the mirror, leaning closer to examine herself. Her eyes are bloodshot, her skin sweaty, sickly pale. “Nobody ever cares how I feel.”
I know she’s taking a swipe at me with that, but I let it slide.
I get up to leave when Jazz is finished with me, about to slip my phone away, when I catch a glimpse of the screen, seeing two new texts from Kennedy.
(I mean it)
(I love you)
I want to stand here forever, absorbing those words. I want to bask in them, soak them up, but I don’t have time to dwell. After going through wardrobe, putting on the suit for possibly the last time, I head to my personal trailer to steal a few minutes alone, hearing muffled yelling coming from Hair & Makeup. Serena is flipping out about something, and Cliff’s trying to calm her down.
Her assistant paces around outside, so frustrated she's crying.
Once I’m in my trailer, I call Jack. It rings, and rings, and rings, and I’m about to give up when he finally answers. “Holy shit, man, it’s not even eight yet! What could you possibly need at this hour? Bacon?”
“I need you to come to the set.”
“Where’s the set?”
“Jersey.”
“New Jersey?”
“That’s the one.”
“But I don’t like New Jersey.”
He’s whining.
I give him the address and tell him to be here by noon before hanging up and setting my phone down on a table. I make my way out onto set at call time, but Serena is running late again.
She puts us thirty minutes behind.
It’s a long morning—take after take, screw up after screw up. I’m getting frustrated, while Serena’s close to having a breakdown. I think, as I watch her make a mess of it all, that this must’ve been what it was like to deal with me over the years.