Even from down here I catch the jaw muscle flex that Flint does when something’s gone foul. “Laurel, I need you to explain to me what the hell just happened,” he says, his voice gone deadly calm and dangerous now.
But I don’t explain anything. All I can think of is sweet Charlotte, in her prim little bun, waiting for him back at their perfect little fairy tale dream house. They deserve each other. I hope they’ll be happy, or at least as happy as they can be after Flint falls off a cliff and dies. Okay, not dies. Maybe cracks his tailbone.
Stop it, Laurel. This was never going to last. You should hope to God they agree to have their wedding on camera next season. What a ratings boost that’ll be.
“I’ll call you once I land,” I say briskly. “We’ll talk schedules.” I nod, roll my bags outside, and shut the door behind me. After that I jump into my car fast, before I break down, and start backing down the driveway. Flint is standing on the porch, watching me drive away. I can see him gesturing, calling my name, though I can’t hear him. I’ve turned the music up loud; I never like to hear myself cry.
That’s it. He can have Charlotte and their Barbie dream house, and I can have my soulless Hollywood career and never come back here again. Everyone gets what they deserve. That’s all, folks.
In more ways than one, the show’s over now.
25
When most people break up, the one mercy is that they don’t have to see their ex’s face every day. I’m not even that lucky.
“Laurel. What do you think?” Flint says, turning around with a devil-may-care glint in his eye. Irresistible as always. Painful as always.
Granted, Flint McKay and I aren’t in the same room at this particular moment. Unlike most wrecked relationships, I can fast forward past him if I feel like it. Seeing his gorgeous, infuriating face is part of the daily torture of editing Season One of Rustic Renovations. I’d love to take a powder on this one, but being the producer and the creator of this whole enterprise, I’m a little stuck. So I stand here, right behind Juan, and mumble places to cut while I stare at a man I can’t have.
Every night when I go home, get into my PJs, and watch trashy television to turn off my brain, I tell myself that tomorrow it’s going to be fine. Tomorrow I won’t feel anything. Tomorrow is another day, said with conviction as I picture myself silhouetted against an old Hollywood backdrop while dramatic music swells. And when that tomorrow fails to deliver, I have to go home depressed and tell myself it’ll be the next tomorrow.
“Can we cut right here?” Suze asks, knocking me out of my dreary headspace and returning me to the cramped editing room that smells like Carl’s Jr. and B.O.
Juan, the mohawked USC Film School grad who’s in charge of both stitching this show together and the oppressive smell, groans in frustration and rubs his bloodshot eyes as Suze points to Flint, bending down to pick something up. “If we go straight from this into the part where he’s helping lift the wall, we get the sense of effort without the whole sweaty, grunting mess.”
Sweaty. Grunting. Thank you, Suze, for making me think of Flint-related sex. I take a sip of sullen coffee and try not to remember the bed-shaking athleticism of our past encounters. Knock it off, Laurel. She’s stepped in because she knows you need help focusing. She doesn’t have to be co-editing this right now. It’s a favor. Be grateful.
“Laurel, what do you think?” Suze asks, looking at me with interest. Juan swivels around in his chair, scratching his little chin beard.
“Yeah, you tell me. We making art or just trying to show this guy’s deltoids?” he asks, chugging from the hugest can of Red Bull I’ve ever seen. Ick. Then again, maybe I need one of those.
“Both. Maybe,” I say, sighing and crouching down. “But I’m with Suze on this one. Let’s make the illusion as graceful as we can.”
Juan shrugs. “Your call. It’ll be hilarious when all the housewives of America think it’s this easy. See them tottering around in their overpriced heels, trying to drywall with the best of them.” He grunts and hits a few keys on his keyboard.
“You’ve been working in reality TV too long, Juan,” I snap, tossing my empty coffee cup in the trashcan. “Most housewives would kill for a pair of overpriced heels. Like actual shoe-murder.”
Nobody laughs at my joke. Probably because my stress and heartache is turning me into bitchy-Laurel instead of funny, overworked, slightly-crazed-yet-also-fun Laurel.
“Sorry,” I mutter. The room’s still uncomfortably quiet.