“We’ll give you an outrageous salary and cut any requirements to do press, which I know you hate.” Reece searched Dash’s eyes, then puffed out his chest. “It would be fun to work together again after all these years. And for my directing debut, it would mean a lot to have you there with me.”
Dash didn’t want to disappoint his brother. The fact that he was directing his first film was a major accomplishment. But he wasn’t about to risk his sobriety.
“I’m not interested in any roles right now,” Dash eventually said. His fingers danced with nerves in his pockets.
“No, no. We’re not doing the it’s not you, it’s me breakup line.” Reece’s eyes crinkled as he gave him a thoughtful look. “What am I missing here?”
Dash wiped a hand down his face. “Nothing. I’m just taking a break.”
“Okay,” Reece finally said. He placed a big, warm hand on Dash’s shoulder and squeezed before he dropped it completely and walked off.
Dash had turned down the role. He knew he wouldn’t regret saying no. So why was there a needling apprehension that warned him to stay alert?
Their regular Sunday-night dinner was set outside, under the pergola covered in creeping bougainvillea vines. The sun was still bright, though beginning to dip lower in the sky, and the air had cooled ever so slightly. His mother sat at one end of the table, his father at the other, with Poppy and Dash seated across from Reece.
Platters of roast chicken, peas and carrots, Yorkshire pudding, and grilled potato wedges lined the center of the table. And, because Dash was always attuned to what people were drinking, he’d noted that Poppy, Reece, and their dad had Pimms cups, and their mom had a white wine. Dash had slipped away to make his own mocktail—club soda with bitters—which looked like scotch and soda. He wanted the ease of blending in, so as not to be the focus.
“Have you all RSVP’d to the premiere?” Reece asked as he sawed into a piece of chicken.
Their mother, Kitty, pointedly looked at Poppy then Dash.
“My assistant handles the invites and my calendar.” Poppy spooned a substantial amount of peas onto her plate. Running a spa kept her busy. “But don’t worry, I’ll be there.”
“It really says something that I’m the only one at this table who answers their own emails.” Dash sipped from his cup.
“Yeah, it says that you’re unemployed.” Poppy playfully jabbed at his shoulder with her fork, but really, it was stronger than strictly necessary.
“How is the speech coming, Dash?” His mom sipped from her glass of white wine. “You’re apparently not great at answering your own emails, since you won’t respond to my assistant.”
William put his elbows on the table and leaned forward. “Kitty, can’t the lad have his meal first?”
“I don’t think Mom knows how to exist without business, Dad,” Dash said with a joking smile. His dad looked to him and smiled back. Dash was happy for his dad, genuinely, as he knew how much awards and recognition meant to him, so he lied. “The speech is coming along.”
“Your father got a letter from the royal family to congratulate him already.” His mom took another sip from her drink. She was, after all, heavily invested in their father’s success—not just because he was her husband but because she was his agent, which was how they’d first met all those years ago. “And the prince is still single...” His mom winked at Poppy.
Poppy stopped chewing the bite of food in her mouth and rolled her eyes. “Mom, don’t wink at me like you and I are on the same page here. We went to boarding school together, and he never said a single word to me. Not one. Why would he be interested now?”
“Well, you grew out of the head gear and imaginary friends, for starters.” Their mom raised her glass of wine. Reece choked on a laugh.
“If he can’t love me at my worst, he doesn’t deserve me at my best.” Poppy raised her glass back in mock salute.
“Dad, wouldn’t it be better if Ang Lee presented you with the award? Or Phoebe Waller-Bridge? Someone you’ve worked with and can speak to your career more.” Dash knew this line of questions would lead nowhere, but he had to try.
“Dash, this isn’t just about your father.” His mother’s fingers drummed along the side of the table. “This will remind people that you’re a Montrose. The business is in your blood, and as soon as they remember that, you’ll be getting scripts thrown at you.”
His mother rarely stopped talking about deals she was working on for their dad, or a role she’d heard about for Reece, or how Dash could pivot into a rom-com leading man if only he’d network more. He’d just hoped that in squashing the deal with Reece, he’d be safe for the rest of the night.
But Dash felt Reece staring at him, and he glanced back. Before he could stop his brother, the words were coming out as fast as a mudslide.
“Don’t worry, Mom, I offered Dash a role in my next film.” Reece sat back in his chair.
“You did? Well, that’s great.” His mother beamed, and Dash felt his cheeks burn.
“But he turned it down,” Reece said. When Dash looked at him, he cocked his head. There was that competitive side Dash had feared would come out in saying no to the role. Still, he couldn’t believe what an ass his brother could be.
Dash glanced at his dad, who looked back with concern. His father had always been unreadable. Dash had never really known where they stood or what William’s opinions truly were. Kitty seemed to be the voice of their father, in certain respects, and Dash assumed that what she said was what his dad felt, too.
But he supposed he deserved some of the flaming-hot spotlight being pointed at him. He had turned down a job offer on his brother’s directorial debut, after all.
“You’re turning down the role?” his mom asked coolly.
“Mom, if he wanted to act, he’d go act.” Poppy folded the napkin in her lap. “It’s not like you don’t pressure him every single Sunday to read a new script you’ve got. Can’t you see that Dash is trying to find himself?”
“Well,” Dash started to say, then stopped. He wasn’t trying to find himself, really. He was trying to keep from falling off the edge of a very dangerous cliff. Less than half of alcoholics in recovery stayed sober, and Dash planned to be one of them. But he was grateful that Poppy had at least tried to come to his defense, even if she hadn’t been completely accurate in her assessment.
“William...” His mom’s voice pleaded, but his father just kept looking back at him, the concern still there. Or was it judgment?
“Kitty, if he turned it down, I’m sure there’s a good reason,” his dad finally said.
His mom sat back in her chair. It was moments like these, where her gaze turned hawkish and her angular frame became domineering, that he understood why she’d been one of the top agents in Hollywood for nearly three decades and, at one New Year’s Eve party, sent Julia Roberts home in tears.
“Okay, then, what’s the reason?” she asked.