He mock salutes me. “Sure thing. Have a good night.”
“You, too,” I say, closing the door as he leaves. I lock up again before opening the box to find a spiral notebook inside. It’s simple, college-ruled, with a blue cover, a glittery blue gel pen on top of it. Couldn’t have cost him more than a dollar. When I take it out of the box, a note slips from the front of the notebook, falling to the floor by my feet. I pick it up to read.
Ten years ago, you ran away with me so I could follow my dream. It’s time you follow yours. Wherever it takes you, I’ll be there.
Happy Dreamiversary.
Jonathan
My eyes sting. Ugh, I’m crying. My vision blurs, and I blink away tears as I sit back down on the couch. I open the fresh notebook, staring at the blank lines for a moment before I start writing, glittery blue ink flowing across the page:
Rain fell from the overcast sky in sporadic bursts, quick manic showers followed by moments of nothingness. The weatherman on channel six had predicted a calm day, but the woman knew better. A tumultuous storm was rolling in. There was no way to avoid it.
Chapter 28
JONATHAN
“Love abroad.”
I pull my arm from across my tired eyes to glance at the door of my trailer, where Jazz stands, holding what I guarantee is the latest edition of Hollywood Chronicles, reading from it.
“I don’t want to hear it,” I mutter, covering my eyes again, trying to block out the world and steal a bit of peace, but that’s asking for a miracle. I’ve got a two-hour lull in the middle of filming, our first day back on American soil, and I’ve got the worst case of jet lag. I feel hung-over, that groggy ‘day after a coke binge’ sensation where I hate the fucking world and everyone in it—myself included.
“There’s nothing like the City of Love to rekindle a fire between former lovers,” Jazz says, ignoring me as she continues to read. “Sources on the Paris set of Breezeo: Ghosted tell us things are heating up again between Johnny Cunning and Serena Markson.”
If by ‘heating up’ they mean she makes me so fucking angry I could spit fire, they’d be right about that. Being around her has been intolerable.
“The pair have been spotted together a few times recently,” Jazz says. “Rumor has it Serena has chosen to forgive Johnny for his indiscretions after he begged her for another chance.”
Laughing dryly, I sit up. I’m not even going to entertain that bullshit with a response. “Jazz, no hard feelings, but can you just… fuck off?”
“Whatever you say, grouchy pants.” She skims the article as she says, “I wonder who their source on set could be.”
“You know they make shit up, right?” I shove to my feet, staggering over to the small fridge to find something with caffeine in it. “Or someone else makes shit up and feeds it to them.”
“Yeah, but somebody takes the pictures,” she says. “They sure aren’t made up.”
Bottled water. Vitamin Water. Some kind of fancy juice. No caffeine. Sighing, I grab some antioxidant pomegranate something before turning to Jazz. “There are pictures?”
“Of course,” she says, holding it up to show me—a full spread of set photos. “So much for a closed set. The call is coming from inside the house.”
She laughs at her own joke, but I don’t find any of it funny… probably since it’s my life they’re trying to destroy. It could be any number of people, but those who work in production tend to value their jobs too much to risk them.
Besides, there’s plenty of legitimate dirt they could sell me out with, not this manufactured relationship bullshit.
Opening the juice, I take a sip and gag, spitting it back out. “That’s disgusting. Where’s all the fucking caffeine?”
“Mr. Caldwell had it removed,” she says, closing the tabloid. “Something about you getting your life together.”
I sigh, tossing the juice in the trash before running my hands down my face. “I need a new manager.”
Jazz laughs, but she’s cut off when the trailer door pops open and Cliff walks in. Jazz excuses herself, making a speedy exit.
Cliff watches her run out the door and asks, “Something going on between the two of you?”
I drop down on the couch. “I have a girlfriend.”
“Do you? Did you make it official?”
“Haven’t talked about it. Not sure it matters. Love doesn’t know titles.”
He blinks at me. “Did you just quote Breezeo?”
I shrug.
“Anyway,” he says, whipping out a piece of paper. “I need to go through a few things with you since you have the time. Production wraps in two days, and we’ll want to keep momentum going.”
I scan the paper when he hands it to me. A tentative schedule he coordinated with my agent. Meetings. Auditions. Offers. Not to mention entire weeks blocked off by PR for promotion. I glance back at the top and shake my head when I see the date. “Can’t do it.”
June 2 @ 4pm
“Excuse me?” Cliff says.
“I can’t do the first meeting.”
“Why not?”
“My daughter’s in a play.”
“A play.”
“Yes,” I say. “I promised her I’d be there, so I’m leaving the second we wrap.”
Cliff stares at me. “Any other conflicts we should know about? Maybe some PTO meetings we need to work around? Chaperoning field trips? Disney on Ice, maybe?”
His voice sounds so condescending that I want to throw him out of my fucking trailer, but seeing as I have a trailer thanks to his hard work, that’s probably not a good idea.
“I’ll keep you posted,” I say, setting the paper down.
“I’d appreciate it,” he says before walking out, shutting the door harder than usual.
Sighing, I drop my head down low and close my eyes, exhausted. Exasperated. I barely get a minute of peace before Jazz peeks her head in. “All clear?”
“Yeah,” I mumble. “He’s gone.”
She steps into the trailer, holding out a can of Red Bull. “Brought you a present.”
“I could kiss you for that,” I say, grabbing it, popping the top and taking a drink.
“I’d rather you didn’t,” she says. “I’ve read all about the places those lips have been.”
Despite filming across the border, in Jersey City, we still stay at the usual hotel in Midtown. I meet up with Jack once I get to the city, the car service dropping me off at his basement apartment.
“Nice place,” I say when I step inside, glancing around. It’s tiny, and dim, and reminds me of a cave. Posters wallpaper the place, and my eyes go straight to a Breezeo one. It’s not me. Not even the movie. It’s a poster of the Ghosted cover—same poster Kennedy had on the wall as a teenager. “Thought you weren’t a Breezeo fan.”
“Never said that,” Jack says. “I said the movies were shit and you didn’t deserve to be in them. There’s a difference.”
Shaking my head, I hand him the paper from Cliff. “Got a schedule for you.”
He takes it as he plops down in a computer chair. “Do they leave you any time to sleep?”
“Occasionally,” I say. “My manager's a bit of a hardass.”
“Why do you put up with that?”