“You're high,” I tell her. Not a question now, because I know.
Instead of being angry, Serena grins, pressing her hand to my chest. “You want some?”
“Are you crazy?” I grab her wrist and pull her hand away. “You just overdosed last month.”
“Shut up,” she hisses, yanking from my grasp. “Nobody knows about that. Cliff promised—”
“That he’d keep it a secret? Maybe he will, but that's not the point. You need help, Ser. You need back in rehab.”
She glares at me. "I told you I was fine. I can handle it.”
“Need I remind you again that you overdosed?”
“That has nothing to do with the damn coke,” she growls. “So, what, I swallowed a bunch of sleeping pills and took a nap. Get off my ass about it.”
Whoa. What the fuck? “You did it on purpose?”
“I was tired,” she says. “I'm over it. It'll never happen again.”
We’re called for the scene before I can respond. A few more takes, that’s all we need, but I’m struggling to stay focused after what Serena told me, while she's bouncing off the goddamn walls. Over and over and over, we go through it, before we finally manage to get it finished.
That’s a wrap.
I breathe a sigh of relief. Everyone around me cheers. I try to go after Serena, to talk to her, but Cliff gets in my way, saying, “Congratulations.”
I eye him warily as Serena escapes to her trailer. “Thanks.”
“You don’t look happy,” he says. “Going to miss the suit?”
I shrug. I think I actually might. I won’t miss the stress of trying to stay sober while surrounded by temptation, night after night, but I’m going to miss putting on the suit, miss playing the character that changed my life.
“Just bittersweet,” I tell him.
“I bet,” he says, smacking me on the back. “But there are plenty more opportunities in your future, Johnny. Since you can't make today’s four o’clock, the producer wants to see you in thirty minutes, so head over to wardrobe and meet us in your trailer.” He starts to walk away, but hesitates. “Oh, by the way, security told me earlier that some guy showed up, claiming to be your assistant.”
“Already? What time is it?”
“It’s almost one o’clock,” he says. “Are you telling me you actually hired someone?”
My heart drops.
I shove past Cliff, ignoring him as he calls for me, wanting his question answered. I head straight for security, spotting Jack standing along the side with a guard, looking somewhere between disturbed and amused.
“Strangest shit I’ve ever witnessed in Jersey,” Jack says, looking me over. “And that’s saying something, because I once saw a chimpanzee roller skating, and that was weird as fuck.”
“I’m going to take that as a compliment, even though I know it isn’t one,” I say, grabbing his arm and making him follow me. It’s about a two-and-a-half hour drive to Bennett Landing, but I barely have two hours. “Please tell me you drove.”
Before he can respond, I hear Cliff shouting as he follows. “Johnny! Where are you going?”
“Oh, buddy.” Jack glances behind us at Cliff. “Am I your getaway driver?”
“Something like that,” I say. “You ever play Grand Theft Auto?”
“Every fucking day, man.”
“Good,” I say, continuing to walk, despite Cliff attempting to catch up. “If you can get me where I need to be, there will be one hell of a reward in it for you.”
His eyes light up as he pulls out a set of car keys. “Mission accepted.”
There’s a crowd gathered around set. They figured out we’re here. They know we’re wrapping today. I scan the area, looking for a way around them.
“Where’d you park?” I ask, hoping it’s anywhere but right across the street.
“Right across the street,” he says.
Fuck.
I’m going to have to go through the crowd.
“You sure you, uh, don’t want to change?” Jack asks, his eyes flickering to me, conflicted.
“No time for that.”
The crowd spots me, and they start going crazy, making Cliff yell louder to get my attention, but I don’t stop. I slip off of set, past the metal barricades and right into the street, as security tries to keep the crowd back, but it’s a losing game. So we run, and I follow Jack to an old station wagon, the tan paint faded.
“This is what you drive?”
“Not all of us grew up with trust funds,” he says, slapping his hand against the rusted hood. “This was my inheritance.”
“Not judging,” I say, pausing beside it. “It’s just all very ‘70s suburban housewife.”
“That sounds like judgment, asshole.”
I open the passenger door to get in the car when Cliff catches up, slightly out of breath from running. “What are you doing, Johnny? You’re leaving?”
“I told you I had somewhere to be.”
“This is ridiculous,” he says, anger edging his voice. “You need to sort out your priorities.”
“That’s a damn good idea,” I say. “Consider this my notice.”
“Your notice?”
“I’m taking a break,” I say. “From you. From this. From all of it.”
“You’re making a big mistake.”
“You think so?” I ask, looking him right in the face. “Because I think the mistake I made was trusting you.”
I get in the car, slamming the door, leaving Cliff standing on the sidewalk, fuming.
Jack starts the engine, cutting his eyes at me. “So, where to? The unemployment office?”
“Home,” I say, “and I need to get there as soon as possible, because somebody is waiting for me, and I can't disappoint her.”
The only clock in the small one-bedroom apartment glows blue from the old microwave on the kitchen counter. The numbers are fuzzy, and it often loses time, a few minutes every now and then, like it sometimes forgets to keep counting.
It reads 6:07 PM when I leave. (Yes, me. This part of the story is all mine. There's no denying it.) I’m not sure what time it really is, but around twelve hours have passed since you spoke those bitter words. It took half a day for me to gather the courage to walk out, knowing once I did, I wouldn’t be back. I spent most of those hours staring at the door, waiting for it to open, for you to walk back in, for you to tell me you didn’t mean it.
I tear a piece of paper from the back of my notebook and stare at the blank lines, lines that were meant to hold so much more of our story.
Goodbye.
That’s all I write. There are a million things I want to write, but I keep those words locked up tight. I leave the note on the kitchen counter, beside that microwave. I take only a few things, shoving some clothes and mementos in my backpack, before I go to the train station. I need time to think.
Three days later, I arrive in New York, no longer the lovesick seventeen-year-old girl that ran away with a boy all those years ago. I’m a heartbroken twenty-one-year-old woman now, one that doesn’t know where to call home.
The taxi drops me off along the curb in front of the two-story white house in Bennett Landing. I pay the driver every last penny in my pocket. I’m queasy, and exhausted, and I want to cry but the tears won’t fall.