I pull the doll out, carrying it as I crouch down in front of Madison. I hold the dandelion out. “I know your flowers got messed up, so I picked you another one.”
She takes it carefully. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” I say. “Do you want to tell me what made you upset?”
She shrugs.
“Did you have fun tonight?”
She nods.
“I had fun, too. You looked pretty in your dress.”
She smiles, staring at the dandelion.
She won’t look at me.
Sighing, I sit down on the floor. “I know this whole thing must be confusing. I wasn’t around, but now I am, and I’m Breezeo, but I’m also your dad. You see me kiss your mom, but Breezeo kisses Maryanne. And then it looks like Maryanne shows up and hugs me in front of your mom. Hard to keep up with what’s real, huh?”
She nods.
“Well, like Breezeo, Maryanne’s a story. The woman outside, her name is Serena. I work with her. I’m not going to be kissing her like I kiss your mom. When I kiss your mom, it’s real.”
She meets my gaze.
“So I don’t think you should take it out on poor Maryanne.” I shake the doll at her. “Breezeo loves her, just like I love your mom.”
She takes the doll. “Does Mommy love you?”
“She did.”
“But not no more?”
“I don’t know,” I answer honestly. “But it’s not her fault. I took her love for granted.”
“What’s that mean? Taking her love for granite?”
I smile at her mix up. “It means I didn’t show her how much I loved her, like I should’ve.”
“You can do it now,” Madison says. “Just pick her more flowers and tell her she’s pretty, and then she can love you.”
If only it were that simple.
“I’ll have to remember that,” I say, getting to my feet and ruffling her hair before turning to leave. I make it a few steps before she calls out to me.
“Wait, Daddy!” she says, springing to her feet and running over, grabbing my arm to tug me down to her level. I crouch down again, surprised when she presses her lips to my still-stinging cheek. “You almost forgot your kisses!”
Clifford Caldwell, it turns out, is an inconsiderate, egotistical jerk.
You show up for your appointment. You’re early, but not too early. You have everything they request—headshots, resume, and demo reel. You spent money you shouldn’t have spent buying a new outfit, and you look good.
When the time comes, the secretary leads you to Clifford’s office. It’s clean, classy, with glass walls and a view that overlooks Hollywood. Clifford sits behind a sleek metal desk, typing on his phone. The secretary hands him your folder as you sit down across from him.
He doesn’t greet you, opening the folder and glancing inside. Thirty seconds, that’s all he takes before shoving the folder back at you. “No.”
That’s it. He says no. He doesn’t even watch your demo reel. You grab your things and get up to leave. “Can I ask why?”
Clifford looks up. “Are you certain you want to hear that answer?”
He tells you there’s nothing to you. Your headshots are generic. Your resume reads like a thousand others that have crossed his desk. Sure, you can probably act, but what he’s looking for is an attention-grabber, someone he can make a star, but you? At most, you’re just an amateur.
Those words rip out a piece of your soul.
You’ve heard them before.
When you make it home, the apartment feels smaller than usual. You toss the folder in the trashcan in the kitchen and crack open the bottle of whiskey you spent your last few dollars on.
You drink. You get drunk.
You turn on the TV to discover the cable has been shut off. Neither of you paid the bill last month.
You drink some more. You get even drunker.
It’s pushing ten o’clock when she gets home from a long shift at the diner. You’ve spent the past two hours sitting alone, in the dark, thinking about how disappointed she’s going to be when she finds out.
Despite working all day, she’s happy, and smiling, but that comes to a screeching halt when she turns on the kitchen light. She catches a glimpse of the folder in the trash and whispers, “No.”
You’ve nearly drained the entire whiskey bottle. You guzzle the last of it when she looks at you. Shoving to your feet, you stagger over and drop the empty bottle in the trash, right on top of the folder. Your breathing is shaky. Your eyes are bloodshot. She looks at you with disgust. It’s because you’re drunk, because you can barely stand up, but nothing could convince you that she isn’t disgusted because you’re a failure. A waste of a life.
“I’m sorry,” you say as you caress her cheek, but she smacks your hand away. She doesn't want you to touch her. Turning away, you stagger to the bedroom, saying, “I’ll get a job tomorrow.”
She doesn’t come to bed. The next morning, when you wake up, she’s already gone. She dug your folder out of the trash and set it on the counter.
You don’t touch it.
You go job hunting. You apply everywhere. Weeks pass. Nothing. Because your pride hasn’t already taken a big enough hit, she gets a second job since you can’t seem to find anything.
She doesn’t even tell you. You find out one night when she never comes home. You thought she was dead in a ditch somewhere. She says you’re overreacting. It’s just a part-time job at a corner store. You tell her it’s dangerous, but she shrugs it off. Night shift pays more.
Three weeks later, she’s robbed.
A guy points a gun at her. He wants everything in the cash register. Because that’s not enough, he takes her purse, too. He could’ve taken her life, but after it’s over, she’s more worried about the money he stole from her.
Something happens to you in that moment.
You hit your breaking point.
You’re sitting on your couch with your head down. She’s in the bedroom, talking on your cell phone. She has to borrow yours since hers was in her purse. Her voice is hushed. She doesn’t want you to overhear her conversation.
She steps out a few minutes later, handing you the phone back. Her eyes are bloodshot, face flushed. She’s been crying.
“He’s wiring the money,” she says. “It’s in your name.”
She called her father. She asked him for help. The rent is due. So is the electric. She had all the money in her purse. She got paid that afternoon. She hasn’t asked him for a single thing in over a year. He’s barely spoken to her, except to tell her they’d be there when she realized loving you was a mistake.
You think it’s coming. Your pride is gone. Your dream is fading. You think you’re losing her, too.
It’s hard to say when you make the decision. Hard to pinpoint the moment you fall so far.
Can you remember the first lie you told? The first time you smiled in her face while deceiving her?
You tell her you found a job. You didn’t. But you’re an extraordinary actor, so you convince her. You tell her you’re valeting cars, and money starts coming in. Tips are nice, you say. Some nights, people are extra generous.
In reality, you’re stealing. Stealing money. Stealing things. It weighs heavy on your conscience, so you start drinking more.
Liquid courage.
You’re caught one night, though—caught rifling through a car by none other than Clifford Caldwell. Happenstance put you there. You don’t run. No, you start talking. You tell him he left his headlights on, and you were just turning them off before they killed the battery. You’re so convincing he thanks you. He pulls out his wallet and tips you. You turn to leave when his voice calls out.
“Have we met before?” he asks. “You seem familiar.”
You hesitate before telling him, “We met once.”
“Refresh my memory.”
“My girlfriend was your waitress. She got an appointment for me. You called me an amateur after thirty seconds.”
“Ah, the girl from the diner?” he asks. “I remember her. She spoke highly of you. I could tell she believed every word. Made me want to meet the actor she said was, and I quote, ‘way too good for even you, Mr. Caldwell’.”