Meghan continues to read. “When asked about his rumored granddaughter, Former Speaker Cunningham commented that he never speaks on family matters.”
“Unless it’s to drag me through the mud.”
“Well, in his defense, you make it so easy,” she says. I cut my eyes at her, not amused, and she holds her hands up. “I’m joking.”
“Did they call you for a comment?” I ask.
“Of course not.” She rolls her eyes. “I doubt they even called him. He probably contacted them, desperate to be relevant.”
“Pity,” I say. “You could’ve told them what an irresponsible asshole I am.”
“That’s not what I would’ve said.” She shoves her phone in her back pocket as she stands up. “I would’ve told them to get off your ass. You’re trying.”
The second time you find yourself in Clifford Caldwell’s office, he again gives your folder thirty seconds of attention before closing it.
He looks at you. Really looks at you.
“Tell me about yourself,” he says.
You hesitate. “What do you want to hear?”
“I don’t want to hear any of it, but I need to know all of it.”
“It’s all on my resume.”
A slight smile touches his lips. “Not your work. I’m not an agent. I’m a manager. My job is you. So how about you tell me who you think you are, and I’ll tell you who you’re going to be.”
You tell him the basics of Jonathan Cunningham. There isn’t much beyond your dysfunctional family. You tell him about the woman waiting for you at home, even though he already knows all about her.
You talk for a few minutes, and when you stop, he says, “So now let’s talk about Johnny.”
Johnny Cunning.
That’s who you become.
Johnny sounds more approachable than Jonathan. Cunningham makes people think of your father, so you drop the last syllable. The name tweak alone takes you from being the rich kid in a political family to the mysterious guy that somehow feels familiar. You keep them guessing, you don’t answer questions... but you set out on a path that keeps you on their minds at all times.
That’s the plan.
He tells you he can make you the biggest name in Hollywood. All you have to do is listen to him and do what he says.
A contract is drawn up before you even leave the office. You read it. You should’ve had a lawyer read it, but when opportunity knocks, you have a habit of just throwing open the door.
You sign it, right then and there.
Instead of going to the apartment afterward, you detour to the diner, where she is. She’s working, flitting around in her little pink uniform, laughing and joking and flirting. You stand outside on the sidewalk, watching her. She notices you and smiles.
Slipping outside, she asks, “How’d it go?”
“You’re looking at a man under management.”
Her eyes widen. “You’re joking.”
“Nope.”
She squeals, doing a flying leap right into your arms, wrapping her legs around your waist, clinging to you. You hug her and laugh as she frantically kisses all over your face.
“I’m so proud, Jonathan,” she says. “And so, so happy for you.”
“For us,” you say. “This is for you, too.”
She loosens her hold, her feet back on the sidewalk. “You better not forget that when you’ve got all these rabid fangirls trying to get in your pants.”
“Don’t worry, you’ll always be the only rabid fangirl for me.”
She grins, nudging you. “Well, Mister Big Shot, I need to get back to work… you know, just until you hit it big and I can quit my job.”
She heads back into the diner. You go home.
And you don’t know this, but a few minutes after you leave, Clifford Caldwell walks into the diner. He nearly stole your moment again. He sits down in her section, brazenly ordering coffee, and slides a paper to her. “Sign it.”
Confidentiality Agreement.
She hesitates. “No.”
“Sign it, or his career’s already over.”
She doesn’t understand the point.
So she calls his bluff and he leaves.
She's not signing anything.
Everything goes back to normal. Weeks pass. You’re getting worried. You don’t know why your brand-new manager isn’t taking your calls.
She knows why, though.
So she shows up at Clifford Caldwell’s office and signs that stupid paper, swearing she'll never publicly disclose anything about you or any of this. Not that she ever would, but it worries her why the man is so fixated on keeping her silent.
The next day, your phone finally rings in the middle of the night, and things take off. Meetings. So many meetings. You need to sign with a new agent. You need to talk to some publicists. You need better headshots. There are classes to take and vocal coaches to see, not to mention prepping for auditions and creating a more appealing demo reel.
You get paid for none of that. No, you get billed. Clifford covers all the costs upfront, but it’ll be charged to you. Long hours, day and night. Your schedule gets so crazy you can’t keep up.
She does, though. A calendar on the wall in the living room has all of it scribbled down. She keeps you on track, even as she works overtime. She’s covering the bills. She’s buying the food. She cooks, and cleans, and she waits up for you the nights you’re late, even though she’s exhausted. Even when she just wants to get some sleep.
She smiles and tells you it’s okay when your first big audition falls on her nineteenth birthday.
Months pass, months of chaos. The days all meld together. Time slips away. You miss holidays, but so does she. You celebrate Christmas in January.
You book your first movie. It’s one of those teen romantic comedies. You play the best friend. No more Guy #3 or Heroin Dealer. Your character has a name—Greg Barlow. It films locally. She visits you on set a few times, but you're both so busy that she can only stay a few minutes.
The movie wraps on your second Dreamiversary. You take her out to celebrate, but every penny you earned from the movie went to reimbursement, so celebrating entails hanging out in a park together.
“Do you still love me?” she asks, sitting across from you at a picnic table. You’re holding her hands, gently stroking her skin with your thumbs.
“Of course I do.”
“More than everything?”
“Anything,” he says. “Why are you asking?”
“I just miss hearing it,” she says.
You stare at her. It’s been awhile since you’ve said it. It wasn’t intentional. Life just gets crazy, but she understands. Even writing time has been scarce. Whenever she gets the chance, her thoughts are a jumbled mess, the words a blur. The poetry is all gone. The metaphors. The symbolism. They’ve disappeared. It’s all become a hazy mass of stripped-down syllables on paper.
“I love you,” you say. “More than everything in this park. More than every line of dialogue I’ve ever spoken. More than I love Hollywood. Is that still enough, K? My love?”
She smiles. “Of course.”
You don’t know this, but that woman? Even as she smiles, she’s utterly terrified. Your love is more than enough for her, but she feels pieces of it slipping away. Something inside of her is disintegrating. Her dream. She’s losing it. She came here with you, not quite realizing what you were going through. You felt invisible, and you were desperate for an audience, but where does that leave your love? Because the more people who see you, it seems, the less you see her. And she can’t even tell her story now, not the way she wants, because her voice has been stolen and no one will ever get the chance to read her words.
Chapter 23
KENNEDY
Marcus stares at me.
He stares. And stares. And stares.
An awkward silence fills the office, thick and suffocating. It’s just after dawn. Nobody else is here yet. I wanted to do this before anyone showed up, thinking it would be easier, but no… awkward.
He keeps staring.
“So, yeah,” I mumble. “That’s it.”
I put in my two-week notice.