@TateButler: Milkweed is the project we were always meant to do together. It may sound silly, but I just can’t wait to be on set with my dad.
@IanButler: Working with my daughter is the biggest item remaining on my bucket list. It’s all going to be a joy! Tate is the best actress of her generation, and a true gift to me as a father. #AskButlers
My heart is a beast with claws that extend, wrapping around the compliment. I gobble it down.
“Tate,” Lou says gently, “if you could use the hashtag . . .”
Oh, shit. “Sorry, sorry.”
Beside me, Dad beams in my direction. “I thought I was supposed to be the technologically impaired one.”
I toss my head back and laugh. Ha, ha, ha. Inside, I am mortified.
When it’s just me—Tate Butler, actress—I’m not intimidated by flashing cameras, by probing interviews, by the heated press of fans. I’m not the wide-eyed, wobbly-chinned girl anymore, sitting on the couch between Dad and Mom, giving my well-rehearsed answers in front of a camera crew. But when I’m near Dad, the entirety of who he is seems to dwarf me. I feel a little like a computer with a glitch.
The second question comes in, and I find myself holding my breath, even though I know it won’t be personal. It’s asking for a short summary of the movie. And the one after that asks what films or shows we’ve seen lately and loved. Two more softball questions, and we’ll be done.
I type Marco’s answers, add the hashtag, and try to keep my heart rate as even and slow as possible. It isn’t the official Twitter questions that bother me—those are all standard—it’s the others I notice, the ones I know see right through me.
Why would you do a movie with that piece of shit womanizer? #AskButlers
I want to have Ian’s babies and don’t even care that he could be my grandpa. #AskButlers
Wait, I thought they hated each other? #AskButlers
If Tate hates him so much, she can get the fuck out of the way. #AskButlers
This is such an act. They look like strangers. #AskButlers
IAN BUTLER I WANT TO HAVE YOUR BABIES! #AskButlers
The feed scrolls continuously on the enormous screen above our heads, and I can see the press reacting to every single one of them—pointing at some, laughing and nodding at others. Dad remains oblivious, seeing only what he wants to see and happily typing out his perfect, off-the-cuff answers. He’s used to living inside the heat of the sun, the pressure of the public opinion. Fourteen years later, I’m still figuring out how to navigate the good and let go of the bad.
When the chat finishes, Marco is up front, apologizing immediately, and explaining that we need to get rolling. But Dad stalls us, managing to give me a tiny look that communicates, This is your job, give them what they want. What they want is us embracing, his lips pressed to my cheek, and—just before Marco hauls me out of there—Dad picking me up around the waist in a hug, swinging me around as I laugh in delight.
Finally, we push through the doors and into the suffocating September heat. It’s so warm the concrete weaves in front of us.
“Okay, let’s hustle,” Marco mutters, and waves as our car pulls around the front of the building. We’re leaving straight from here to go to the farm in Northern California where we’ll start shooting in two days. I can tell Marco doesn’t want the press to catch on that we’re not sharing a car up there with Dad.
But Dad stops us just as I reach for the car door. “Cupcake,” he calls out, and his smile is captured by a photographer only a few feet away. But then his voice goes soft enough that only I can hear it. “Everything okay, kiddo?”
“Yeah,” I say, and motion for Marco to climb in ahead of me. “Just excited and anxious, I think.”
“Okay, good. I wanted to check in.” He smiles warmly at me, but there’s an edge there I can’t miss. “You weren’t your usual perky self in there.”
My stomach tilts. “I wasn’t?”
“A little off, I guess?” He presses a hand to my face, eyes wide and so full of concern that even I could believe it’s real. “Be sure to rest up next time we have to do some press together. We always want to finish strong.”
The rebuke lands like a small shove, and I nod quickly. “Absolutely.”
“Just remember,” he says, and his hand slides up from my cheek so he can tug on my earlobe, “people want to see us having fun together.”
With a little wink, he strides off to the other car at the curb, where Althea waits by the open door.
A few photographers linger nearby, snapping pictures of Dad’s departure. I struggle to look nonchalant and tack on a breezy smile as I climb into the car.
As soon as I sit down, Marco doesn’t even blink. “You were not off.”
“I don’t know, maybe I was.”
“No.” He turns to face me as the car surges forward and we pull away from the curb. “If you were off, I would tell you to get your shit together. I’m not telling you that, because I don’t need to.” He lifts a hand, holding up one finger. “Pay attention, Tate, because what I’m about to tell you is something you’re going to have to repeat to yourself a thousand times in the next month and a half. Are you listening?”
I smile at his ready-to-battle tone. “Yes.”
“Your dad is insecure,” Marco says. “He’s not the name he used to be.”
This pings a strangely tender, protective bone in my chest. “I know.”
“You are on your way to becoming a huge star,” he continues, “up-and-coming. You are the lead of this film. He is in a supporting role.”
“I know.”
“But he’s still Ian butler, and he’s going to make sure you know your place.”
I swallow, hating that he’s right. It’s another point of contrast between my two parents: Mom lifts me up. Dad lifts me up so that he has a higher perch to stand on.
“Some people rise to the top on their own merit, and some people get there by stepping on heads.” Marco reads my mind. He takes both of my hands in his. “Do not let him step on you.”
I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Okay. I won’t.”
It’s a three-hour drive to the set, and both Marco and I pass out for the first hour of the drive. But when I wake up, he’s thumbing through a stack of photos.
“What’s that?”
“These are the Vogue covers. We have approval in the contract.”
I peek over at them. In the first, my hair is a wild halo of shimmering auburn. Crystal earrings dangle from my ears to my shoulders, and my makeup is an aggressive streak of black across my lids. The coolest part of the photo (and thank God because it took nearly four hours): my shoulders, my arms, and face are dotted with thousands of tiny crystals.
“Wow,” I mumble, pointing. “I like this one.”
“Me too. You’re like a glammed-up Imperator Furiosa.”
I high-five him, and he slips it to the back of the pile. In the second photo, my hair and makeup is done in the style of my breakout role—the crafty and complicated vampire Violet Bisset from Evil Darlings, the sexy, campy, and totally addictive CW show that ran first in its time slot for six consecutive seasons. I suppose it’s meant to show the grown-up side of Violet/Tate: I’m kneeling on the sofa with my back to the camera, looking over my shoulder at the photographer. And, I’m naked. My breasts are pressed against the back cushion, but my ass is almost completely exposed. It’s a great ass—I work hard for it—but . . .
“I mean, I like this one,” I admit, “but I’m not sure I want it on the cover of Vogue.”
“Agreed. I think it would be great to include in the profile inside.” Marco slides it to the back.
The final one makes something itch along my skin, and I’m not entirely sure why. I remember the styling and liked it at the time, but here . . .
I’m a modern-day Audrey Hepburn: smooth hair, artfully jagged bangs, pearls, wide eyes. The beauty mark near my lip, admittedly my trademark feature, is a dramatic and perfect circle; a bold, bombshell flirtation in stark contrast to my soft, pink mouth. Discomfort works through me at the round innocence of my gaze, the surprised circle of my lips.
Marco takes it from me, studying it. “I absolutely adore this one. You look innocent, young.” He glances at me, reading my expression. “It reminds me of when I first met you.”
The twist in my gut intensifies. Is that what I don’t like about it?
I rarely let myself think of what brought us together, but the sense of calm I felt that first day in London when he pulled me out of the black car into the chaos and ushered me into the quiet room—the reassurance that everything was under control, and that Marco was there for me and me alone—has never wavered. He was in his late twenties then, with the same dark hair and fine, chiseled features, but he’s wiser and seasoned now. We’ve grown up together, sort of.
I like my face, my body, my mind so much more than I did back then. This picture sends me tumbling back in time. Makes me realize that I’ve grown into myself, that I’ve had to work to do it.
He blinks up at me, gauging my reaction. “You okay with me sending this one? I can see it makes you uneasy, but Tate, it’s so fucking beautiful, I’m genuinely speechless.”
Objectively, it is a beautiful photo. I hand it back to him, choosing to let it go. Marco’s instincts are razor-sharp. He’d never steer me wrong. “Either this or the first. No naked Tate on the cover.”
“Done.” Marco lifts my hand, kissing my knuckles. “Now let’s get up on set and crush this.” He smiles over at me. “I smell life-changing. I smell critical, darling. I smell awards season.”
I laugh. “I smell pressure.”
twelve
THE TIRES CRUNCH OVER gravel, and I stir awake at the sound: we’ve reached Ruby Farm. I’m nervous and excited and feel the proverbial weight of a thousand pounds on my chest, but still—something tight inside me unwinds instinctively at the unfolding green serenity directly ahead of us.