“What the fuck is going on?”
I don’t bother to ease him into it. “Sam is here.”
“Sam? Sam who?”
“The writer, S. B. Hill? It’s Sam Brandis.”
It takes a moment for everything to click, and Marco’s eyes widen. “From London? How did we—?”
“He wrote the script, and when I was suggested for the role he tried to email and warn me. Obviously, the emails never got through. He’s here. It’s completely fucking with my head.”
Marco bends, meeting my eyes. “I was going to head home to LA tonight. Do you want me to stay on set?”
“No, no, but if you could kick him really hard in the balls before you go, that would be fantastic.”
Marco laughs.
“And get this,” I say, looking around to make sure no one can hear us. “On top of everything else, all the millions of questions I have and all the shit this brings up? He wasn’t sure he even wanted me for the role.”
“He what?”
I nod. “Yeah, so he’s still a monster. Good to know.”
God, what a potent reminder that there’s no room in this industry for self-sabotage. Other people will be more than happy to do it for you.
“Keep your head down and just get the job done,” Marco says. “You were born for this role.”
“Maybe, but I was awful in there.” I press my hands to my face and feel Marco reach for them.
“You were surprised. Of course you’re off your game.” He turns and leans against the railings. “Jesus. What are the odds?”
“What am I supposed to do now? Do I try to get out of it or—?”
“This is your movie, Tate. You’re not going anywhere. He’s the writer, not your co-star. If you have questions about the script you talk to Gwen or Todd. There’s no reason you and Sam need to interact, and he can stay the hell away. I assume you told him as much?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. Just give yourself some time. You’re not the teenager he remembers. You haven’t been Tate Jones in years. You’re Tate Butler now, and he’d better watch himself or he’s going to answer to me, too. Though I’m nothing compared to what he’s got coming.”
I look up at him, confused. “What do you mean?”
“Charlie is going to fucking murder him.”
fifteen
SOMEHOW WE MAKE IT through the read. By the time we’re standing, shaking hands with studio execs, telling each other how excited we are to get rolling tomorrow, it’s a wonder that there’s anyone left in the room who has any confidence in me. Gwen’s enthusiasm is too big, too bright for her normally understated personality. I hear Marco with our producer Deb and one of the studio heads, Jonathan Marino—who looks like a Ken doll wearing a brown swim cap—talking about how “Table reads aren’t really Tate’s favorite. She likes to be in there, on set. Tomorrow will be amazing.”
Everything inside me feels droopy: my spirit, my pulse, my energy. I expect Dad to come find me immediately afterward but—even worse—he just shoots me a tight smile before finding a woman seated at the periphery. He helps her up and then kisses her.
Blinking, I take a closer look. No way is she a day over twenty-five. My father is late-fifties now, dating a woman younger than his daughter. It’s such a tired story, and now I’ll have to see it every day on set.
Drained, I smile, hug, and handshake my way over to Marco, who maneuvers me out of the room. We don’t say anything as we leave the Community House and tromp down the dusty trail toward my cabin. Finally, the silence feels like a two-ton weight on my chest.
“That was terrible.”
“It wasn’t that bad, sweetie.”
I groan. “You ‘sweetie’d’ me. That means it was awful.”
Marco laughs and then rakes his hands through his hair, turning his face skyward. “Who would have guessed this?” He laughs again and his genuine disbelief, his bursting amusement, is almost enough to make me smile, too. “I was watching Sam on and off the whole time. It’s so weird to see him in person.”
I feel like a jerk: of course this would be weird for Marco, too. There would be no Tate-and-Marco if there hadn’t been a Sam Brandis first.
“Is he what you expected?”
“He’s . . .” Marco trails off, and I watch him struggle for words, assuming—based off his sly smile—that he’s trying to find a way to say how sexy Sam is without actually saying it. Sam’s size, his composure, his eyes, the rugged look of him—he’s objectively captivating. “It helps me understand, let’s put it that way.”
This makes me burst out laughing, finally.
“Look,” Marco says, bringing his hands to my shoulders, “this whole situation is so weird. Frankly, it’s beyond comprehension. But you—we—have to get it together. You are the same person who stepped out of that London hotel directly into the spotlight and never let her smile waver. You are the world’s favorite broken, manipulative, good-hearted vampire. You are the woman who made millions of people laugh as Tessa in Rodeo Girls, as Veronica in Pearl Grey. You are beloved.” He crouches so we’re the same height. “Sam or no Sam, I truly believe you’ll crush this. In fact, I have no doubt. He’s a complication—an annoyance. You’re so far above that.”
I nod in his hands. “Keep talking.”
He kisses my cheek and releases me. “Sadly, I need to hit the road if I’m going to catch my flight. Your call time is at five tomorrow morning. First up it’s you and Nick, almost exclusively. Which is good,” he reminds me. “You don’t have baggage with Nick. It’ll give you time to settle in. You have to nail this.”
I may not have baggage with Nick, but nailing it still means I have to push everything else aside. Nothing else can matter but fully becoming Ellen, and what would Ellen do in a situation like this? She’d give herself an hour to be mad, to be sad, to be whatever she needed to be, and then she’d buckle down. No excuses.
I hold Marco tightly, wondering if I made a mistake and should have asked him to stay. But no—I don’t need babysitting.
Become Ellen.
I know who can help me get my head on straight. Releasing Marco, I say, “Have a safe trip back.” I pause. “Do you know where I can find a landline?”
With a smile, he points back to the Community House. “The office, upstairs.”
He doesn’t even have to ask who I’m calling.
Mom answers on the fourth ring, harried, dropping the phone before she can even get a hello in. I imagine her in the kitchen, still using the landline with the enormous cord she winds around her hand as she chats, pacing the wide, bright room.
“Hello?”
“Mom?”
She lets out a happy little gasp. “Tatey!” A chair screeches on the tile. She’s going to sit, but I know it won’t last long.
“Hey, Mama.”
“Tell me everything.”
Before I can even get started, I hear her push back to stand. While she paces, puts away dishes, seems to start cooking something—but then heads outside into the garden, pulling the long cord behind her—I tell her about the farm, about my cabin, about the makeup trailer with Charlie, Nick, and Trey.
And then I tell her everything about running into Sam.
About how Ruby Farm initially felt like an endless expanse of green, but now feels like a tiny green bubble.
It’s weird that Mom never met Sam, has no idea what he looks like. Weird, because the sensation of seeing him again still pulses through me like an extra heartbeat, and it makes it hard to explain why it threw me to see him with a beard—because somehow I always knew he’d grow one. Weird, because it’s hard to explain how his eyes look exactly the same but entirely different, too. There’s wisdom there now that I have no part of. I’ve had meaningless flings that lasted longer than my entire relationship with Sam, so why am I jealous of fourteen years? Why am I jealous at all?
“Because he was your first,” Mom says, like I’m a sweet idiot. “Not just the first guy you had sex with—”
“Mom.”
“—but the first person you ever shared who you are with. He’s the first person you ever consciously confided in about your dad. He’s the first person who ever knew that you wanted to be an actress. And he sold that information.”
I chew my thumbnail, mumbling “I guess so” around it, though when she puts it that way . . . duh.
The quiet stretches between us, and I can tell she’s waiting for me to say more, but I have nothing left to say about it.
“You haven’t mentioned your dad once,” Mom says. “Is that intentional?”
This actually makes me laugh. Twenty whole minutes I haven’t stressed about shooting a movie with Dad. Maybe the one blessing of Sam’s reemergence is that Dad is suddenly the least of my worries.
“He has a girlfriend on set,” I tell her. “I haven’t interacted with him yet at all.”
Mom exhales slowly. “I’m sorry, honey.”
“Why are you sorry?”
“Because I know what you wanted this to be.”
I feel my chest grow too-tight. “What did I want it to be?”
It’s her turn to laugh, but it isn’t mocking. “Tate.”
I lift a hand to my lips, chew my thumbnail again, letting her gentle pressure unknot my thoughts.
“I don’t want to put words in your mouth,” she says gently, “but I think you were hoping this would be a turning point in your relationship with Ian.”
For a flash, I let the daydream seep back in: sitting with Dad between takes, heads bent close, going through scenes, notes, ideas. The fantasy feels well-worn, a book read over and over. So I know Mom is right: I did want this to be a turning point for us. I wanted to be his peer for once. I wanted him to finally feel knowable, reachable.