And then there’s Dad. Mom was absolutely right: I went into this project knowing what it could do for my career, but I’d hoped something else would come from it too. Even now, time with him is so fleeting: a holiday here, a dinner there. The one time I spent Christmas with him, we spent Christmas Eve and Christmas Day in hospitals, visiting with sick kids. It felt . . . amazing, really, and I couldn’t fault him for lacking paternal sentimentality when I watched him moving from bed to bed with a gift and smile for each person. And the way he looked at them—the way he listened to what they had to say—for those few seconds, they must have felt like they were the only person in the room.
And then we just . . . went our separate ways with a quick, tight hug. There was no delayed celebration for the two of us. I went home to Mom’s gentle enthusiasm and Nana’s stoic I-told-you-so’s, and he caught a flight to Mallorca to spend a week with his then-girlfriend, who was at least a few years older than me.
So when I see him tonight, Marissa on one side and an empty chair on the other, I’m hit with a wave of sadness I wasn’t really expecting. He really did bring her as a buffer between us.
People load their plates with fruit and salads and meat straight from the grill. I debate lingering to fill a plate of my own and avoid what is surely to be an awkward conversation—the first round of real hang-out time with the new girlfriend—but don’t have much of an appetite. The Loving Daughter move here would be to seek him out, and with everyone around, that’s exactly what he’s expecting me to do.
With an early call tomorrow, I grab a bottle of sparkling water from a huge ice-filled tub and make my way over. I catch Sam talking to some of the crew near the bar, but I force my eyes not to linger.
Busy listening to something Marissa is saying, Dad doesn’t look up when I sit. I feel like an old toy put on a shelf, waiting to be wanted again. I open my bottle and bring it up to my lips and wonder if there will ever be a time when I’ll stop trying so hard and embrace the welcome void of indifference.
Finished with his conversation for the moment, Dad seems to finally notice me at his side. “There she is,” he says. “I wondered if you were coming out.”
“Hey Dad, hi Marissa.” I lean forward, giving her a little wave.
I take in her perfectly contoured makeup and miles of tousled hair. She’s beautiful—they all are—but she’s in heels and a Gucci jacket outside at a campfire. It leaves me wondering if maybe we have more in common than I originally thought: Daughter or Girlfriend, we both always have to be on around Ian Butler. “How are you enjoying being on set?”
“It’s been so amazing,” she says, a little giddy, a little breathless, and looks between us. “Okay, seriously? I still can’t believe how much you two look alike. I’ve seen pictures, obviously, but God. You must hear it all the time.”
“The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, that’s for sure,” he says to me, eyes sparkling in the reflection of the fire.
With a pang, I register that Dad only has a handful of these parental catchphrases. His idea of being a public Dad is tossing out the wink-and-ear-tug sayings:
She’s a chip off the old block!
The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree!
Like father, like daughter!
It’s depressing, frankly, but I guess it should help me understand why he sees my career as an extension of his.
My attention returns to his girlfriend, who I barely know at all. To be fair, Dad’s supporting role means that he’ll have several days in a row without a call time, so I know he and Marissa finally left the set and took a couple day trips up and down the California coast, but still: we’re three weeks in and I’m not sure we’ve exchanged more than a dozen words before tonight. “I don’t think I ever heard how you two met,” I say.
“At UCLA. I’m a grad student there, and he was a speaker at an event on campus.” Her eyes shift adoringly to him. “He asked me for a drink . . . and here we are. That was six months ago.”
Six months and I didn’t know a thing about it. “What are you studying?”
“I’m studying how genes linked to asthma are clinically and genetically associated with acute lymphoblastic leukemia.” She smiles. “I’m working on my master’s in public health.”
Both Dad and I are silent for a few beats. Whereas I’m speechless because a master’s in public health is a delightful shift from the usual model/actress/Influencer, Dad is clearly silent from pride, like he has some important role in his girlfriend’s big brain.
But really, way to hit on a student, Dad.
It’s possible my judgment isn’t as subtle as I think, because he shifts forward, effectively moving between us. “How do you think things are going?” he asks. I’m sure it’s unrelated to any of my interpersonal drama, but I’m pretty sure Dad’s eyes just went Sam’s way for a brief glance. It makes me wonder what my father’s reaction to the whole story would be. Would he be protective of me? Or disgusted that I let someone get so close to ruining us both? “You feeling good about it, cupcake?”
“Yeah. Absolutely.” I take a sip of my sparkling water, drowning the rising voice in me that absolutely detests the nickname cupcake. I don’t remember him ever calling me that when I was actually a little girl.
“The sets couldn’t be more beautiful,” I say. “The crew and the cast are amazing. It took me a minute to get into Ellen’s character, but I’ve got her figured out now.”
God, I sound so stilted.
“Good, good.” Crickets chirp in a bush behind him as he slowly rocks his chair in the soft dirt. He nods slowly, in that patriarchal way he does sometimes. When I was little, showing off my latest tap dance routine, Dad would sit in the living room chair, watching me and nodding with that same benevolent calm. It used to be a sweet memory, but I’ve seen him act this way so many times since, I realize it’s less about enjoying someone else performing and more about making sure they know they’re being watched by an expert.
I search the faces around us—purposely avoiding Sam’s—hoping to find Charlie or Devon for some kind of escape. Gwen is talking to the line producer. Nick is standing back a ways, having an animated conversation with the actor who plays the younger version of his character. Most people are laughing or shoveling food off paper plates, a few are staring down at their phones, after all this time still clinging to the hope they’ll find a spot with a signal.
“You know what you’re doing.” Dad reaches to gently pat my leg, and if a leg pat can be condescending, this one is. “It’s just . . .”
I bite back a sigh. Even Marissa seems to know where this is going, because she’s grown engrossed in finding something—anything, from the looks of it—at the bottom of her purse before finally excusing herself to grab it in the cabin. Deserter.
“The words on the page are just the beginning,” he explains with patronizing calm. “It’s up to you to figure out the rest. That’s your job, Tate: Show the audience all the little pieces that make up Ellen. Show us who she is with an expression, a laugh, the smallest gesture.”
I nod, biting my tongue. It’s a good piece of advice . . . for someone just starting out. Does he not realize I’ve done seven films already?
“I’ll remember that. Thanks.”
“You know I’m just looking out for you.” He rocks in steady silence. “I wonder if it would help to have you talk to the screenwriter.”
My eyes fly to his. “The screenwriter?”
He shrugs and thankfully seems oblivious. “Ask a few questions,” he says. “Get some insight into the character. Might help to see where Ellen is coming from.”
I press my lips together to keep from saying exactly what I’m thinking. If I did, I think my voice would come out like a dragon roar. You mean the guy who took my virginity and sold me out all those years ago? The reason we’re even acquaintances now; the guy who made you look like a deadbeat? That guy? I’ve read and reread Milkweed a dozen times by now. I know my lines and feel like I already know Ellen. I was ready. I was prepared. It was seeing Sam that threw me early on, but I’ve recovered. Dad wants the upper hand; he won’t let that early slipup go.
But of course I can’t say any of that, not here.
Almost on cue, my salvation comes in the form of Charlie. Not surprisingly, and despite all of his “stories,” Dad has never really warmed up to her. The Perfect Dad routine doesn’t work on Charlie, and he knows it. Which is why he stands when he sees her walking toward us and immediately offers her his seat.
“I need to head to bed anyway,” he says, and leans forward to press a kiss to my forehead. “Good night, kiddo. Don’t stay up too late. Big day tomorrow.”
We smile as we watch him disappear from the light of the fire, and Charlie slumps down into his seat. “Is it me or did he just treat you like a seven-year-old before the first day of school? Aren’t we a few weeks into this shoot already?”
“It’s his thing.”
“I saw that you actually got to talk to the girlfriend.”
“I did. I like this one. She seems smart.”
She meets my gaze over the top of her beer bottle, surprised because we both know, for my dad—a dude who habitually and without any awareness walks at least two paces in front of any woman he’s with—being with a smart, self-actualized woman is a big deal. “That’s new.”
We watch the fire, blinking at each crack and pop that sends sparks up into the air, mesmerized by the soothing twist of the flames. Outside the tent the sky stretches overhead, vast and black and blanketed with stars that seem close enough to touch. I hate how many times in my life I’ve looked up at a sky just like this and thought of Sam pointing out the constellations.
“I’m nervous about tomorrow,” I admit quietly. “It’s a big scene, and having them both there watching makes me feel like a dumb kid again.”