“Someone at Lighthouse Studios should make sure Sterling’s bowels are completely out of his system before filming, or else they’ll end up oozing into the film as they do in So Amazing.”
Ugh. Melody Carter. Figures.
I sighed. It was not my day. I closed the folder and ordered another cappuccino.
“Matt Sterling?” I heard a woman’s voice behind me.
Please don’t be a fan. Please don’t be a fan.
“Yes?” I turned around and was shocked to see Selena Ross, the star of the latest Scorsese series.
She took off her shades to reveal her gorgeous gray eyes and flipped her long black hair over her shoulders.
“Mind if I sit down?”
“No. Not at all,” I smiled.
“I thought I was the only one who came here to dodge the paparazzi.”
“I guess not. I come here to read film reviews in private.”
“You actually read those?” she scoffed. “I can’t bring myself to even look at them.”
“Well, I care about the craft you know? Sometimes the critics help me see things I need to work on.”
“And the other times?”
“They just trash my films to add excitement to their miserable lives.”
We both laughed. We spent the next three hours chatting about our latest projects, our favorite paparazzi dodge spots, and of course, our relationship statuses.
When we finally got up to leave, we exchanged numbers and agreed to meet the next week. By the time I returned home she’d texted me: “Can we meet again tomorrow? Next week seems too far away. Let me know. : )”
And that’s when it began. We started doing everything together. Traveling, dining, even biking. In between our film projects, we’d sneak away to remote locations—a highway Motel 8 or a small town’s diner—to have sex or revel in the priceless privacy.
Six months later, when I was about to consider taking “us” more seriously, our careers exploded. Both of our latest projects passed the $150 million mark and we couldn’t buy privacy if we wanted to. What’s more, is that Selena no longer wanted anything to be private.
She insisted that we shop on Fifth Avenue, in perfect view of the paparazzi, instead of sending our personal assistants. She insisted that we eat at window booths of premier restaurants whenever we had a date. She even insisted that we tell the media about our favorite dodge-spots to ensure someone was always ready and waiting to take our picture.
Even though I hated what we’d become, I went along with it for eighteen more months. I had more projects to promote and “dating” Selena Ross did wonders for my public image.
This week, TMZ reported that Selena was interested in opening a dance theater with me. According to Us Weekly, she and I were trying to have a baby. Three days ago, on The Today Show, Matt Lauer asked if she saw herself spending the rest of her life with me.
Since all of our “dates” were mere photo opportunities, our conversations were always about what we’d seen in the press. We could no longer come up with interesting things to talk about on our own.
We were simply making the most out of the publicity—at least I was anyway. I wasn’t sure if she still had feelings for me and I honestly didn’t care.
I opened the breakfast box Joan brought in and realized that I needed to “break up” with Selena as soon as possible.
I took out the cream cheese and felt my phone vibrate. A text message from Selena: “Happy 2 year anniversary baby! Can’t wait 2 C U tonight!”
Shit.
Chapter 3
Melody
I lay in bed and looked up at the ceiling. I’d spent the past two weeks trapped in the same routine: Eat, cry, sleep. Eat, cry, sleep. I didn’t have the energy to talk to anyone except my parents, but I could barely utter two sentences without breaking into sobs.
The one person I wanted to call, the one person that always came running when I was hurt, was unavailable—unacceptable to even consider. I often dreamed that he called me, that he showed up in Memphis, that he got down on one knee and begged me to forgive him and take him back.
Yet, every morning was the same. I woke up alone. After failing to see his name cross my phone’s screen in five days, I just let my phone die.
In an attempt to break my mundane routine, I wrapped a blanket around my shoulders and made my way to the back deck. Ignoring the soft drizzle, I sat in a lounge chair and looked out over the lake.
Small children were tossing balls at the far end, ducks were following one another near the edge, and several teenagers were taking turns on a jet ski.
I couldn’t remember the last time I came home and relaxed on the lake. CUNY’s writing program and my job at The New York Appeal kept me away for years and I never needed to come home, never wanted to.
In fact, my parents insisted on flying to New York for the holidays and cooking Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners in my tiny apartment. Sean had promised me that we would visit them in Memphis after our honeymoon.
Oh well.
As the drizzle turned to rain, I stood up and headed back inside. I caught my reflection in the screen door and gasped.
My skin was the color of porcelain. No matter how many times I pinched my cheeks, no color returned. My eyelids were inflamed. My eyes were bloodshot. My lips were gray and cracked, licking them just made them look worse.
Despite looking horrible all over, the one thing that struck me hardest was my hair, my Sean-influenced-this—ugly-shit-brown-colored-hair.
I rushed to my room and dumped the clothes out of my carryon. I put on white jeans, a T-shirt, and my mismatched tennis shoes. I ran to the garage and found the spare keys to my mom’s Jeep.