AllFreeNovel
Share Us
And I wasn’t wrong.
Tate needed to sort his life out on his own. And once again, I needed to let him.
I finally had enough sense to keep walking towards the car. I got as far as his front yard and I puked, my gut heaving, my throat burning. I clutched my stomach, and more tears fell.
The rest was a blur. Henn tried to comfort me, steering me into the car and offering me a bottle of water. Over and over, she asked me about what had happened. I gave her thanks for the water but said nothing else.
I just wanted to go home and be alone.
She dropped me off at my house and I proceeded to finish that bottle of gin.
And another.
I stayed in bed for three days straight.
Good thing I was on break between filming.
The whole time my phone was blowing up. Tate had managed to text and call more times in those seventy-two hours than he had all year long.
I wanted to reply to him, but I didn’t. I held firm.
It was too late.
Unfortunately, a month after our run-in, I got word that I was going to be working with Tate again. Or rather, Jared Elwood was planning a sequel to the hit that had brought us our fame. I loved working with Jared because he was progressive and pushed the status quo. He was the antithesis of Neal Lockwin.
But I wasn’t sure I could do this again. Jared wanted both me and Tate in the production or it was a no go.
At first, I said forget it. Henn told me I was nuts.
The payout was incredible, and the shoot wouldn’t start for another year. Plenty of time for me to deal with the death of my friendship with Tate.
And a few months later, I was finally convinced to take the offer.
Or rather, it took one quote from an entertainment article to change my mind. An interview with Tate where, when asked about our relationship, he described me as a ‘former friend, if you could call him that, and a mediocre actor at best’.
I signed that fucking contract the same day and issued my own statement in return, calling him ‘narcissistic and overrated’.
When the time came, Jared would be in for one hell of a movie production.
It wasn’t just Tate’s comment about me that changed my mind, but also a phone call from another Hollywood A-lister, a friend and fellow actor Dylan Aylmer. Dylan, like Tate, had battled addiction.
And his phone call, on a gray March morning, broke my resolve.
“Reed, it’s been a long time. How you been?”
“I’m okay Dylan, how about yourself?” I asked.
“Living in Palm Springs, so pretty damn good. Quiet, but good.”
“You sound great.”
“I’ve been sober four months and I know that doesn’t sound like much, but every day I’m getting better.”
“I’m so glad,” I paused. “I’m sorry I haven’t called lately. Trust me, it’s not you.”
“I know, I just talked to Henn. She’s really worried about you.”
“She shouldn’t be. She has other clients to worry about.”
