“I love you, but you’re such a goddamn cliché.”
“Says the woman who will fuck anyone bearing a passing resemblance to Timothée Chalamet.”
She sniffs. “I will not apologize for appreciating a jawline that’s sharp enough to cut and harvest ice.” She refills her own glass of wine. “Also, the man speaks French.”
I close my eyes and lean my head back against the doorframe.
“He didn’t even have the decency to warn me,” I sigh. “Would it have killed him to shoot me a text and let me know what was coming? I could have at least prepared the kids.”
The whole night would have gone so differently if we’d known about the media monsoon awaiting us. I could have made a plan for Levi. His anxiety spikes when the unexpected happens. My stomach roils at the thought of the chaos that lies ahead.
“This is going to be a disaster,” I say, continuing the thought out loud. “There will be so much commotion around this wedding. You saw how many reporters were out on the street, and the news only broke two hours ago.”
I can’t say I’m surprised by the public’s excitement. The internet lost its collective mind when Rocky and Rayna were first spotted together. Rumors about a prospective recoupling sparked a fervor that eclipsed even the possibility of a Jen-and-Brad reunion. It’s been front-page news ever since.
But I didn’t think they’d getengaged. At least not this soon. And I was definitely not prepared for the media to swing its spotlight on me and the kids. In hindsight, I should have been. I lived through the early-2000s paparazzi era, after all.
“They started chasing our car as soon as we turned in to the neighborhood. Honking their horns, yelling out their windows. Even after we were in the garage, Levi was too rattled to open the door.”
My five-year-old was diagnosed with autism when he was twenty-two months old. Even with all the gains he’s made in therapy, he’s still easily dysregulated by a lot of unexpected commotion. Bright lights. Loud noises. Erratic movements. Glaring lack of humanity. Basically, the paparazzi in a nutshell.
Pooja shakes her head. “That asshole had better not try to involve him in the wedding. ThePeoplemagazine debacle was bad enough.”
After Levi was diagnosed, Rocky was desperate to do an interview with the magazine. He pitched it as “Meet My Autistic Son,” adamant that the profile would increase representation and raise awareness for kids on the spectrum. I saw it for what it really was: an opportunity for Rocky to use our son to boost his own public image.
Our marriage took a nosedive after that. I could never get past how performative his so-called activism was; for all his public enthusiasm about supporting Levi’s diagnosis, he’s never taken ahands-on role in caring for him. He also seemed to have conveniently forgotten his initial objections to having Levi evaluated in the first place. He’s more than happy to bring up his experiences as an “autism dad” in interviews, but he isn’t the one who turned down the lead role in a Greta Gerwig project to stay home with our son and facilitate early intervention therapies.
While Rocky was off filming, I was the parent who put her career on hold. The one who coordinated Levi’s speech and OT appointments, the one who consoled him during meltdowns and ordered pair after pair of the same blue suede sneakers because he refused to wear anything different. It was me, not Rocky, who struggled to decipher Levi’s needs when he didn’t have the words to express them, me who laminated schedule cards and mounted sensory swings. What has Rocky contributed? The creation of a media circus that’s threatening to throw our child’s carefully ordered world into total disarray.
“I have half a mind to go hide out at the lake house all summer,” I mutter. “The press would never find us in northeastern Pennsylvania.”
Pooja furrows her brow. “The lake house? What lake house?”
“Oh, right. I almost forgot to tell you. Right before the R&R news broke, my grandmother’s attorney called. Apparently, she left me the lake house in her will.” A fresh wave of guilt sloshes over me as I consider the circumstances of my unexpected inheritance.
Comprehension dawns on Pooja’s face as I take a long sip of wine. “Oh, of course. The Poconos lake house.” I nod. Growing up, my family and I spent every summer there until I started filmingLittle LLCand my schedule became completely erratic. I loved my childhood summers at the lake. I used to reminisce about them all the time to Pooja.
“You should do it,” she says. “School is out in two weeks. Take your kids to the Poconos for the summer. Get away from this whole thing.”
Now it’s my turn for a brow furrow. “We already have the summer scheduled. We’re going to Cabo in July. I signed Isla up for scuba lessons. Plus, Levi has all his therapies here.”
“Change. Your. Plans,” she says emphatically. “I’m serious. You know it’s only going to get worse, and the press will be all over you in Mexico. But a sleepy town in Pennsylvania? It’s the perfect escape from all of this. Think about how much better it will be for Levi. You can find therapists to work with him there.”
My mind flashes back to tonight’s bedtime routine with my son. His anxiety was visible, his stimming heightened as he repeatedly flicked at his ear. He’d refused to go to sleep until he’d taken out all his Matchbox cars and lined them up around the perimeter of his room.
Gradual introductions to change are essential for keeping his anxiety at bay. I’ve already started preparing him for the trip to Cabo, showing him pictures of the beaches and the private villa where we’ll be staying. I’m not sure how well he’d react to a sudden change in itinerary.
My thoughts are interrupted by the buzz of my cell phone. I pick it up off the floor and squint at the screen. It’s Riley, my publicist. I answer the call and groan into the receiver.
“I know,” Riley says by way of greeting. “Trust me, my phone has been ringing nonstop. The press is ravenous, and they want to know if you’re going to make a statement.”
I feel bad for Riley. I hired her just before Rocky and I announced our separation, and she probably assumed I’d be an easy paycheck. After all, I’ve been on hiatus for years and am usually in bed by 9PM. How much work could I possibly be? She quickly learned it’s not me but my proximity to Rocky that’s so strenuous. My ex-husband is a tornado, sweeping everyone around him into his vortex of chaos.
I put her on speaker and take another fortifying sip of wine. “Here’s a statement: Rocky Ramirez is an overrated, under-talentedurn of disappointment whose ego has never quite aligned with the size of his dick.”
“Got it. I’ll let them know that you said you wish the happy couple well.”
I hear her fingernails tapping lightly on the keyboard and then she clears her throat. A telltale sign that she’s about say something I don’t want to hear.
