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“I am. I’m just… I don’t know.”
“Sounds like you.” Cliff grabs his Blackberry and shoves his chair back as McKleski takes his empty plate. “Breakfast was wonderful. Thank you.”
“Anytime,” McKleski says, smiling. “I enjoy cooking for those that appreciate things.”
I let that one slide.
Cliff stands, motioning for me to follow him, waiting until we’re outside before he says, “Man, does that woman give you a hard time or what?”
“Always has,” I say. “First time I ever got arrested, she was the one who called the police.”
Cliff laughs as we approach a sleek black sedan.
“Nice car,” I say.
“I rented it,” he says. “Didn’t want to call for a car service and give away your location.”
“I appreciate that.”
“Just doing my job,” he says. “Come on, I'll drive.”
I climb in the passenger seat.
I have a car. It's parked in a private garage in the city. I had it hauled in when filming started, in case I needed it, but I'm not supposed to drive until the doctor clears me. Stick shift.
It takes over two hours to get to the city. Another hour in traffic. Cliff valets the car when we reach the medical center. Weill Cornell. Orthopedics. I lower my head as we pass dozens of people, making our way to the seventh floor, going straight to the orthopedic surgeon’s office, where they’re awaiting my arrival.
Look, I get it—it’s bullshit. Not just anybody can walk in and be seen right away, bypassing the waiting rooms. It’s a privilege I’m grateful for—especially today. I’m nervous enough, being here, dealing with this. Anticipation and paranoia would make it insufferable.
“Mr. Cunning, how are you?” the doctor asks, standing up and holding his hand out, expecting me to shake it even wearing the sling.
“Okay,” I say, ignoring his extended hand. “Ready to get this over with.”
“A man on a mission,” he says. “I like that.”
He doesn’t waste any more time, sending me straight for X-rays. It hurts like a son of a bitch when they examine my wrist, burning pain shooting up my arm and down to the tips of my fingers.
“Well, the good news is the bones haven’t shifted, so doesn’t appear you’ll need surgery,” the doctor says. “Bad news, of course, is you’ll be in a cast for the next few weeks.”
“Awesome,” I mutter, flexing my fingers.
“How many weeks?” Cliff asks, standing in the corner of the office on his Blackberry.
“Hard to say for sure… four, I’d estimate.”
“So another month?” Cliff asks.
“Yes,” the doctor says. “He’ll likely need some occupational therapy afterward.”
“But he’ll be out of the cast?”
“Yes.”
“Good to know,” Cliff says. “Is there any way to speed up the healing process?”
“Well, there’s no miracle treatment, but some things might help. Vitamins. Calcium. Exercises.”
“So get a stress ball and drink milk?”
“Pretty much,” the doctor says. “Leafy greens are good.”
They talk back and forth about me like I’m not even here. I stare down at my swollen wrist in annoyance as I wiggle my fingers.
“Anyway, let’s get you wrapped up,” the doctor says, “so you can be on your way.”
A white fiberglass cast. He doesn’t bother with the frilly colored bullshit, keeping it simple before sending me on my way.
I climb into the passenger seat of Cliff’s rental, and he immediately starts rambling. “If you’re out of the cast in the next few weeks, you can probably film again sooner than expected.”
“You think so?” I ask, watching him as he goes through his Blackberry, checking his calendar.
“You’ve got a stunt-double to handle the action, so all they need is your voice…” He cuts his eyes at me. “And that pretty face of yours, of course.”
“Of course,” I mutter, trying like hell not to let that bruise my ego, but damn. Acting is more than just reciting lines. “What about Serena?”
“What about her?”
“She’s in rehab.”
“So?”
“So how are we going to start filming again next month if she’s gone for ninety days?”
He gives me a look like I’ve lost my mind. “You really think she’ll last that long?”
“You don’t?”
“You never lasted,” he says. “Not until you hit bottom.”
“And you don’t think she has?”
“Not even close. The only reason she’s there right now is because the studio demanded it,” he says. “But don’t worry about that. I’ll take care of her. You worry about getting better.”
During the Revolutionary War, Aaron Burr had an illicit affair with the wife of a British officer.
You tell the girl that story.
You think it’ll make her feel better.
She asks you who Aaron Burr is.
You laugh, because you can’t understand how she’s surviving at Fulton Edge when she doesn’t even know the name of the man who killed Alexander Hamilton, but she is. She’s surviving, maybe even thriving. She works hard and she’s passing. Meanwhile, you barely pay attention and still ace every test.
But you show up to class now. Every single day.
Maybe you do it because you don’t want to be expelled. You’ve made it this far. Might as well see it through. Or maybe you show up to be with her.
