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“You’re a madman,” Fish replies calmly, straightening up with his guitar case in hand. “We’ve got plenty of time.”
“No, we don’t!” I shout in reply, beckoning furiously for Fish to hurry the fuck up. “We’re short on time, as a matter of fact, thanks to the surf sesh you insisted on having after breakfast!”
Fish rolls his eyes as he languidly closes his car door and presses a button to lock up. “You need to take a very large chill pill, my dude. It’s all gonna work out fine.”
We’re in the VIP parking lot of the studio where I worked last week. Shooting on my scenes is over, but production has resumed today for everyone else, after taking the weekend off. Luckily, when I texted the production manager, Margaret, and told her I’d left something behind on-set last week—and could I swing by with my bandmate, Fish, to retrieve it?—she said no problem, she’d put our names on the list.
And now, here we are. Poised and ready to sweep Amy off her feet with the world’s most honest and intimate love song, written especially for her and performed by me in front of every crew and cast member we worked with last week! How’s that for grand gesturing the fuck outta Amy O’Brien?
When Fish is finally ready to go, I begin sprinting toward the security check-in area. When we get there, the guard recognizes me from last week—but, unfortunately, he also recognizes Fish. Which means he suddenly realizes, oh my God, he was chatting with the drummer of 22 Goats all last week and didn’t even realize it! He asks for a selfie with both of us and then goes on and on about his love of 22 Goats. Which would be okay, I suppose, if Fish didn’t elongate the conversation by talking about music with the guy for half my life.
When I can’t take it anymore, I blurt, “Sorry, man. We’d love to stay and chat, but we’re running late.”
“Oh, no worries!” the guard calls to our backs. “Great talking to you!”
“That was rude, dude,” Fish says as we jog toward the main production area.
“My life’s happiness hangs in the balance, Fish. He’ll live.”
We make it inside the bustling heart of the production area and stop to look around, both of us breathing hard.
“Do you see her?” Fish asks.
“No. I’ll ask Margaret, the woman in charge of production assistants. Come on.”
I take off running, figuring Fish will follow. And, God bless him, he does. But before I’ve located the woman I’m looking for, I spot our famed director, Gary Flynn, chatting with a small group that includes his longtime personal assistant. Perfect. Gary’s assistant is the eyes and ears of this place! She’ll know exactly where Margaret is—and maybe even Amy.
But as we approach the small group, I overhear something that stops me dead in my tracks. “Where the hell is Seth?” Gary, our director, is saying.
His assistant replies, “He said he’d be ‘running lines’ with his new PA in his trailer and we shouldn’t bother him ‘for at least an hour.’”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Gary shouts, taking the words right out of my mouth.
My heart stampeding, I pull a one-eighty—a sudden maneuver that sends Fish crashing into my chest—and then, as Fish stumbles back and tells me I’m a lunatic, I grab his lanky arm and physically drag him toward Seth’s extra-large, extra-luxurious trailer on the perimeter of the large studio lot.
When we arrive at our destination, Seth’s trailer door is locked. Gritting my teeth, I yank on the handle, furiously, trying to gain entry in any way possible, even if it means breaking the latch or pulling the entire door off its hinges.
“Dude!” Fish yells, as my movements become more frantic. “Calm down, Colin!”
But I’m not listening. In fact, I’m a man possessed. “Open up, Seth!” I shout, variously banging and yanking on the door. “It’s Colin Beretta! Open up!”
“You might want to tamp down the crazy, just a tad, my brother,” Fish warns. “There’s security all over this lot.”
But, again, I’m not listening. The past five days of being ghosted by Amy, while reliving our heated conversation in my head on a loop, have pushed me to the brink of lunacy. How could I have let Amy go without telling her what’s so clear to me now? I love you, too. Why was that simple truth so hard for me to say at the time? I swear, if I’m too late and Amy’s inside this trailer, getting railed by Seth Rockford—and she actually wants that fucker over me—I’ll never forgive myself.
Out of nowhere, the door swings open and a shirtless Seth appears before me, his dark eyes bugging out. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” he bellows. “Is there a fire?”
Without answering Seth’s question, I push past him, hollering Amy’s name. And when I find the living area in the trailer empty, I march straight into the tiny bedroom like a bull in a China shop.
