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I flip on the television, hoping to distract my mind from the Trinity trouble, and there she is staring back at me from the stage of Dancing With The Stars, singing the newest hit song she wrote about our breakup, while couples pirouette around her like figurines in a music box.
Her dark hair shines under the studio lights as she wails into the microphone.
* * *
I should’ve run away when you asked me out on a date.
Thought it was fate.
* * *
She asked me out. The killer shark had just devoured her character, and when the scene wrapped, she strolled over covered in fake blood and suggested we get drinks at a nearby bar. I don’t date co-workers, but figured why not.
* * *
Life was perfect.
I put on my prettiest red dress.
But your success meant more than me, I guess.
* * *
As she croons, her slim frame shrinks between my narrowed lids. Um, it was absolutely not perfect. We were both struggling to make a name for ourselves in the brutal city of Hollywood. My success? Yeah, I thought I was heading somewhere big with the SharkQuake franchise, but it’s a typical B-flick budget, and not enough to launch me into superstardom. She’s the one who teased non-stop about doing something scandalous for her ‘big break.’
Morbid curiosity keeps me listening as she belts out the chorus to cheers from the audience.
* * *
Your pretty eyes hid all the lies.
Everything was alright until your shark bite…
* * *
Finally, something true. I do have pretty eyes. Blue with a hint of green.
She warbles about me ripping out her heart in the middle of a restaurant, humiliating her for all to witness. The audience cheers while she nods her head to the beat of the song. My god. None of this is true. Trinity and I were ok, but then small things turned me off. She became a diva. She fixated on fame and wanted to eat at celebrity spots. Pay paparazzi to take our photo. Shit I had no interest in doing with her. I wanted more. I wanted normal. So, I sat her down one evening—at her place, not a restaurant—and told her we were headed in the wrong direction.
We had a great talk. Or so I thought.
Little did I know, six months later, she’d release an album about our failed love story with me as the asshole who trampled on her heart and her, the tragic victim. Her album, “Ex, Y, Z… Now I See,” was the number one download on iTunes within a week, and it thrust her into superstardom.
She’s adored by the world.
And I’m the evil man who broke her heart.
She even has a Trinity Tribe now. I think they named her fan club ‘Kill Fender Fallon.’
Needless to say, I tried to contact Trinity, tell her to call off her fans, but their hate for me is its own entity now.
She ends the lies coming out of her red lips with a coy smile and receives a standing ovation.
“Fucking great.”
I turn off the TV and head into the kitchen. My frown reflects in the stainless-steel fridge when I open the door and grab a Heineken. I guzzle the cool beer while I ponder my predicament, propped against the granite topped island.
Am I in the wrong? I’ve asked myself this question a million times.
The internet says I’m a jerk, so it must be true.
“Fuck ‘em,” I grumble to myself, because I guess I should get used to talking to myself in solitude.
I want a woman to laugh at my jokes, not that I’m hilarious. I want a woman who makes me feel needed. I want a woman who gets me.
And Trinity wasn’t that person for me.
I could have been selfish, kept dating her even though she deserves a man who’s crazy about her. That wasn’t me.
My phone pings with a message from my sister, Felicity, who always seems to have a psychic ability.
“You ok?”
“Oh, I’m great.” I snap a picture of the snow-covered mountainous backdrop surrounding my rental property and send it over to her. “There’s an actual chill room in my cabin.”
It’s a thing.
Similar to a foyer, but not. Alaskans call it an arctic entry. It’s a modest room which serves as a place for the snow to melt before entering your home. Noreen said it keeps the interior of your house warmer.
Insanity.
“Brrr. I got frostbite from looking at all the snow. You hate cold weather.”
“I hate murderous fans more.”
“You can’t hide forever.”
I snicker at her naivete. “Watch me. I’ll become one of those mysterious creatures that only leaves my tracks in the snow.”
“Stop,” she types back. “You’re not living out the rest of your days as a yeti. It’s more like you’re taking a minute to breathe. To reset.”
True. I need to figure out a plan for my life. When I first started acting, I thought I’d be this mega-action movie star, and everyone would love me. Ha.
