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My body refuses to be anything but tightly wound, not wanting to believe it was her, but unable to deny it.
I’d know her anywhere, even if it has been nearly a decade. The way her doe eyes stared straight into me, unlike anyone else can. Cutting through me and holding me still. It has to be her.
My Hally.
Older and looking back at me with something akin to fear. And I know why. I may have loved her, but she kept pushing and pushing. My hands clench into white-knuckled fists. The people move but I keep my pace even and my stride casual as I exit the elevator. I nearly look around the room, lost and confused as to why I’m here and forgetting who I am. Why I’m heading past rows of stage equipment and lighting.
I barely notice the glances and knowing smiles as I make my way back. Refusing to look flustered or as though I’m off balance in the least. I just need to get to my dressing room. It’s here somewhere and then I can lock everyone out and get a grip.
She wasn’t supposed to be here. Out of everyone in New York, what isshedoing here?
“Mr. Hart,” Stevens, the director, says from the back corner of the stage to my right. The backdrop goes all the way up the twelve-foot-high ceilings, although the paint itself stops before the plywood reaches the top of the wall. It’s fitted with everything needed to look as though it’s a living room. It’s all the same here, and I only focus on doing my job.
Well, nothere. Not in television shows.
LA is where I’ve been since I left Bailey, a town about two hours away from NYC. Since the day an agent met me outside of prison and told me he’d change my life forever. He was right and I never looked back.
Movies are out and TV shows are in, or so my agent says. And like the good client I am, I took his advice and came out here even though it was so close toher. I should have known better than to return anywhere close to where I grew up. I’ve been on edge ever since I got on that plane to come back here. I thought I’d be hours away. Hours from Hally and everyone else I left behind. As if there was ever enough space to make me forget.
“There he is,” my agent, Mark, practically yells out, clapping his hands once as he pushes off from the stage wall near the row of dressing rooms and walks over to me. His suit is crisp and impeccably tailored.
I halt in my tracks; my eyes are drawn to the sign on the door behind him. The one with my name embossed on a gold star. The room I know I can disappear into.
I try to loosen my coiled muscles and greet Mark Shannon. I owe him everything and he deserves that much. But I can’t shake the knowledge that she was right there. My skin heats.She saw me.
And she didn’t come to me.
My heart drops at the thought and I barely register what Mark’s saying. I’ve never stopped wanting her and seeing her so close is too much to just let her slip away.
“Line readings at two and then you need to be on set no later than three,” Mark starts with the schedule. I’m sure he has it all memorized, although he’s got a stack of papers in his left hand. His right hand grabs my shoulder as he guides me to the door, rattling off names and times that I don’t give a shit about.
He opens the door for me and pushes it forward, not stopping to even take a breath. He moves at a mile a minute and I let him. It doesn’t matter if I even respond, so long as I sign my name on the dotted line and I always do.
I take a look around and everything’s familiar. These rooms are all the same. A bed, a desk, a makeup vanity. They’re all solid wood and decorated nicely although it’s made to be temporary and that’s more than obvious by the quick construction.
I always tell Mark, modern. I’m not quite sure what it means, but the rooms always come with enough to keep me occupied and comfortable for the first few days. And then I get antsy.
It used to make Mark squirm and get nervous when I’d leave the set. Especially when he first brought me on, taking a risk on the boy from New York with a bad rep but the talent and looks to make headlines in production.Bad boy turned movie star. He doesn’t give a shit anymore though. Like I said, I show up, do my job and get back to where I belong. Alone.
The small fridge opening catches my attention. I turn to see Mark bending down and listen to the sound of glasses clinking against one another.
He pulls out two bottles of pale ale and holds them up for me to see. “Just like you like it,” he says confidently.
I couldn’t care less about beer right now. I feel like a dick as I watch Mark take in my posture, as it slowly dawns on him that I’m completely uninterested.
I’m grateful. I really am. He found me the day I walked out of prison, at only nineteen years old. He gave me a life I don’t deserve and I hate that he’s looking at me as though I’m anything but happy for all he’s done.
“You name it, Nate,” he tells me, walking forward and putting the bottles down on the desk next to the fridge.
The words are caught in my throat, but her name is all I can think to say. The only explanation I can give.
His face is deadly serious as he stands right in front of me, nearly a foot shorter and looks me straight in the eyes. “You name it and I’ll get it here in no time.”
My teeth grind; my pride and something else, fear maybe, want me to shut the fuck up and just tell him everything’s fine.
But I’m desperate. And desperate men do foolish things.
“There’s a girl,” I start and then clear my throat. “A woman.”
