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“I got the video of Brooklyn that you sent me. She’s getting big.”
“Oh my goodness! Isn’t she?” she says in a singsongy tone. Even through the phone, I can picture her face lighting up. “And she has those big, bright eyes that are aware of everything. Robert is such a good dad. He even gets up at night to change diapers!”
“I’m sure Natalie appreciates that,” I say fondly in regards to my oldest brother and his family. His wife had delivered a baby girl barely a month ago, and the news of the newest addition to the Matthews brood was all anyone could talk about.
“You need to visit so you can meet her. She needs to know who her Uncle Rhy is.”
I sigh. “I will, Mom. When I have some time off, I’ll visit.”
She does this every time she calls: guilt-tripping me into visiting more often. If it’s not to see her and my dad before they get too old for them to remember who I am (her words, not mine), it’s to coerce me using my nieces and nephews as leverage. There are five in total between my oldest brother Robert and the middle sibling, Jacob. They remain close to home, raising a family and living a picture-perfect suburban life. Jacob even has a white picket fence that surrounds his front lawn, and he coaches his oldest son’s little league while Robert is stepping in to take on Natalie’s PTA responsibilities while she recovers from her recent delivery.
Their completely contented and idyllic lives are something that I haven’t been able to witness firsthand but can’t necessarily bring myself to. Knowing that they’re living normal lives only makes me realize how far from reality mine has strayed.
“I should finish getting ready. The car’s going to be here soon to take me to the premiere.”
“Of course. Have fun tonight and call me later,” she calls through the phone.
“I will.”
Her call comes like clockwork before every movie premiere to check in and give me words of encouragement, knowing that I need it more than I think I do.
The first call was filled with more excitement and enthusiasm that I was able to reciprocate at the time. I was only twenty-one years old, and there were whispers going through Hollywood of an Oscar nomination. Those whispers got to my head. My ego blew up, thinking I could do whatever I wanted in this town. My sweaty, glazed-over face appeared on every episode ofE! News, plastered through still images with whatever girl was linked to my arm, usually bleach blonde with big tits, after a night of binge drinking and late-night partying. I didn’t win an Oscar. I didn’t even get nominated. My ego cloud burst, and I was left feeling empty.
The calls from my mom always bring me down to earth, reminding me of where I came from. But it isn’t a happy wave of nostalgia. It’s more of a melancholic one. I had left the comforts of my childhood and stepped into a world that still feels foreign to me, and those moments of doubt are becoming more frequent and even harder to ignore.
I know people always think that actors look cool and collected, confident to a fault. But that’s not always the case. A lot of the time, I feel like I don’t even know what I’m doing. Like I’m just following along with what I’m supposed to do and whatever is expected of me. But that’s what we actors do. Weact. We act like we know what we’re doing, like we’re comfortable with the fame and attention. Never giving way to the intimidation of the world and having to embrace it instead.
I’m fastening the minimalist gold cufflinks and shrugging into my jacket when a message dings on my cell phone, alerting me that my driver has arrived. I slip on my shoes, adjusting myself to the roughness inside since I didn’t have time to break them in, before my stride leads towards the door and into the brisk night.
“Good evening, Mr. Matthews. We should be at the theater in about an hour with the traffic,” he informs me. I nod back at him and hop into the car as he holds the door open for me.
Uncomfortable with idle hands, I scroll through my phone. Nothing important to look at, just something to keep my hands occupied. My thumb finally stops on an email from Levi. He’s been badgering me about a romantic comedy where I would star opposite Reese Witherspoon. The premise of the story is that of an older woman dating a younger man, myself, with a hint of comic relief, making it a typical rom-com. It’s a role that I’ve done one too many times. And yet, I can’t wholeheartedly commit.
I weigh out the pros and cons every time Levi brings it up, which is often. I would be comfortable in the role. It’s familiar. And I would be working with one of the most talented actresses of our time. But the cons are too hard to ignore. Like my wavering commitment and inability to stay focused. My tenacity was what had kept me going in the past but as of late, I’ve become hesitant, fluctuating between can’t and won’t. These personal qualms are what keep my answer the same each time Levi broaches the subject: I’ll think about it.
I leave the email read, no answer, and lean back into the plush leather seat. The quiet hum of the engine is the only sound that fills the interior of the car. And for a moment, just a moment, I feel relaxed. All the noise and chaos have stopped, and I feel like I actually disappeared, and no one noticed. Until the lights that manage to peek through the dark tinted windows remind me that evanescence is just a dream and that being Rhylan Matthews is the furthest thing from being insignificant.
NINE
ELLIE
The sound of Claire tapping her perfectly manicured nails on her phone screen is distracting. It’s harsh even over the drone of the engine and the low hum of music coming from the car stereo. When I look at her with one brow raised, she stops.
“Sorry.” Her hands move to the seat belt strapped across her chest as she glides her fingers over the bumpy material.
“Are you nervous?”
“Kind of.” She lifts her hand to run her fingers through her hair before she stops, remembering the hours she spent to have it styled perfectly. “My boss said that Paramount’s studio head is going to be there. If I’m lucky, likesuperlucky, I might be able to meet him. I guess that’s making me a little on edge.”
“A little?”
“Okay, a lot.” Both our bodies slump to the left as the driver takes a sharp turn, causing Claire to swear under her breath. The sleek town car she called to take us to the premiere isn’t proving to be well worth her money, as the erratic driving of our driver is only adding to Claire’s already frazzled nerves. I tug at my own seat belt to ensure that it’s secured properly.
“Deep breaths,” I say, my hands moving upwards as I take a closed mouth breath of my own, providing a visual for her to mirror. “In and out.”
She takes a long breath, her chest heaving before relaxing as she exhales.
“Just remember, you’re a professional. You got this.”
