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The heartbreak of her abandonment shouldn't still hurt so much. At the very least, it shouldn't still feel as fresh as the day it happened. I shouldn't still be able to picture the way she looked as she walked away from me for the final time, her red hair tied back in a ponytail that swayed side to side with every one of her steps. I shouldn't still feel the emptiness that infected me like a disease in the seconds it took to watch her leave.
I shouldn't still spend every waking hour wondering if she ever thinks about me.
I shouldn't, but I do.
There'ssomething to be said for the moment you first wake up in the morning. That fleeting instant when the world doesn't quite feel real. The nanosecond when you don't completely know who you are.
It's my favorite time of day.
Because for a tiny, transient point in time, I'm not Althea Sparkes. I'm not an actress selling dreams in a city thousands of miles away from my hometown and every person I've ever loved. I don't live alone in a penthouse apartment that's too big for me. I'm not lonely. I'm not disenchanted with celebrity life. Mostly, I'm not sad.
And then the fog of semi-consciousness fades and I'm her once again.
I wait until the feeling of disappointment passes and throw my legs out of bed. I'm booked for a breakfast show this morning for an interview about my upcoming movie or something—I don't know really. Truthfully, I don't care. My agent tells me where to be. I just simply show up.
When I landed my first major role, some six or so years ago now, I loved the harsh lights of television studios and the chaos of reading from an autocue. In fact, the first time I sat on a couch across from a show host, I had the sudden realization that I'd made it. It was a feeling I hadn't experienced until then, and sitting there, opposite a woman I'd watched every morning growing up, was a rush unlike any other.
But just as a drug addict would tell you, there's nothing quite like that first high.
As the years passed, I began enjoying promotional work less and less until I took no pleasure in it at all. Now, I actively despise it.
If I could do my job without the added bullshit of living my entire life in the public eye, I would in a heartbeat. Fame was something I wanted once, until the first time I fell victim to the corruption of paparazzi and celebrity tabloids.
That was the headline I'd woken up to the morning after winning my first Golden Globe. I remember the euphoria buzzing in my bloodstream from the achievement and the devastating comedown that followed the next day. The lies printed by newspapers, the photographs that were manipulated to further a narrative not even remotely based on the truth… It all tainted what should have been the highlight of my career.
It was on the way to the award show after-party that I was accosted by a group of paparazzi. In the struggle to get away from them, I'd fallen and landed in mud, and some asshole had taken a photo of my ass as I'd run away.
Okay, sure, it's not the worst article to have ever been printed about someone. It could have been a lot worse, and I know that. I really do.
But I fell out of love with fame after that.
I blink away the memories and sit, waiting for the panic, that swells inside whenever I think about what happened, to disappear completely. Only when it subsides do I throw on a pair of track pants and a cropped sweater, freshen up in the bathroom and collect the garment bag my stylist left out for me off the back of my apartment door. What's in it, I've no idea, but I trust her judgment enough to give her total control of my wardrobe.
I discover later, as I'm getting ready in a dressing room with lights around the mirror, that she picked out a tailored pantsuit for me in the shade of leaves in spring. It's beautiful and flattering and complements the fiery color of my hair perfectly, but sometimes I wish that, just for once, I could wear jeans or a flannel shirt—something I would have worn back when I was just Thea in a town called Tupelo. Somethingme.
But I gave up the privilege of being who I am the first time my name went up in lights. Losing myself is just part of the job, I guess. I am an actress after all.
“Miss Althea?” A small voice dripping in trepidation pulls me from my thoughts, and I turn to find a terrified-looking intern shifting on her feet in the doorway. “They're ready for you in the studio.”
I nod and stand, slipping into my four-inch stiletto heels that should hurt but don't. I'm immune to the pain now.
“Thank you...” I trail off, waiting for her to fill the space. She nudges her glasses up the bridge of her nose and says nothing. “That's where you were supposed to tell me your name.” I wink to let her know I'm only teasing.
“Bethie,” she says finally.
“Pretty name.”
She tucks a strand of dark hair behind her ear. “It was my Meemaw's.”
“I was named after my grandmother too.”
“Really?”
“Yep.” I nod. “Which might explain why I've never met another woman my age called Althea.”
Bethie giggles. “I like it.”
“Thanks, but I'd much rather have your name.”
