Page 21 of Fan Favorite
T he first thing Peter Kennedy saw when his alarm went off at four thirty a.m. was a lightly snoring Siobhan.
She was lying on her stomach, her dark hair fanned over her smooth brown shoulder, his white Frette sheet draped across her waist. She was very beautiful, Siobhan.
A model. Last night he’d texted her when he left production around eleven.
He’d walked into his ocean-view condo in Malibu a little before twelve, taken a shower in his white marble bathroom, wandered around his perfect midcentury living room, with the crisp leather couches and minimalist art that the interior designer had picked out and installed, eaten a banana in his pristine chef’s kitchen, and then dug up his old Chicago album and put it on the turntable.
He stood at the window, watching the waves, brooding over the sad state of music today—you really weren’t going to get full brass out of Post Malone—occasionally lip syncing along with the big moments— Just say you’ll love me for the rest of your life/I got a lot of love and I don’t want to let gooooo —before settling again, watching the waves, until one fifteen, when Siobhan had finally arrived, tipsy from an industry party, and they’d had disappointing sex until two.
He didn’t know what was wrong with him. He just felt…
unsettled. Out of sorts. Like there was something jumpy inside of him that kept surging against his chest. Siobhan had been drunk and performative.
She’d had her hands wound through her dark hair, tossing her head around and moaning as she rode him, stretching out her torso so her small breasts were flattened against her chest and he could count her ribs.
He’d held her hip bones in his hands as she bounced, and the unsettled feeling had surged.
It was so strange, like he wanted, just for a second, to jump out the window, let the waves carry him away.
And then he was so grossed out by his own bullshit that he knew he was never going to come, so he flipped her over, wrapped his hands around her shoulders, and pushed deep inside her the way she liked, pulsing against her g-spot until she came hard against him.
Almost immediately she said, “You—”
“I’m good,” he said, rolling away.
Now Peter stared at the soft hair covering the hollow place between her neck and shoulder and had an impulse to press his face into it and burrow into her.
Lately he could feel that Siobhan was on the verge of wanting more .
She’d gotten very riled up last week about a random sore throat he’d had, imploring him to go to the doctor and then DoorDashing him chicken soup that he found in his lobby long after it’d arrived because, obviously, he’d gone to work.
Peter had thought about cutting it off then, but he despised the idea that maybe he was just some remote, cold person.
He reached his hand out to touch her now, but as much as he willed himself to do it, his hand just hovered over her back, so eventually he got up and put on his running clothes instead.
As his feet beat the pavement down to the beach, he thought about Julie, even though he was beyond tired of thinking about Julie, and hated thinking that everything came back to Julie, that his own seemingly permanent disillusionment and hard-heartedness were caused by and all about Julie.
He’d met Julie when he was still a struggling writer, and she was just starting her career as an agent.
He’d pursued her hard, like an infatuated idiot, which he supposed he was.
He was just taken by her. She was spunky and savvy and ballsy and knew exactly what she wanted and spoke her mind and seemed to know her place in the world in a way he didn’t.
When she’d finally accepted him into her bed, the gratitude he’d felt was, frankly, ridiculous.
But that was the dynamic between them. Julie was to be adored; Peter was to be grateful.
And as Julie quickly rose through the ranks as an agent, the more industry parties they had to attend.
She’d get mean-drunk off vodka tonics, and in the car on the way home, talk shit about everyone, particularly him.
She’d complain about something he’d said to someone she didn’t think he should’ve said it to, or, conversely, berate him for not talking to some bigshot producer with the authority to hire him onto a new prestige drama.
He began to regard her determination as unpleasant and supercilious, and when she’d sense his unease, she’d make sure to remind him that he was lucky to even be there.
Why did they get married?
Why did anyone get married? They were thirty. It was time.
Obviously, it had been Julie’s decision to get divorced.
The real turning point had been when Julie signed an emerging starlet who, under Julie’s tutelage, became very, very famous very, very quickly.
Suddenly the parties Julie attended included the likes of Brad Pitt, and Peter supposed that’s when Julie began to regard him as a starter husband.
There he was, a reality TV showrunner, the absolute lowest of the low on the Hollywood echelon.
He supposed they were both disappointed in how he’d turned out.
So, she’d left him. They’d been married long enough that it was either have a baby or get divorced, so they got divorced.
Her lawyer emailed Peter an exit package with such a sizable payout that it was the first time he truly understood Julie’s regard for him as some sort of talentless hack.
He also felt really fucking stupid for not being more aware of just how much money Julie was making, and would continue to make, and wondered why he’d been the one to make the down payment on the Palisades house if Julie was sitting on cash like this.
But of course she was—her starlet was signing multimillion-dollar deals every day.
He just hadn’t been paying attention because he’d been traveling around the world manufacturing love stories, goddammit.
Peter thought about not accepting the package.
About preserving some of his dignity and just walking away with what he’d come in with.
And then, alternatively, demanding an audit of their marital assets, because what the fuck else did he not know?
Julie would never have offered this kind of money unless there was more to be had.
(Now he understood why her business manager had done their taxes for years.) Ultimately, at the urging of his sister, Elizabeth (the only person Peter ever discussed anything remotely close to feelings with), he signed the papers, bought the condo in Malibu, had the interior designer furnish it, and went to Fiji for a week, where, in an uncharacteristically expressive move, he threw his wedding ring off a cliff and watched it plop into the ocean.
Then, in a more Peteresque fashion, he agonized for the rest of the week over the possibility of a sea turtle or some rare fish choking to death on it.
When he returned to LA, he never saw Julie again, aside for her name printed relentlessly in the trades. And then the tabloids once she started dating the newest iteration of Batman.
Already, at five, the sun was hot. Peter took off his shirt and tucked it into the waistband of his shorts.
His feet dug through the sand at a steady pace as the waves continued to roll in.
He was thirty-nine years old and tanned and trim and had all his hair and could fuck models if he wanted, but what did he know about love?
Only that it was bullshit and hurt like hell and, paradoxically, probably the only thing that really mattered.
Unfortunately, in the way of most divorced people, Peter still believed in love very deeply—he just found it impossible to accept in any form other than the romantic ideal he held in his mind.
What he wanted—a partnership like Barack and Michelle’s—was likely impossible.
He was difficult, both exceedingly average and annoyingly exceptional.
He was too old—he should’ve picked someone smart and kind back in college, before the big bad world got hold of them, because, god , the women in LA.
Who could muster the energy to create something real when everything was an illusion?
And now Peter circled back to his essential problem, the root of his unsettling: how to make Bennett Charles fall in love with Edie Pepper.
That kiss last night—that kiss was definitely a start.
During his years at The Key , Peter had stood watch over thousands of make-outs.
Watching two good-looking people dry hump for the cameras had become as mundane as an episode of Wheel of Fortune .
But watching Edie Pepper and Bennett Charles’s kiss was something else entirely.
What he thought would be a light peck had turned out to be much, much more.
Bennett urging her to open her mouth to his, which she did, eagerly.
The way Bennett slowed down the pace of the kiss, as if to savor it.
The way she dug her nails into the nape of his neck as he bit her bottom lip, and the way she smiled against him when he released it.
The way he threaded his hands into her hair and the tiny pauses where they’d open their eyes at the same time and glance at each other and smile before starting all over again.
At first Peter was so astounded he didn’t really understand what he was seeing.
And then it hit him— chemistry . Edie Pepper and Bennett Charles had chemistry.
But there was something else. Something more.
Connection.
One glance at the wild-eyed girls on the risers and Peter knew that this was undoubtedly true.
Sure, it was generally understood that you don’t kiss the suitor at the key ceremony—it was disrespectful to the process .
But Peter could see it wasn’t just that.
The women were seeing exactly what he was seeing, and they were terrified.
The natural order of things had been upended, and almost instantly, the girls had dissolved into hysterics.
They’d screamed and sobbed. Kimberlee, one of the ones who was eliminated, even collapsed, at which point Jessa rushed in the on-set medical team and they’d gotten great shots of Kimberlee breathing into an oxygen mask while the other girls clutched each other in horror.
In reality TV, the hardest thing to produce was authenticity.
Which was why producers constantly lied to the contestants and manipulated them and tricked them into a false sense of security before pulling the rug out from under them once again.
So when Edie and Bennett had finally pulled apart, her cheeks flushed pink and Bennett smiling in a way Peter had never seen him smile, sort of unguarded and goofy—Peter knew then, with absolute certainty, that they did in fact have a show, possibly even a great fucking show, one that Carole Steele and millions of people would love.
Peter could see the entire season—the most dramatic season ever—laid out right in front of him.
All he had to do was push the pieces forward.
So why wasn’t he happy?
TAKE 5 PRODUCTIONS
THE KEY
EPISODE 4 TEASER [DRAFT FOR EP APPROVAL]
TAPE #202
_____________________
00:00:00 OPENING SEQUENCE
ADAM FOX: Tonight on The Key …
A MOTORCYCLE FLIES DIRECTLY AT THE CAMERA.
ADAM FOX: Bennett’s on the road to love. But with so many amazing women, who holds the key to his heart?
THE MOTORCYCLE PULLS UP IN FRONT OF THE MANSION. BENNETT REMOVES HIS HELMET, SHAKES OUT HIS HAIR.
ADAM FOX: Will it be Zo? The ballerina with an insatiable zest for life?
ZO MOUNTS THE BIKE. SHE WAVES AT THE GIRLS AS THEY RIDE OFF INTO THE SUNSET.
ADAM FOX: Or will it be Aspen, the NBA cheerleader from Texas who’s never been in love?
BENNETT AND ASPEN LOUNGE ON A YACHT DRINKING CHAMPAGNE.
BENNETT: What’s your favorite color?
ASPEN: What’s yours?
BENNETT: I asked you first.
ASPEN: I asked you second!
BENNETT: Blue.
ASPEN: Mine too!
BENNETT: No way! What’s your favorite food?
ASPEN: What’s yours?
BENNETT: My mom’s lasagna.
ASPEN: Mine too!
BENNETT: No way!
BENNETT AND ASPEN MAKE OUT.
ADAM FOX: Or what about Bailey, the gorgeous Pilates instructor from Santa Barbara with a heart of gold?
BENNETT AND BAILEY ROCK CLIMB. SHE’S A NATURAL. WHEN THEY REACH THE TOP, THEY KISS.
BENNETT: You’re perfect.
BAILEY: No, you are.
ADAM FOX: Or Max, the long-distance runner from Kansas City who shares Bennett’s passion for competition?
BENNETT AND MAX WATCH FOOTBALL. AFTER AN EXCITING PLAY, THEY JUMP IN THE AIR AND BUMP CHESTS, SPILLING BEER EVERYWHERE.
ADAM FOX: Or will our newest bachelorette, Bennett’s high school sweetheart, Edie, unlock his heart?
THE GIRLS SURROUND BENNETT ON THE SOFA. HE PLAYS A GUITAR AND SINGS.
BENNETT: I won’t let your head hit the bed, without my hand behind it.
EDIE AND ZO JOCKEY FOR POSITION ON THE COUCH. ZO SHOVES HER AND EDIE FALLS TO THE FLOOR. BENNETT DOESN’T NOTICE.
ADAM FOX: Whose heart will be broken for good?
MONTAGE OF GIRLS SOBBING IN FORMAL WEAR.
ADAM FOX: And who will be left to pick up the pieces alone?
SOMEONE FAINTS AT THE KEY CEREMONY.
1:00:00 ADAM FOX: All that and more, tonight on The Key .