Page 8 of Lights, Camera, Love

It’s not that I’m a snob or want things I can’t afford. It’s just that I assumed Austin Reynolds lived the high life. I also can’t help but wish my lunch with him had more of a date vibe than this casual catch-up for three does.

As I pick up the menu, my elbow accidentally bumps against Kye’s. He jerks his arm away and grunts an apology while I peruse the lunch options, wondering why that felt so awkward. It was just a bit of elbow contact.

Austin orders for both himself and Kye, I notice, then folds his arms on the table.

‘So now that we’re all alone,’ he says, like we’re a secret little trio, ‘what are our thoughts on Moving ? Because I need this film to rock the box office. It’s my best chance to get back in tight with the big guns over in LA.

Buzz Winter knows everyone. Us three?’ He waves two fingers between himself, Kye and me.

‘We gotta get all our ducks on the same page.’

‘Ducks in a row ,’ Kye corrects, thumbing through his phone.

When he adds nothing else, I lean forward, happy to have found this spark of connection with Austin.

‘I want Moving to rock the box office, too,’ I say.

‘I don’t really see myself becoming a full-time actor because I’d miss dance too much, but it could help launch me into something bigger in my dance career, like a major stage musical. ’

‘You wanna hit Broadway?’ Austin asks, emptying three packets of sugar into his soy latte.

‘Maybe something closer to home,’ I reply with a smile.

I might be entitled to a US passport because my biological father is American, but leaving my mum for Gabriel Dean’s homeland is not something I’ve ever considered.

My ex-boyfriend learned that the hard way when he decided to chase his music dreams in Nashville, and I couldn’t bring myself to go with him.

It didn’t help that he had a fidelity problem and a communication problem, but those were separate challenges.

Kye shrugs off his bomber jacket, and the tattoo I noticed in my dance class materialises on the underside of his forearm.

It’s some sort of beautiful winged insect.

He swivels to hang the jacket over the back of his chair, and another tattoo—a word in cursive letters, unreadable from here—gleams from the back of his bicep. How much ink does he have?

‘Suit yourself,’ Austin says to me while licking soy milk off his spoon.

‘But if you want to make it in movies,’ he adds, as if he didn’t hear what I just said, ‘you gotta put in the hard yards in LA. I’ve already got some auditions lined up there for pilot season.

Should’ve bought a place down in Santa Monica while we had the chance, right, man?

’ He nudges Kye as he continues. ‘Fuckin’ LA housing crisis; we’ll have to rent again. ’

I glance at Kye, expecting an expression of agreement. Instead, he chews the inside of his cheek and blinks out at the street, a ridge settling between his brows.

Years of teaching dance have made me quite perceptive when it comes to recognising people’s different moods and energies.

And slowly, it dawns on me. While a contented smile splits Austin’s lips, and he hums out an off-key chorus to a classic rock song, I continue to study Kye’s body language.

His arms are tightly crossed against his chest, he’s rolling his plush bottom lip back until it nearly disappears, and he’s avoiding eye contact with Austin at all costs.

I’d put money on it. And I can’t afford to lose any cash right now.

Kye isn’t planning to go back to LA with Austin.

I get home to find Mum perched on the edge of the couch with a newspaper folded open over her white linen slacks. The look on her face could frighten away a hungry lion.

I freeze in the hallway. ‘Everything all right?’

She lets out a laboured sigh, and I dump my bag on the carpet and hastily go sit beside her.

I pick up the newspaper, a lump clogging my throat.

The second page is almost entirely consumed by a giant photo of my father.

He’s standing on a luxury yacht, his salt-and-pepper hair windswept and his tanned arms cuddling a woman from behind.

She’s one of his former co-stars; I think I saw something about them dating—whatever .

My eyes scan the headline, and my stomach nosedives. It reads: ‘We’re Having a Baby! Gabriel Dean: “I’m Over the Moon About Becoming a Father”.’

‘Oh my god,’ I choke out.

‘Can you fucking believe it?’ Mum says.

My heart batters my ribcage, and tears push through my eyes as I drop the newspaper onto the glass coffee table as if it’s diseased. Mum shifts closer to me and wraps an arm around my shoulder. I feel stupid for crying—he has never given a shit about me, so why do I give a shit about him?

It’s not just the news of the baby that stings. It’s the quote in the headline. He’s happy about it—he wants this child. Yet, for some reason, he didn’t want me. I didn’t make the cut.

Mum begins muttering about the bitter memories she has of Gabriel and how badly he treated her, but her diatribe only makes me feel worse.

I close my eyes, pinch the bridge of my nose, and allow myself one full minute. Sixty seconds to let the anger rise up inside me; the anger I’ve spent my entire life burying beneath courageous smiles and a ‘screw him’ attitude.

Because, right now, I am angry.

I’m fucking furious .

I’m furious for my five-year-old self, who dreaded kindergarten, embarrassed because she didn’t have a dad to pick her up at the gate or to draw pictures of for forced Father’s Day craft sessions.

I’m angry for my nine-year-old self, who idolised her father from afar, cutting out magazine photos of him and glueing them in her diary next to hand-drawn love hearts. Angry for the little girl who had to watch her Mum burst into tears when she found them.

And I’m furious for the teen I once was, who swung from hating her mum’s short-term boyfriends to wishing just one of them would stick around and become her dad, despite knowing they were rarely invited back after the first night.

I’m furious for a single minute.

Then, I dig deep for courage and find enough of it to quietly hold Mum’s trembling hand while she continues to vent about all the ways my father has let her down.

As Mum unloads, my mind searches for somewhere else to escape to, and before long, it latches onto the country town I’m heading to next week to start principal photography on Moving .

Once I’m there, I’m going to nail this role and do everything I can to ensure this movie blitzes the box office.

I’ll make enough money to help Mum get back on her feet, and from there she can finally enrol in some budgeting workshops.

I’ll begin building a nest egg for myself, and maybe—just maybe—Austin and I will start bonding.

Connecting. Falling in love, not only on-screen but in real life.

Perhaps it’ll be my face that gets plastered across the gossip websites, chronicling my fairytale romance instead of Gabriel Dean’s and forcing him to think about the daughter he left behind when he stumbles upon the article.

I knew that winning this role was exciting, but I hadn’t realised just how much it could straighten out everything that’s wrong in my life.

After Mum gets up to make a cup of tea, I scrape myself off the couch and shake away all the bad feelings that are clinging to me like droplets of rain from a surprise storm.

I pad into my bedroom, piece my smile back together, and zip open my suitcase.