Page 12 of Reality With You (Arden Beach #1)

L ennon pulled her old beat-up suitcase from the baggage carousel. She adjusted the duffel bag slung across her body before rolling her luggage through Arden Beach International.

After Avery forwarded the casting director’s information to her, Lennon emailed them an audition tape she recorded the next morning, following their guidelines.

She hadn’t expected to get a call back at all, let alone one an hour later asking if she was available for an online meeting that same afternoon.

Being temporarily unemployed with nowhere else to be, she threw herself together and jumped on the call.

Two weeks later, Lennon signed the contract, gave her landlord notice that she wouldn’t be renewing her apartment lease, and packed everything she owned in boxes.

Lennon walked past people in shorts and flip-flops arriving for summer vacation, taking photos next to a large fountain in the central atrium surrounded by tall palm trees.

One of the passengers from her flight—a young woman around her age—ran past her into the arms of a group of people excitedly waiting for her with a homemade sign that read “WELCOME HOME, DARCY.”

A pang of loneliness reverberated through her.

Erin was back on the road with the Tidebreakers.

Without her, there was no one to welcome Lennon home.

She hadn’t told her mother she was moving back to Arden Beach, and she wasn’t even sure where she was living those days, either.

Last time they spoke, Katherine was in Sarasota with her new husband, but she mentioned they were considering moving to North Carolina.

Knowing Katherine, Lennon would probably receive a random text from her one day with photos of their new place and a list of some stable, practical job listings in town for Lennon to check out if she was “finally ready to get serious about her life.”

Lennon’s father left when she was a toddler, and she had no connections to extended family. Essentially, she was as alone in Arden Beach as she had been in New York.

She rolled her luggage to the pickup area where a stoic, stocky man in a suit waited, holding a sign that brandished her surname with the reality show’s production company, High Wave Productions, beneath it. He looked like an off-duty wrestler.

“Ms. Young?” he questioned with a Puerto Rican accent.

“That’s me,” she confirmed with a halfhearted wave.

“I’m Bruno. Nice to meet you.” As they shook hands, his intimidating appearance melted away and was replaced with kind eyes and a gap-toothed smile. He offered to take her luggage. “First time in Arden Beach?”

Lennon lifted the duffel bag from her shoulder, thanking him as she handed it off. “Grew up here actually.”

“Welcome home, then.” Bruno carefully hooked the bag over his shoulder before reaching for the beat-up, rolling suitcase she’d had for years.

Bruno loaded her bags into a black Escalade parked at the curb.

Beneath the jet fuel and exhaust fumes, Lennon picked up the subtle scent of the ocean salting the humid air.

Hundreds of palm trees lined the roads they took to exit the airport, the rich green fanning across an equally rich blue sky.

She squinted through her aviator sunglasses to see them as the blinding sun reflected off the white pavement surrounding them.

They made small talk over the soft hum of classic Latin pop on the radio as he battled the traffic leaving the airport, like how his twelve-year-old daughter, Rosie, loved the piano and how he’d picked up the job to help pay for lessons.

“It runs in the family,” Bruno told her.

“You’ll meet my husband, Darius, soon. He’s the lead sound coordinator for the show. ”

A melancholy smile touched her lips, wondering what her life would have been like if her dad had stayed. He’d loved music, too. “Lucky girl. Do you play music, too?”

“I’m what I call a passionate enthusiast. I love to listen and dance to it, but I can’t sing or play an instrument to save my life. I used to make Rosie cry when she was a baby when I’d try to sing her lullabies.”

“You just need some good lessons,” Lennon said. “Everyone can be taught.”

“Your confidence is sweet but horribly misplaced, Ms. Young.”

“Careful, Bruno. I love a challenge.”

Skyscrapers rose in the distance, their glass facades reflecting turquoise along the beautiful Downtown Arden Beach skyline.

She took in the sights as they flew past—endless palm trees, turquoise water, massive cruise ships docked in the Port of Arden Beach.

They were soon replaced by rows of yachts in the marina as they crossed from the causeway into the city.

The low rooflines and whimsical, retro charm of Art Deco and mid-century buildings mingled with the sharp angles of steel and glass structures, with the occasional Spanish-style edifice thrown into the mix.

This unique patchwork created a medley of quaint beach town, modern luxury, and old-world mystique unique to the city.

As her gaze fell on one of the many billboards, time suspended. A fourteen-foot photograph of Dylan, mid-throw and clad in his baseball uniform, towered over the street in an advertisement for the Tidebreakers’ stadium.

Her heart skipped. Lennon hadn’t seen his face much since their divorce, outside the occasional dream. She wasn’t aware of how hard she’d been staring until the car turned and she unwittingly craned her neck to follow the billboard until she no longer could.

“Apologies, we’re going to be a bit late,” Bruno said.

It took a second for his words to penetrate her consciousness. Lifting from her daze, she glanced at the gridlocked traffic ahead, then at the clock. Her meeting with the producers was in two minutes.

Great way to make a first impression.

Fourteen minutes later, the Escalade pulled up to The Blue Iris, a small restaurant a block from the beach known for its Mediterranean fare.

Vivid blue umbrellas shaded tables on the sidewalk from the bright Florida sun, which gleamed off the white building.

As Bruno opened her car door, he told her he’d be waiting to take her to her hotel.

Lennon ran inside, her black platform sandals making it hard to move as quickly as she’d like, only to impatiently wait behind a couple at the hostess stand.

“Hi, I’m here to see Mr. Donaldson and Ms. Greenberg,” Lennon said breathlessly when it was finally her turn.

She swiped away a few strands of hair sticking to her face.

The hostess ushered her to a table in the back where two people were engrossed in conversation. As soon as they saw her, the man with salt-and-pepper hair rose to greet her. They exchanged introductions while Lennon apologized for being late.

Executive producer/showrunner Huey Donaldson and his co-producer, Maeve Greenberg—both industry veterans—waved it off, making a joke about Arden Beach’s horrible traffic. Her anxiety eased a little.

“We’ve been using it as an excuse to get drunk on Bellinis before noon,” Maeve joked as Lennon settled in across from them and accepted a menu from the hostess. She reminded her of a nineties news anchor—glamorous and perfectly coiffed in a crisp, professional way.

“We’re not quite there yet though. You got here too fast,” Huey added. In contrast, he seemed like the kind of man who would spill coffee on his shirt and hide it with his expensive tie.

“Well, don’t let me stop you.” Lennon looked up at the server who approached as the hostess left. “I’ll have what they’re having.”

Huey leaned into Maeve. “I like her already.”

At first, Lennon felt like she couldn’t quite catch her breath, a fine layer of sweat prickling up along her neck, but the morning’s chaos gradually settled as they fell into easy conversation.

She put her vocal training to work to regain control of her diaphragm while looking over the menu.

Once they’d placed their orders, the producers didn’t waste a second before jumping into their plans for the show.

By the time her spaghetti arrived, Lennon’s head was spinning.

“Wow, you guys move fast. You’ll really have the whole season filmed and released in—” She did the math for the premiere date they’d mentioned. “Five months?”

“Content moves swiftly these days. You snooze; you lose. Gotta churn it out before people get bored and move on to something else,” Huey said between chomps of his omelet.

He’d smothered it in hot sauce, salt, and pepper.

Mauve had commented on his blood sugar as he generously poured, and he shrugged it off, assuring her that he was “fitter at sixty” than he was at Lennon’s age.

“How often will I be filming?” Lennon asked, slowly twirling some spaghetti around her fork.

“Well, we’ve got the season mapped out, but we leave some room for spontaneity. Never quite know what surprises may be waiting for us that we’ll want to jump on. But right now, you’re a supporting player within Avery’s storyline,” Huey answered. “Maybe a couple days a week.”

“Not necessarily every week,” Maeve chimed in. She picked at her tomato salad, her bold red lipstick somehow perfectly intact, matching her long, acrylic nails.

“Right,” he said. “Keep your schedule open. We’ll let you know when we need you.”

“I was thinking of getting another job while I’m here,” Lennon said. “Is that going to complicate things? I don’t know how all this works. Filming a TV show is new territory for me.”

“If you’re not available when we’re shooting, you’ll miss out on that production time, unfortunately,” Huey answered simply, wiping a drop of tabasco sauce from the corner of his mouth with a white cloth napkin.

Basically, less exposure and less pay. She had to fit into their schedule. If she didn’t, it was her loss, not theirs. “Will I have a chance to film anything by myself, or will I only be in Avery’s scenes?”

“Oh, we definitely want to get some footage of you working on your own thing,” Huey assured her.