Page 26

“Y ou know Dave, the grip?” Oliver asks as he starts up the golf cart.

He knocked on my door earlier than necessary this morning, introduced me to the replacement nanny he hired without my consent, and dragged me out of my new suite. Imogen was still asleep. Yesterday was hard on her. “Sure. Dave the grip. What about him?”

“Dave is Melanie’s boyfriend. He helped me find her.”

The sun is really bright today. “Who’s Melanie?”

“The woman we just left with Imogen. The replacement,” he reminds me patiently.

I grunt in response. On any other day, I’d hear it from Oliver over this, but he’s on his best behavior. Something about lighting my suite on fire is keeping him in line, but I can’t even enjoy it. I’m unsettled after this weekend. Sunny is so busy that we’ve barely connected. We’ve texted and spoken over the phone, but she has a lot on her hands with the fire. I’m desperate to relieve her load. Mercer gave me some ideas of what to do. I want to carry this burden with her and I have a plan. Unfortunately, I have my own fires to deal with first .

We have a busy shooting schedule today, made even more chaotic by all of the property damage and paparazzi. The weekend away was good for my mind, but now I can’t get my mind to focus on work. I’m jittery like it’s day one all over again, only this time it’s because I can’t stop thinking about Sunny.

A few hours later, we're a dozen takes into a scene that isn't working. I don't like to point fingers, but if I did, all ten of mine would be pointed at Micah. That’s a lie. Seven fingers would be pointed at him, three at me. Or three pointed at Micah, seven at me. I’m in a surly mood and it’s bleeding into my work. We’re in a stuffy walkway between stucco buildings at the resort, and heat is bouncing off the walls. I’m sweating through my character’s clothes.

Micah is sitting in his chair, scrolling on his phone while his assistant points a handheld fan to his face. I’m shooting a monologue where my character is bragging about his wealth, and I lean into the arrogance. It’s what I’ve been typecast for, after all. Sunny is going to hate this guy when this movie comes out. I wonder again how she's coping.

Lines, Anders . I’m reciting my lines. Cameras are rolling. “Please. One snap of my fingers and my Sikorsky S-92 will pick us up. I have access to jets, a train—I have a sheet of flips at my disposal.”

Son of a gun.

Fleet of ships, Anders. Fleet of ships, fleet of ships…

Christopher lets me correct the line without cutting. It’s an easy fix in post.

I repeat the line. “I have access to jets, a train—I have a sheet of flips at my disposal.” This time I curse.

“Cut.” Christopher barks.

I realize at that moment that I’m working on auto-pilot, kind of like when you drive a familiar route and don’t remember it when you get home. I have no memory of the lines I just recited, up until that disastrous ending. Chris’s face is unreadable. The lighting guys, grips, and camera people avert their gazes, acting busy.

“Sorry,” I tell Chris and the crew, stretching my neck and pushing Sunny out of my mind yet again. “I’ve got this.”

Chris hesitates and I see his jaw flex even from where I’m standing. He nods silently. We reset and wait.

“Go,” he says.

I wish Micah would wipe the impatient sneer off his face. That’s not helping anyone.

I block out my co-star and focus, repeating the lines I reviewed over and over this morning. The tension in the air abates as I become my character, the script flowing naturally out of my mouth like they’re my own. This is it. This is the magic—when my words and body dovetail seamlessly with the character I’m playing. I sense Christopher’s shoulders relaxing in my periphery.

“I have a fleet of ships at my disposal.” Hallelujah . I fist pump internally.

“Dad!” a little girl’s voice shrieks through the narrow walkway.

Immy?

“Cut,” Christopher snaps.

Imogen races past the crew in her jelly shoes and nightgown. Her cheeks are pink and streaked with tears and her hair is still in yesterday’s ponytail. I look around for Sunny, then remember that she’s not with my daughter today. What was the name of the new temporary nanny? Melissa? Melanie. Where is Melanie? Why is my daughter here alone?

“I can’t get Hairy!” Immy tugs my hand with all of her body weight. My eyes shoot to Oliver. He’s on his phone, nodding tensely at me, and hopefully tracking down the nanny.

“What are you doing here, Im?” I whisper in a rush. “I’m working. Where’s Melanie? ”

“A lady was sleeping on the couch and I was by myself.” She sniffles. “But she ran away!”

“The nanny ran away?” Unbelievable .

“No! Dad! Hairy ran away when I took her out to go potty!”

Oh geez. “Ollie. I need you to help Im find Hairy.”

“No, Dad! You have to help!” She hiccups through her tears. She’s trembling. “I think Hairy—”

“Someone get the kid out of here,” Micah snarls from his folding chair, barely looking up from his phone.

Christopher’s stern gaze locks on my face. Dozens of eyes are on me, waiting for me to make a decision so they can get on with their jobs. Immy tugs on my hand with a whimper that undoes me.

There are times when you know a seemingly minor decision is going to change the rest of your life. This is one of those moments. It’s my two roads diverging in a yellow wood. In one direction is this version of my career. All-consuming, butt on fire, nonstop—with all of the money, status, accolades, and satisfaction that go along with that. Indiana Jones is on that path. On the other road is my daughter. Simplicity, peace, and balance. Weekends at my parent’s house. Lazy Sunday mornings. Sunny’s face flashes through my mind. I hope she’s on that road. When I look down at Immy, one fat tear falls from her eyelash and plops onto her dusty jelly shoe. And that’s all it takes—that one teardrop.

There’s no question.

I hoist Imogen up and she wraps her scrawny legs around my waist. “Let's go find Hairy,” I whisper in her ear. “I’ll be right back, Chris.”

And I will. I’m making my daughter my first priority, but I’m also fully aware of my obligations and how unprofessional I’m being. This just means every one of my co-workers is going to hate me. I’ll let them. My daughter is all that matters at the moment .

I jog in the direction of our new suite carrying Immy. “Where was the last place you saw Hairy?”

“She ran away by the cars.” She sniffles in my ear. “I hope Hairy isn’t lost. She’s my only friend. We have to find her.”

The words are a punch to my gut. A mutt dog can’t be all this girl has. Sure, her mom is terrible. She’s like Bizzarro Santa Claus. She visits annually bearing gifts, disappearing just as quickly as she appears, and leaving a giant mess in her wake. And of course, I love Imogen, but I’m sick when I consider where she has fallen on my list of priorities. She deserves more. She deserves a parent who provides stability, consistency, and opportunities to form friends who aren’t canines. I’m going to be that person for her.

We reach the parking area and there’s no sign of Hairy. I listen for her howly bark and heavy paws, but only hear birds chirping sweetly, like they have no idea this week has been total chaos. I spot the back door of the main resort building. It’s propped open.

Oh no .

Hairy is in there. I know it. I run through the door as fast I can with Immy in tow, and find that my instincts are correct. Hairy is galloping in circles around the main corridor, oblivious to the destruction her case of the zoomies is causing. A large vase is toppled and cracked. Couch cushions and pillows litter the floor.

“Hairy!” I bark at her. “Get over here!”

She barks back, enjoying our new game. Imogen scrambles down from my arms, racing to her dumb dog. By the time I reach them, Hairy is panting. Her jowls are hanging open in a wide smile. She’s proud of her work here.

“Bad girl!” I snap.

“Dad! She was just having fun!” Imogen throws her arms around Hairy’s neck.

“Anders. ”

I whip around. Oliver is standing in the back entrance, looking winded like he chased us here.

“We need to sit down and talk. Is that okay, Immy?” He smiles at my daughter.

“Sure. I’m gonna sit down and talk to Hairy, too.” She tugs on the dog’s collar until Hairy relents and they wander to the other end of the long hall.

Oliver lowers onto the edge of the couch, waiting for me. I replace the cushions in the seat opposite him and sit.

“I messed up.” He spits out the words so fast I’m not sure I heard him right.

“What?”

“Don’t make me say it again, dorkwad.” He runs his hands down his face. “I dropped all the balls. I’ve been distracted. I’m forgetting stuff I never forget, doing stuff I never do. I shouldn’t have been with Mercer that night.” He sighs. “If there was no fire, Sunny would have had Imogen today. This wouldn’t have happened.” He’s picking up steam. “Did you know I forgot to make Sunny’s reservation in Minneapolis because I was up all night with Mercer—”

“No. Stop. Please” I hold up a hand like the action will remove the mental image. “I don’t want to know anything else.”

“I have to get this off my chest.” His penitent eyes plead with me. I’ve never seen him like this. “I screwed up. This is all my fauIt. I let Mercer get to me. She’s just so… so…”

He drags his hands through his hair with a frustrated smile. I think back on our long friendship and realize this might be the first time he’s experienced real romantic attraction. I’ve wondered when it would finally happen. I need to let him off the hook. Those feelings are nothing to mess with.

“Ollie, it’s okay.” I sink back into the cushions. “Remember in high school when I almost failed Trig because of Sadie Mortensen? Same deal. You studied with me. I passed. This’ll be fine. Trust me. ”

“Yeah, except you were only screwing up your own grades back then. I’m slowing down production on a major film shoot.” He scowls. This guy hates being human.

“So what? We all screw up sometimes. Being human is okay. In fact, I kinda prefer human Oliver.” I sling my arm over the back of the couch. “It’ll work out, man. See who’s benefiting from my don’t-give-a-crap attitude now?”

“You are so annoying.” He glares at me, then his eyes soften. “But thank you.”

I just nod. This is as touchy feely as our friendship has ever been.

“What are you going to do?” he asks.

Sunny’s smile pops into my mind, as has been the case all morning. I know what I want to do. “I’m going to do everything in my power to keep her. We’re paying to get these repairs done. This place is going to be better than before. I’m hiring all of the best interior designers, contractors…” I trail off with a sigh. “Sunny is everything to me now.”

“I meant with the shoot, but that’s a smart move. Sunny is different in the best possible way. You’re a better man with her. You don’t deserve her, but you need her. Imogen needs her. If you can talk her into letting you stick around, you need to make it happen.” He stands. I guess we’re done here. “And normally I wouldn’t advocate throwing your fame and money at problems, but this time I won’t stop you. She deserves it.”

He’s right. Luckily, I already have a plan.

“Hey, Im? Want to help me with something?”