Page 6

I 'm counting down the days until I get to punch my co-star in the face.

The character I'm playing is morally gray bordering on charcoal, and I get to, I mean have to , punch Micah Watson when we shoot our fight scene. I wonder what day that’s happening, but I don't have our filming schedule memorized—that's Oliver’s job. My jaw clenches.

"It's fine. I don't mind. Let's go again," he says. There's no mistaking the complaint in his tone, like we aren't all exhausted after a long day of shooting. Not to point fingers, but he’s the one who isn’t getting it done today. He’s ignoring Christopher’s input half the time, and the other half, he’s giving me direction.

Micah is a gifted actor, but he’s arrogant. He’s been in the business long enough to know things, but he’s cocky enough to think his opinions and thoughts outweigh the rest of the crew’s. This is the sixth movie we’ve co-starred in together. The media and our PR teams paint the picture that we’re old friends, but the reality is, we’re co-workers. We’ve accumulated weeks and months filming together. We attend premieres. But when we go home, that’s the end of our interaction. We’re just too different to be close friends .

And there's no mistaking the irritation on the face of our director, Christopher Marchant. Chris decides when we shoot again and when we're good. You'd think with his reputation and backlist of films grossing an average of a billion dollars—no big deal—Micah would trust his judgment. Secondhand embarrassment washes over me on his behalf.

He stands on his mark with a long exhale. “Get it right this time, Beck,” he says under his breath. Then before I can hit him, his black eyebrows furrow and suddenly he’s his character, Kota. His personality may be like nails on a chalkboard, but I'm impressed by the transformation on his face. He just went from diva actor to misunderstood adult orphan in two seconds flat.

I bite my tongue and stand on my mark. The cameras roll, we say our lines, and I know when the scene lands. I can feel it. Chris says we're good. The muscles in my shoulders relax. Finally. I can go back to my suite and eat my Snack.

I've been thinking about my Snack all evening. My nutritionist prepares my food with every macro tracked and accounted for, and serves it all in labeled plastic tubs: Breakfast. Snack. Lunch. Snack. Dinner. Snack. Not a calorie over or under what my body needs to maintain the physique this role requires. When I accept jobs like this I am basically hungry for months. All I want is a slice of stuffed-crust pizza, but I probably have a chia protein shake waiting for me.

When I tell you I earn every penny of the millions I make on these projects, believe it. Maybe that's dramatic, but hello —actor.

"I'll see you tomorrow, Watson.”

He doesn’t respond, just nods, gathers his things, and gives whiny orders to his assistant. He’s been cold like that since our first table read for this project, but I don’t have time to care. I have my Snack waiting for me.

“Are you ready to go, Mr. Beck?”

I startle and whip around to see a guy in a golf cart bearing the name of the resort. Where did he come from ?

“Are you my ride today? Where’s Oliver?” I ask, climbing aboard the cart. He’ll miss the daily meeting-slash-lecture he runs on the golf cart ride back to my suite. What a pity.

“I don’t know, but he asked me to drive you. I’m Eric. I work for the resort, in case the nametag and golf cart didn’t make it obvious. I’m usually a hiking guide, but for the next few months I’m a little bit of everything,” he says with a laugh.

“Cool.” I’m so mentally done. I just want this guy to drive me to my suite so I can enjoy my pre-packaged health food in peace. This guy’s a talker, though.

“I’d be happy to take you on a hike when you have time. We have some of the best scenery in the country. Let me know when you want to go.” He pauses barely long enough to take a breath. “I hear our Sunny is babysitting for you. I’ve missed seeing her around the last few days.”

Something in his tone gives the impression that he’s marking his territory like a dog. I don’t like it at all. “I get that. I’m enjoying her… having her around my place, I mean.” Yeah, it’s a butthead thing to say. I don’t care. I’m grouchy. “You know her well?” I want him to say no, but I also want to grill him for information. It's a conundrum.

“Yeah, I’ve known her since high school, and I’ve worked for her family since then. We go way back. I like Sunny a lot.” If we were in the animal kingdom, he’d be aggressively strutting in my face with his feathers plumed around him. In the human kingdom, he seems to settle for taking corners a touch too fast for this top-heavy golf cart.

I eyeball the twerp. He doesn’t scare me. “Me too.”

Eric is silent. He peels around the last turn to my suite and the tires actually squeal. I didn’t know that was possible in a golf cart. I lean back in my seat, like I find his maniacal driving relaxing. He jams on the brakes and I slide forward, almost off the seat.

“Thanks for the ride.” You psychopath .

I climb down from the cart without a backwards glance and double time it across the sandstone path to the suite.

It’s late. The sun is long gone and the lights inside are out, so I assume Immy is asleep. The silent darkness in the entry makes me think Sunny might have crashed, too. I toe off my shoes and step quietly toward the back of the suite and the refrigerator. Snack time .

I round the corner into the mostly dark kitchen and catch Sunny with her rear end poking out of the refrigerator, the light from the open appliance spilling around her. I don’t know how she hasn’t heard me, but then I realize she’s wearing wireless earbuds and she’s totally focused on the task at hand. She’s rooting through the contents of the fridge on a mission. Unfortunately, she’s not going to find anything but my lame pre-portioned food and Immy’s eggs and chicken nuggets. I make a mental note to have Oliver get some better food delivered for her.

Leaning against the door jamb, I fold my arms across my chest to watch her, feeling my lips tilt into a half smile. I don’t hate coming home to this view. My foul mood slips away at the sight of her.

“Dinner? Snack? Lunch? What kind of control freak eats like this?” she wonders aloud. Judging by her volume and tone, she doesn’t know how loud she's talking, and she's probably hangry. She’s also angrily organizing my food into Breakfast, Lunch, Dinner, and Snack stacks.

I feel kind of creepy watching her from behind, hearing her thoughts out loud. It’s entertaining, but still. I should probably let her know I’m here, spying on her.

I step toward her, then three things happen at once: Sunny whips around, screams—really screams—and throws the container she’s holding straight at my face. Overhand.

Bullseye .

The container of whatever that was hits me squarely in the forehead and clatters to the floor. She has a good arm, I’ll give her that. That rang my bell a little .

“What are you doing?!” she hollers at me.

“What am I doing? Why did you chuck a thing of food at my face?!”

“You scared me half to death! Why are you sneaking around in the dark like that?” Oh, she’s definitely cranky.

“I don’t know! I thought you were asleep!” I don’t know why we’re yelling at each other. There's a lot of adrenaline flying around this room and I really hope we haven’t woken up Immy. “Why haven’t you turned on any lights?”

“I don’t know, okay!” She takes a deep breath and lowers her voice, “I’m sorry I threw that at you. It was a knee-jerk reaction. I thought you were a serial killer.”

“It’s okay.” I lean down to scoop up the container of food. It’s a Snack. I feel a twinge of sadness when I see that the cucumber egg wraps have unrolled and disassembled inside the container. Aw, man. My Snack. I sigh. “Makes sense. You’re in a locked room, in a resort covered in security cameras, in the absolute middle of nowhere.”

It’s still pretty dim in this kitchen, but I swear I see her face turn deep red. Her eyes shift around like she’s looking for an exit. “Well…” she lets out a breathy laugh, “I was listening to a true crime podcast when you came in. Ever since I started listening to that stupid thing everyone is a potential serial killer. I’m always on the verge of being murdered.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t listen to serial killer podcasts alone in the dark? Just a thought.”

“You think?” she snaps, and immediately backtracks, biting her lip in a way that makes me forgive her instantly. “Sorry. I think I’m hungry.”

I crack open the container of food, and quickly reassemble a wrap. I hold one out to her. A peace offering. “Want some?”

“Yes, please. ”

We sit on the stools that line the counter, shoulder to shoulder in the dim kitchen, and share my snack. There are six wraps. I do the gentlemanly thing and offer three to Sunny, but this means I’ll be in an even bigger calorie deficit than usual. Maybe I can splurge and have a bowl of Immy’s cereal. I can’t live like this; getting worked up and excited over the prospect of a bowl of Captain Crunch Berries. Whatever role I play next, there will be zero shirtless scenes.

We’re both munching contentedly in silence when I say, “Let’s listen to your podcast,” because I can’t stand the quiet, and Sunny is kind of reserved when she’s not yelling at me for turning up in my own suite.

“Sure.” She hands me both earbuds.

I pass one right back. “Let’s listen together, now that I’m here to protect you from serial killers,” I say with a wink. Oliver wouldn’t approve of any of this, but Oliver doesn’t need to know.

Her cheeks flush again and I stifle the urge to touch them. She looks so soft. She smiles and presses the button on her earbud to restart the podcast, taking a dainty bite of a wrap.

Then there’s a man’s voice in my ear: “When Laura Miller returned home on the night of September 8, 1983, she didn’t know she was walking into a crime scene. The door was unlocked. She entered her living room and found her roommate, Veronica, facedown on the carpet in a pool of her own blood and vomit, a broken fireplace poker at her side…”

I can’t push the pause button fast enough. When I can’t find the button, I give up and yank the earbud out of my ear.

“ Why ?” It’s the only word that comes to mind. I have so many questions. I eye the innocent looking woman at my side, who is eating her cucumber wrap like it’s just a normal night of snacks and gory murder scenes.

“It’s fascinating,” she says with a shrug.

This woman is caring for my child .

“You big chicken,” she says, and a teasing light flashes in her dark eyes. “Besides, I’ve seen all your movies. You’ve been in stuff way scarier than this.”

“Those aren’t true stories, though,” I start to explain, but then my mind catches up with her words. “Wait, you’ve seen all of my movies?” Obviously, most people have seen at least one of my movies. Why do I care that Sunny has seen them? Specifically, why do I care that Sunny has seen all of them? My ego is enjoying this.

"Did I say that?” She fidgets with her glasses, pushing them up on her nose. The action should be kind of nerdy, but it makes my pulse jump. “I've seen one or two, I guess."

"Sunny?"

"Yeah?"

"You're a bad actress." I bump her shoulder with mine, "Be honest. How many have you seen? Which one is your favorite?”

“Um…” She screws her lips to the side as if her response to this question requires deep concentration and analysis.

She’s totally stalling. She twists her hair up on top of her head like she’s going to hold it in place with a pencil, then she lets it fall back around her shoulders. It’s an adorable nervous habit. She sighs, blowing a lock of hair out of her face. That’s when I remember that it was orange last night and tonight it looks normal.

“Your hair is brown again.”

Now her face is twenty shades of red, but she latches on to the change of subject. “Ugh. Don’t remind me. I can’t believe you didn’t say anything.” She holds up a strand of hair to examine it. “The stuff Immy and I used to get out the skunk smell did that. I should’ve known that would happen when we used straight peroxide. My hair feels like twine.” She dangles a lock in front of me to demonstrate, dropping it with a defeated sigh.

This might be the only invitation I’m ever going to get. I’m taking it. I reach over and lift the strand of hair off her shoulder and let it slide through my fingers. I examine it like I know anything about hair.

Sunny’s sharp intake of breath and frozen posture tell me I might be overstepping. Maybe. Or does she like this? I slide my thumb down the lock of hair and I can hear her short breaths beside me. I think she likes it. My focus shifts from her chestnut hair to her dark eyes and what I see there tells me she’s enjoying my fingers in her hair. I turn my fingers in the strands, letting them wrap around and tangle in her hair.

“ Let’s Do This ,” she whispers.

I choke on nothing and my hand grips her hair in a loose fist. “I’m sorry?”

“That’s my favorite Anders Beck movie.”

Oof. Now I’m the one blushing. Our sexy hair-playing moment is over. “Out of all of my work, that absolute rubbish is your favorite?”

It was the first movie in the first series Micah and I starred in together. I was nineteen years old when it was filmed. I was elated to even get an audition, let alone get the part, so I didn’t care that the script was trash. It’s one film in a sea of paranormal young adult love triangle movies that flooded the market at the time. Micah Watson was my co-star, of course. You could plug any generically handsome actor into our parts and the movie would be no different. It was a critical failure, but now it’s considered a cult classic by, well, women in Sunny’s demographic. I’ve heard of movie theaters showing it on throwback nights where groups of women show up dressed as the characters. I cringe thinking about it. I wonder if Sunny has participated in that nonsense.

Again: This woman is caring for my child.

I probably sound ungrateful. Maybe I am ungrateful. My partnership with Micah Watson has gotten me where I am today—I’ve been nominated for awards in these dipstick roles, and even won teen choice awards—but I’m ready to end it. I’ll never get the roles I want as long as we keep making movies together. I need to make movies where I’m not typecast as the scoundrel who steals the girl from all-American good guy Micah. The irony , I think, shaking my head.

Sunny breaks into my thoughts, “How dare you. That movie is iconic and I’ll fight anyone who says otherwise.”

Her violent defense of my earliest garbage work is charming, but I can’t let this slide. “Sunny.” My tone is scolding, and her doe eyes go wide, “I’ve worked on so many films, and every one of them is superior to that pile of dung. Please choose a better favorite.”

“No way.” She folds her arms, looking every inch the stern librarian. Her glasses slide down her nose and she pushes them back into place. I want to groan at the sight.

She’s the nanny, you moron , I remind myself.

“What about Atlas ?” It’s my one successful movie, independent of Micah. There have been one or two others, but they’ve all flopped. I got an Oscar nomination for that part, though. Let’s see her defend a paranormal love triangle movie against that.

“Oh, that was good. Definitely my number two choice. The plot twist with the compass at the end was awesome, and the cave scene during the storm was” — she mimics a chef’s kiss — “You killed that scene. But it’s not Devin professing his love to Jolie on the edge of a cliff right before he morphs into a firebird and saves her.” She recites my lines with the same inflection I had used—something even I can’t do after thirteen years. “Sorry, but that is your best work.”

This woman knows nothing about cinema. “Let’s call a spade a spade: You have questionable taste in movies.” I turn on my barstool to face her, and my knee pushes against her thigh. I leave it there. It would be awkward to stand and move my barstool so that my knees don’t touch her when I’m facing her. This is weird, but less weird. She doesn’t move away. Victory. “Let’s get to the bottom of it. Why do you love that movie so much?”

“That’s personal, and we just met.”

I laugh. She can’t be serious. “Come on. It’s just a movie preference. I’m trusting you with my child.” And why do I even care?

Her brown eyes scan my face, so I school my features into my most trustworthy expression. “Come on. I’m a vault.”

“Okay.”

That was way too easy. It’s a good thing this woman lives in Podunk, USA and not Los Angeles. The sharks would circle. “Whenever you’re ready.”