Page 8

I rush away from set, antsy to get back to my suite for the night. We finished ahead of schedule and it feels like cheating to go home so early. But I don’t care. This way Sunny and I can watch our movie and I won’t be as dead tired as I was this morning. I have another one of my movies picked out and I think I can work my charm to steal another inch or two of Sunny's personal space. And let's not forget I have a Snack waiting for me. These thoughts put a spring in my step.

I walk into the suite to find Sunny obsessively vacuuming the same three square feet of area rug like she’s caught in a loop. I can’t tell if she’s cursing at the vacuum or the carpet, but clearly she doesn’t know I’m here. She has her back to me, and the commercial vacuum that she must’ve borrowed from housekeeping sounds like a mini jet engine. I don’t want to repeat the mistake I made yesterday and end up with a carpet sweeper thrown at my face, so I wave my hand like a white flag.

“Sunny?” I try to call over the sound of the vacuum and her ranting, but she aggressively vacuums a few more passes and I know she hasn't heard me .

She stomps a switch on the machine to turn it off with her foot. “...like someone launched a confetti cannon full of dog hair in here,” she grouches as she winds up the cord. She has a lot of rage today.

“Sunny?” I say as gently as possible from my position behind the couch I’m using as a buffer.

She startles and gasps. “Anders!” she complains, like I’m solely responsible for her lack of trust in humankind. Luckily, she doesn’t have anything to throw. "You scared me to death! Again!"

Hairy immediately gallops into the room with a nightgown-clad Immy running behind her. “Dad!” she squeals, wrapping her skinny arms around my legs.

“Get up here, kid,” I growl playfully, launching her over my shoulder and spinning her in a circle that makes her screech. “How was your day?”

“Good. I did school and Sunny took me to a park made all of rocks,” she says into my back. “And we read books and had Rollerburger again.”

I swing her back to my eye level. “Rollerburger again? What’s a Rollerburger? Sounds awesome.” My gaze moves from Immy to Sunny, who is aggressively shoving the vacuum into the tiny coat closet.

She wipes her forehead with the back of her hand to brush her hair out of her eyes. “It’s this hamburger place—”

Her explanation is cut off by Immy, who can’t seem to contain herself. “She’s on roller skates.” Her blue eyes are wide and blinking. This is serious business.

“Who’s on roller skates?”

“Goldie. At Rollerburger. She’s on roller skates and they have the very best nuggets I’ve ever had.” This is the most critically important information she has ever shared in her five years of life.

I look at Sunny, who is sheepish. “Goldie is my sister. She’s a carhop at this hamburger place in town. I hope it’s okay, we stopped today after we went to the park. I promise I’m being safe with her…” Sh e trails off, like she’s waiting for me to jump in and save her with my approval.

I don’t approve. “You had hamburgers?” I look Immy squarely in the eyes. “Without me?”

“Yeah, except I got nuggets and they were so good.” My daughter can’t wait to rub it in when she has fun without me.

It sounds like these two have started a whole, wholesome life together where they have fun outings and I want to be a part of it. I hate missing out. “Sounds like I need to try out Rollerburger, and I’m starving. Want to go?” Snack forgotten. Diet forgotten. My dad bod is tomorrow’s problem.

Before Sunny can protest, Immy shouts, “Yay!” and wiggles out of my arms to run for her shoes.

As soon as she’s gone, Sunny’s hands are on her hips. “She was in bed.”

“We have to get her off of the European schedule at some point, right?” I inch toward her.

“I guess so,” she steps back. “I suppose I’ll go then. See you tomorrow?”

“What? You have to come!” Immy races back into the room wearing her nightgown and the sparkly jelly sandals she’s so attached to. They kind of make her feet stink, but she chooses them every time. “My dad doesn’t know how to get to Rollerburger.”

Sunny makes a face at me that says I need to let her off the hook. She doesn’t want to be the bad guy. She has no idea who she’s dealing with.

“Yeah, you have to come,” I say. “We’ll get lost.” I give her my patented puppy dog eyes. She shoots me a look that says she knows I’m full of it, but her cheeks are also a little pink.

A minute later we’re in the parking area and I’m looking for whatever SUV Oliver rented for Sunny to drive Immy around in. The girls stop at the most nondescript sedan ever manufactured. It’s a white, base model Toyota Camry, obviously a few years old, with zero bells and whistles except for the slightly tinted windows. They’re the most eye-catching feature on this granny-mobile.

“Oh yeah. Oliver made a good call with this rental. We’ll blend right in with this thing.” I nod my approval while Sunny unlocks the doors. “This car is so boring no one will suspect Imogen and I are in here.”

“This is my car,” Sunny deadpans.

Immy giggles, “Dad.”

“I’ll have you know that this is one of the safest cars on the road, and you’re right,” Sunny says as she drops into the driver’s seat, “No one has spotted Imogen yet. So, you’re welcome.”

I pull my baseball cap lower onto my head and throw on my sunglasses. “That has to be some kind of record. And thanks for taking good care of my kid.”

My knees are almost around my ears in this tin can. How does Sunny drive this thing? She’s pretty tall herself. I’m six-foot-three and she’s only five or six inches shorter than me. I eye her in the driver’s seat, purely for research purposes. Her long, tan legs are tucked under the steering wheel, and the short, flowery dress she’s wearing is draped across her seat. My gaze moves up to her bare arms, then at her big, brown eyes which are looking at me. She arches an eyebrow.

“What?” I scan her figure again. More research. “Just making sure you’re buckled up. Safety first.”

“Are you buckled up?” she asks with a withering glance. She is batting my attempts at flirtation away like flies at a picnic.

“You should put your seatbelt on, Dad,” Immy instructs from her booster seat.

I buckle up with an eyeroll that I hope Immy can’t see. What am I doing? Like I need another woman in my life telling me to put on my seatbelt. I already have a tiny one.

“Nice.” I nod toward the figurine behind Sunny’s steering wheel. The only hint at personality in this car is a tiny toy version of Micah Watson’s character from our first movie that’s perched in front of her tachometer.

“Oh… yeah.” She throws the car in reverse. “Would you believe me if I said that came with the car?”

“Sure, if you borrowed this car from a fourteen-year-old girl.”

She rolls her eyes. “You’re just jealous you’re not on my dashboard.”

“Ha!” Probably.

And one thousand hours later, because Sunny drives like a senior citizen, we park under a giant neon sign of a guy wearing roller skates and carrying a hamburger. There’s a huge plastic letter board menu in front of the car listing enigmatic food items like “heeburgr” and “rench frie” and “oon ring,” since half the letters are missing. There’s a faded sign underneath the menu that reads “Honk for service.”

While Sunny decodes the menu I reach past her and honk the horn. She jumps like she’s been tasered and smacks my arm away.

“Why did you do that?!” she hollers.

I gesture to the sign. “Honk for service?”

“Yeah, but no one actually does it. They saw us pull in.” She’s shaking her head and muttering at me when a blonde on roller skates glides up to her window. She cranks it down with a huff. “Hey, Goldie. Sorry about that.”

Ah. The sister.

“‘S’okay.” The blonde pulls a tiny notepad out of her black apron. “Geez, three times in one week? Are you officially off the health nut wagon, Sis?”

“It’s been an off week, okay?” Her gaze darts my way.

“I’ll say. You’ve been hanging out with Sir Sexy Dimple Sparkle Pants all week. Hubba hubba!” she sexy-growls. At least, I think it was supposed to be sexy. I can’t see her face from my position in the passenger seat, but based on what her hands are doing there are also some suggestive gestures happening .

Sir Sexy Dimple Sparkle Pants? I’ve been called worse. I’ll take it.

Sunny laughs uncomfortably, “Goldie!” Her eyes snap my direction.

“What?” I can’t see her face from this angle, but she flips a page in her notepad and positions her pen to take our order.

A wicked little grin forms on Sunny’s pink lips. “Nothing. I’ll have my usual,” she says too innocently.

“Bo-ring!” Her sister sing-songs while scribbling on her notepad. “Is that it?”

Sunny turns to me, then Imogen. “What do you guys want?” she asks loudly with a devious smile.

“Oh,” Goldie says, finally leaning down to glance at the passenger seat.

Her notebook and pen drop to the concrete. She bends over to pick them up and her hands shoot to the car door, latching on like her skates must’ve gotten away from her. Her head drops below the window and all we see are two hands, clinging for dear life, and the sound of clunky roller skates banging against the concrete and the side of the car as she fights to regain her footing.

“You okay down there, Sis?” Sunny asks, her tone equal parts honey and evil.

Goldie rights herself and flips open her notepad like it’s just another day on the job. “What will you have, Sir Sparkle Pants? Or can I call you Sexy Dimple?”

“Sir Sparkle Pants is my dad. Call me Sexy Dimple.” I flick a little wave and a huge smile in her direction, to emphasize said dimple. I can tell I’m going to like this sister. She looks like what I imagine Immy will look like in twelve or thirteen years. Something inside me wants to make sure she has lunch money and that the boys at school are being nice.

“Just so you know, my dad’s name is Anders Abrahamson,” Imogen says from the back seat. “And my grandpa’s name is Johan. ”

“Oh hey, Immy! I didn’t see you back there!” Goldie smiles, “The usual?”

“My daughter has a usual?” I tease Sunny.

“Nuggets. Duh, Dad.” Immy reminds me.

“Duh, Dad,” Goldie parrots, writing Immy’s choice on her notepad. “So, a chicken nugget meal for Immy. Protein burger and diet Coke for Sunny. And what would you like, Sexy Dimple?”

I end up copying Sunny’s order and when our food arrives I find out that her usual is basically a paper wrapper full of disappointment: A bun-less, cheese-less hamburger patty wrapped in lettuce. She ups the wow-factor by adding a mystery condiment called Fry Sauce.

“Why do you eat this? What’s the point of eating out if you’re ordering this way?” I ask between bites. I’m already eyeballing the dilapidated menu board in search of something else to scratch my junk food itch. If I’m falling off the diet wagon, I’m going to dive headfirst into a cookie dough milkshake with something fried on the side.

"First of all, no one made you copy my order, Sexy Dimple," she snarks, her cheeks full of lettuce. That nickname coming out of her mouth has an entirely different effect than it did when her sister said it. It's a good thing Immy is here. "Second of all, aren't you on some bonkers diet anyway?"

"Yeah, I am. Just until we get a few scenes shot. But this is no biggie."

"What kind of scenes?" she asks, munching on her Blah Burger. "Wait, I'm not supposed to ask that. Nevermind."

“No, it’s fine. Just the usual shirtless stuff. I’m supposed to look a certain way.” I puff up my chest and curl my arm into an obnoxious flex, sneaking a peek at Sunny. “Look at you blushing.”

“I am not! It’s warm in here.” She pushes the button for the air conditioner until her hair flutters away from her face. “You’re so full of yourself,” she says with a pink-cheeked smirk .

“Don’t think I don’t see you looking.” I flex again.

“If I’m looking it’s because you have fry sauce on your lip, Charlie Granger.”

Charlie Granger was a character I played whose main personality trait was being a womanizer, because like I’ve said, I’ve been pigeonholed by Hollywood. But the fact that Sunny remembers a character from a movie that came out six years ago and was an embarrassing box office flop? Noteworthy.

Immy’s phone vibrates in the back row and Sunny is saved by the buzz. My daughter ignores her phone, cramming another nugget into her mouth. She’s a child on a mission. Her phone continues buzzing against the fabric seat.

“Im, that’s yours.”

Only three people have Immy’s phone number: Myself, Oliver, and her mother, Cassidy. I recognize that it is ridiculous for a five-year-old to have a phone, but it’s a safety thing. Our lives are too crazy for me to not be able to reach her. Plus, Cassidy goes ballistic if she can’t talk to Immy the one time a year when the mood strikes. I send up a prayer that it’s Oliver calling because every time her mother calls, Immy’s world turns upside down. No one has time for that on the first week of filming. Immy wipes her fingers on her nightgown and swipes the phone open.

“Hi, Ollie,” she says around a mouthful of chicken nugget. She’s the only person who gets away with calling him that.

I can’t hear the other end of the conversation, but I know what’s coming. Immy passes her phone to me and goes back to her dinner.

“Hey, man.” My mind is racing for an explanation that won’t get Sunny in trouble with Oliver. Maybe it’s time for his daily reminder that he's my manager and not my mother. “What’s up?”

“I hate when I have to track you down on Imogen’s phone. Where are you?” Right down to business. That’s been Oliver’s modus operandi since we were in high school and he was voted Most Likely to Be the Resident Stick in the Mud for the Rest of Anders Beck’s Life. Not really, but now I’m thinking about having a plaque made for him.

Sunny shifts in the seat next to me. Something about the movement lets me know that she’s as uncomfortable as I am.

“Just grabbing a hamburger with Immy.”

“Just Immy?”

“Sunny came, too. Hey, listen, did you get the thing I asked you about?”

“Thing?” he snarls. Now he’s annoyed and distracted. Two birds, one stone.

“You know, the thing .” I draw out the word like that will help. I can’t say what the thing is because it’s a surprise for Immy. Harry Styles is on tour and he has a show in Minneapolis on her actual birthday, which conveniently lands two weeks after we’re scheduled to wrap shooting. We can visit my parents and knock out a concert all in one trip and I’ll be father and son of the year. I asked Oliver to track down passes, but it’s a huge request, given the show has been sold out since the day tickets went on sale.

“Be a little less cryptic, man.” When his voice gets distant I know he’s swiping through the calendar and notes on his phone looking for clues. “Oh, the tickets. Working on it. I’ll let you know when I get them. The reason I’m calling is because there’s been a minor schedule change for tomorrow.”

While he fills me in on information that definitely could’ve been a text message—which only confirms the fact that he actually called to check in on me—Goldie rolls up to Sunny’s window.

“Do you two lovebirds need anything else?” she asks with the volume and subtlety of a Piccolo Pete firework.

I panic and smash the “end” button, throwing the phone into the back seat. I’ll be hearing about this tomorrow.