The Redhead Plays Her Hand
Page 21

“Seriously, dude, get your shit together. This affects other people too, you know!” Lane’s voice was full of anger.
“Oh, come on. How does this affect you?” Jack sneered.
“You think these jobs just roll in? You not signing means my ass could be out of a job. You ever think about that?”
“No way. You can’t put that on me.” Jack walked away, grabbing his glass off the patio table.
Lane followed, talking to his back as Jack drained his whiskey. “I can put that on you, and I will put that on you if you’re the reason this movie doesn’t get made. If you think you can walk away from a franchise like this without it impacting everyone else, you’re insane!”
By now Holly and Michael were perched on the back of the couch in the living room, listening through the other set of French doors as Jack and Lane continued to go at it in the backyard. I wanted to stop this, I should stop this, but I had no idea things had gotten so bad with the Time sequel that Lane even knew. Why didn’t I know about this? Why wasn’t Jack talking to me?
I didn’t have time to follow that train of thought any further because the next thing I knew, Jack turned around to face Lane and saw all of us watching.
“Enough!” he shouted. The whiskey glass he’d been holding now flew across the backyard and hit the side of the house, shattering into a thousand pieces across the patio. I gasped, and then . . .
Quiet.
The quiet pressed in on all sides, the pressure building in my ears and behind my eyes. I was vaguely aware that Michael started to get up from the couch, but Holly held him in place. Later on I could remember seeing Lane back away from Jack, shaking his head. I could still feel Nick’s hand on my arm, his grip tight.
What I was completely and totally focused on at the time was the sight of Jack, barely standing and pale, with splotches of red anger across his cheeks. Shaking. His eyes searched for mine, and when he found me they looked haunted and vacant. Then, punching through the quiet came the strains of the theme song for Mabel—upbeat and bouncy and completely inappropriate for the moment. A glaring reminder of what this night was about, was supposed to be about.
“Out,” I breathed, so quietly that I could barely hear it. “All of you, out please.” I did not take my eyes off Jack. “You, stay right there.”
Nick squeezed my elbow before moving away. I heard Holly and Michael discussing quietly whether one of them should stay, but they wisely left as well. Lane was long gone by now. My eyes never left Jack. I could hear my own voice coming from the living room, as my TV show was now airing across the entire West Coast. The West Coast would have to wait. I had someone to take to the woodshed.
sixteen
So here’s the thing, Jack. I’ve tried to be understanding. I’ve tried to back off. I’ve tried to ignore what’s going on, tried to not be a nagging girlfriend.”
I walked in a circle around him, keeping my anger in check as best I could. To his credit, he let me circle.
“I’ve been up at night worrying about where you were and what you were doing. I’ve let you change the subject. I’ve pretended things were fine and dandy. I’ve even f**ked you when I should have been talking to you.” I stopped in front of him and looked him square in the eye. “But no more, Jack. You know I love you more than anything on this entire planet, but this shit ends now. You either talk to me, tell me what the hell is going on—”
“Or what?” he challenged, speaking for the first time.
And I raged.
“Why are you making this so difficult? Why can’t you talk to me? And what the hell, Jack? Not signing on for the Time sequel? Why didn’t you talk to me? I had no idea that—”
“Why does everything have to be such a big deal? Christ, Grace, I know you’re pissed. I know you’re disappointed. You think I don’t know everyone’s talking about me right now? That you and Holly are doing nothing but trying to figure out how to get me back in line, back in step, back to doing what a movie star is supposed to do? Well, f**k that. I’m not a puppet everyone can just play with!” Finally some spark came back in his eyes, which were now spitting fire.
“Is that what you think we’re doing? We’re worried! All your friends are worried—”
“Oh, sure. They’re worried. Let me tell you what they’re worried about. Lane’s worried about his next job, Holly’s worried about losing her paycheck, and you’re too busy worrying about me to notice that being connected to me is just—”
“Wait a minute. Wait a goddamned minute! You think Holly is only worried about a paycheck? She has never done anything but help you and think about your career. She’s making sure you have one and don’t blow the whole thing like that idiot Adam Kasen! And where do you get off telling me what I should be worried about?” I yelled, the anger and frustration and concern that had been percolating for months now bubbling over and landing all over the patio.
Jack seethed, his entire body tense, his jaw clenched. “If you could see this clearly you would see that—”
“Don’t you dare tell me what I see. I can’t believe you would—”
“Stop. Fucking. Interrupting. Me,” he managed, his voice quietly dangerous. “I can’t go anywhere without being recognized. I can’t go to the grocery store without a clerk telling The National Enquirer what kind of frozen pizza I like. I’m scared to death to put the top down and drive around town because I might get f**king run off the road by vultures who care more about getting a picture of me with my is she or isn’t she my girlfriend than they do about safety, and I can’t have a f**king drink after a long day of dealing with all of that bullshit without everyone telling me they’re worried about how I’m handling things! This is it, Grace. This is my reality, and this is how I’m dealing with it, okay?” He was well and truly yelling now too.
“Jack, love, if that was it, I could understand.” I crossed the distance between us and put my hands on his shoulders, but he shrugged me off. “But you aren’t dealing with this. That’s why I’m so concerned.”
“You have no idea,” he spat, his eyes going black again, reminding me of when he’d come in earlier.
“Drinks at the end of the day, my ass. What the hell were you on today?” I saw the shame cross his features for just a moment, and I had my answer. “I won’t watch you do this,” I whispered, my voice shaking, and I watched as his eyes hardened, even to me.
“You don’t have to,” he replied, leaving me on the patio. I watched in stunned silence through the window as he threw his things into his duffel bag, then came back outside. My show continued to play this entire time, providing a surreal soundtrack to some very real drama.
“I’m heading back to the desert.” He stood in the doorway with his bag over his shoulder, looking impossibly young. “I’ll call you when I can.”
When he can? Wait, what’s happening here?
“What do you mean? Wait, Jack. Don’t go. Let’s talk about this.”
“This is clearly not a place I can be right now. Besides, I gotta go make a movie.”
The anger in his voice was so thick it broke my heart. I flashed back to a night not so long ago, a different backyard, but still Jack and me. And a great space between us. But this wasn’t something I could help him with. He was making it clear he didn’t want me right now. He didn’t need anyone. My throat lumped. “I love you, Jack.”
He nodded and smiled a small smile. “I’ll call you.”
And then he left. And I had to let him go.
As I sat in my love seat, with my ever-loving show still playing in the background, I realized that was the first time he didn’t say he loved me back.
Reviews came in all night, and by the time I woke up the next morning, the show was literally an overnight success. And when I say woke up the next morning, I mean I crawled out of bed after not sleeping a damn wink. I sobbed, I cried, I threw some things, I punched my pillow, and then I sobbed some more. But then I focused on me.
My phone was filled with texts from everyone I knew, with the exception of the Brit I very much wanted to hear from. Holly let me know in no less than fourteen texts that every reviewer she was worried about was raving, and that I was the talk of the town today. She also let me know if I didn’t call her soon, she was coming over.
Michael let me know in only four texts that he had already heard from the network, which was asking about ideas he had for the next season—the next season? Hadn’t been officially picked up, but the fact that the executives were already wondering what he might have up his North Face sleeve was very encouraging.
Lane texted me to tell me he was sorry he picked a fight with my idiot boyfriend on my big night, but that he’d recorded it, watched it later, and loved it. And to tell Jack to call him whenever but that the next time he threw a glass he’d lay him out.
My Google alerts were off the charts. The blogs that liked me now really liked me. The blogs that hated me for my connection to Jack were rabid in their continued hatred. But the headline that most caught my eye was from CelebWatch, an online site known for their topical discussions about Hollywood and the standard of beauty.
If Grace Sheridan Is Plus-size, Hollywood Needs a New Scale
The article went on to not only praise the show and the entire cast but also call out every other website that had insinuated themselves right into my pants and what size they might be. Printing a picture of Marilyn Monroe, they reminded their readers that by today’s standards, Marilyn would be plus-size. A side-by-side comparison showed how I was significantly smaller than she was and yet still billed as a curvy actress. I laughed when I saw the side-by-side shot. She was and always will be a bombshell.
And in that moment, I realized how out of control everything had become. Big, small, curvy, or bony, beauty was beauty. I was healthy. I was exactly the size I was supposed to be, and that was it.
The most wonderful thing about the article? There was no mention of Jack and whether we were dating. It was solely about me, my show, and my abilities as an actress—for once not that man I might be sleeping with.
The man I was still very much worried about. But also the man who left last night, left me with a patio full of glass rather than stay and fight with me about what was really going on with him. I lay back in bed, biting my nails as our conversation played back over for the thousandth time. My brain was pudding at this point. I had analyzed it forward and backward and spent just as much time cursing his name for leaving as I did contemplating how I could have pushed him so far that I let him leave.
Drugs. Dammit, he was turning into a Hollywood cliché. My experience with drugs was limited. Holly and I had partied in college plenty, but only with pot. And we never bought it. There were always guys who would share. In fact, the first time I ever smoked pot was with Holly and Michael, on the floor of his sister’s living room. Cypress Hill, a rose-colored bong, and about eighteen boxes of Snackwell’s later, I had successfully inhaled.
But that was it for me. Never did anything else. I’m sure harder drugs were around, but I was never aware of it—certainly not clued in enough to recognize it in anyone else. However, I was aware enough to know that occasional use didn’t lead automatically to a pretty place in Malibu with a curfew and required wristbands for visitors.
So what had Jack been on yesterday? And was it the first time?
Hi, naive? I think someone’s on the phone . . . something about a bridge for sale?
This explained a lot. But I was more concerned that there was a side to Jack I had no clue about, and no clue how to help.
The phone rang as I was locked inside my own After School Special. “He’s taking drugs, Holly,” I said as my greeting.
“Did I call a hotline?”
I smiled in spite of myself. “Jack. He’s taking drugs.”
She swore into the phone. “I’m on my way over there. I’m gonna kick his ass.”
“You’ll have to drive a little farther than Laurel Canyon. He left for the desert last night.” I sighed.
“What? After we left?”
“About fifteen minutes after you left, yes. The f**king Mabel theme song was playing during our Come to Jesus meeting.”
“Ah, shit. I’m on my way. How many bagels do you want?”
“No bagels, but I wouldn’t say no to egg rolls later.”
“Done. And can we also talk about how f**king huge your show was last night?”
“I love you.”
“I love you too, fruitcake. I’m on my way.”
I got out of bed, made it, and headed for the shower. By the time Holly arrived, I had on a dress, had curled my hair, and had my lips glossed. In the past, egg rolls would have been the beginning of a spiral, the way to cope with anything tough that came my way. Egg rolls would have morphed into pans of fried noodles, fried wontons, fried anything. Couple that with my couch, a sloppy ponytail that hadn’t seen shampoo in days, and a marathon of My So-Called Life, and I could turn any crisis into an excuse to cocoon.
Drugs? Pfft. Egg rolls were my gateway. But now I could have my egg rolls with a side of yoga and solve my problems with a clear head. And a hit TV show . . .
Holly stayed for the better part of the afternoon, during which I told her everything that happened the night before. She kicked herself as well. Working in Hollywood as long as she had, she was convinced she should have seen this coming. It was so ridiculously clear, it was like missing the forest for the co**ine. Addict? Probably not. That couldn’t have gotten past me for too long. But the partying had certainly progressed. But while we, of course, spent time talking about the Brit, we also talked about the redhead.