by Stacey Kade
When I turn the key in my door, I can hear Bitsy scrambling across the floor and barking her little head off.
My head hurts and my back aches from carrying tension in my shoulders all day—the price of being in charge. I’m ready for tomorrow to be a day off, even if it is Thanksgiving. It seems every part of my life is in turmoil. Work. My dad. Katie. Calista.
I feel like I’m in one of those action-adventure movies from the eighties, where the floor is dropping out from under me in every direction.
And even trying to do the right thing—helping Calista—isn’t enough to make it stop. If anything, it just made the pieces in that direction crumble that much faster.
“Just give me a second, brat,” I tell Bitsy through the door, fumbling for the knob with all the folders, script pages and my tablet in hand. The last thing I need is for her to hurt herself trying to get to me.
When I get the door open, Bitsy immediately leaps at me, dancing on her hind legs. It’s enough to make a smile pull at my reluctant mouth. At least someone’s happy to see me.
After bending down to scoop her up with my free hand, I kick the door shut and stumble toward the living room, trying not to drop anything.
My general plan is to let everything fall on the couch, a soft landing for Bitsy and the tablet, head directly to the shower, then order take-out, possibly. If I don’t fall asleep first.
And no thinking allowed. It will all be there tomorrow.
A few years ago, I would have headed to a club or thrown a party to drown out all the shit in my head. But now, a hot shower, some broccoli beef, and maybe an episode of Fantasy Island sounds better.
But that plan is swiftly derailed when I walk in to find the couch occupied. Katie is sitting on the far end, her overnight bag at her feet.
I stop, startled. Both by her presence and the flash of irritation it triggers. I work to squelch the irritation—it’s not fair, and I know it.
Katie gives a small wave. “Hey.”
“Hey,” I say, struggling to keep my grip on a squirmy Bitsy. “Stop,” I tell Bitsy in the low voice that usually snaps her to attention.
Katie smiles at me, but her eyes are red and watery. My heart sinks. This isn’t going to be good.
“I hope you don’t mind, I used my key,” Katie says. “I didn’t want to wait in the hall.”
“Of course not, that’s why I gave it to you.” I shuffle toward the couch, the empty end, leaving a trail of papers behind me—damnit—and put Bitsy down.
She wags her tail at me and immediately whines to be put on the floor. Oh, no, I know this game. She wants down so she can jump at me and demand to be picked up again. Jesus, this dog.
I leave her where she is, though I have to keep an eye on her to make sure she doesn’t take a header off the couch in a misguided attempt to get down on her own.
“What’s up?” I ask Katie, trying not to sound too curt. But I meant what I said last night about needing time to think, and right now, I’m too tired for more drama.
“You’ll need to remember to give Bitsy her heartworm pill every month. You can’t forget,” Katie says, her voice sounding choked.
“What are you talking about?” I drop everything else—papers, folders, tablet—on the coffee table. And only then do I see the small gray jewelry box on the corner of the table. Her engagement ring.
And sure enough, when I turn to look at her, her left hand is bare. “Katie,” I begin.
Katie shakes her head. “Don’t, okay?” She takes a breath, but it sounds clogged and rattle-y with tears. “I’ve been thinking about this a lot.”
I push Bitsy over carefully and sit on the edge of the sofa. “It was one fight,” I say, rotating my shoulder, trying to get the muscles to loosen up. I’ve been skipping the gym this week, and this is the punishment.
“It’s not the fight. Well, it’s not just the fight,” Katie says. She folds her hands in her lap, her index finger tracing the blank space where her ring used to be.
“I’m not sleeping with Calista,” I say tightly. Yes, my feelings toward Calista are confusing, and I’ve been thinking about her a lot more lately. And that might be a problem in and of itself, but I haven’t done anything.
“I’ve had time to think about it, and I believe you,” Katie says, after a pause.
“Thanks,” I mutter.
“But why not?” she asks.
I stare at her. “What?”
“Why aren’t you sleeping with her?” she asks very carefully, as if each word is an egg that needs to be cushioned.
I stand up and pace away from the couch. “Because … I’m not that guy anymore. Because we’re together.” Or we were.
I turn to face Katie.
“Not because you don’t feel that way about her, though.” Katie nods to herself, as if I’ve confirmed something she only suspected.
My temper flares. “Katie—”
“Eric, I don’t want to be your prize for good behavior, a symbol that you’ve changed.” Then she gives a bitter-sounding laugh. “And I really don’t want to be your security blanket.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” I demand.
She holds her hand up. “Hear me out.” But she doesn’t say anything for a long moment. “I always knew it was risky. We are really different. We don’t have the same experience of the world.”
I want to argue with that, but I can’t.
“You’re not supposed to expect to change someone, but you were already changing. And I thought if I could help you, maybe then we would grow together. And it seemed to be working. I mean, we had fun together, right?” She tries to smile through her tears.
I jerk my head in a nod.
“But when I saw you with her, I realized that it was different. This,” she gestures to the space between us, “is safe for you. You don’t feel that same kind of passion.” She swallows audibly, as if forcing herself to choke down something.
I make a frustrated noise. “Passion doesn’t mean anything. Calista and I have torn each other apart over the years, sometimes literally.” Hurt and inappropriate lust, two predominant themes in the years we’ve know each other.
Katie looks toward the ceiling, and she’s smiling, but tears are rolling down her cheeks. “I don’t want to be your mature choice, Eric. I want you to want me the way you want her. As crazy and scary as those feelings might be.” She takes a deep breath. “I deserve that.”
“I do want you.” But even to my ears, the sentiment rings hollow. The shape of the right words without the depth of feeling behind them. Shit.
“Because you see me as a sign that you’re on the right track, that you’re getting your life together, even as you fight with me about what that life should look like.” Katie shakes her head. “We want different things. You have something to prove, and I get it. I do. But I don’t want to be an accomplishment for you.”
I open my mouth to protest, but I realize, too late, that she might be right. The growing-cold feeling in my gut—it’s not sadness, or even hurt. It’s fear. And not like I’m afraid of what it’ll be like to wake up without her, more of what I might do without her.
Like she’s the guardrail there to keep me safely on the road, and I’m the car that might careen out of control without her presence.
That sucks. For her. For me. For both of us, I guess. Because that’s not a relationship, that’s some messed up, codependent shit. At least on my part. Though it might not just be me because I still think Katie was probably happiest when I was at my most messed up and in need of fixing.
“So … what happens now?” I ask, my shoulders slumping.
She bites her lip. “I don’t know exactly. I think I can still cancel the invitations. And we’ll have to let everyone know.”
I wince.
“I’m keeping my dress,” she says with a small laugh. “I look good in that thing.”
“I hope that you’ll still … I would still like to see Bitsy,” she continues, wiping her face with the side of her han
d. “And you. Just maybe not for a while. I’ll text you another veterinarian recommendation.”
She stands and picks up her overnight bag. “My stuff,” she says with a self-conscious shrug. “I’ll leave your key on the table at my place. You can get it when you…”
When I box up the rest of my belongings. A process I’d already started a couple of days ago, even if I hadn’t realized that’s what I was doing. Pulling away.
“Katie … I’m sorry.” I don’t know what else to say.
“I know.”
She passes me, going the long way around the coffee table to leave plenty of room between us. But then she pauses at the threshold of the living room. “You deserve to be happy, too.” She sounds choked but utterly sincere. “To go after what you really want, what you’re afraid to let yourself have.”
I’m not sure it’s that simple. But I don’t say anything. Because what else is there to say?
With that final pronouncement, she leaves the room, and a few seconds later, the door to the hall clicks shut quietly.
No shouting, no accusations. Just over. The swiftness of it is stunning, the ultimate band-aid removal. And it hurts a little, but not … enough. I sag against the back of the couch.
It’s not supposed to be that easy to end the relationship that was going to be the rest of your life. But everything with Katie was easy. And I used to think that easy meant right or better. Now, I’m not so sure. Now, I’m wondering if easy is a cop-out.
19
CALISTA
“Welcome!” Rawley greets Lori and I as soon as we walk in, gesturing for us to proceed through the reception area to his office. It’s small in here, nothing like the sharp, glossy look of RSP’s main location. I’ve been there a couple of times, once for an audition and once with Eric, after Rawley issued a command performance. I never made it past the waiting room either time.
I’ve always had the impression that Eric’s dad doesn’t like me very much, which works out well because the feeling is mutual.
Once Lori and I are settled in the black leather chairs in front of Rawley’s desk, with him in the massive chair behind it, he smiles at me, all artificially white teeth and fake emotion. “I’m so happy you could meet on such short notice, Calista.” He rocks back in the chair, crossing his leg over his knee. Like this is a casual, between-friends conversation.
“So short I didn’t even know I was coming,” I say, with an equally false smile. I do not trust this man. Whatever slight physical resemblance he and Eric may share is lost beneath Rawley’s smooth, lacquered layers of polish, like varnish on a wooden mask.
My mom gives a nervous titter. “Calista.”
Rawley’s gaze skims toward her and then zeros in on me again. “I wanted to speak with you, Calista, specifically.”
Because I’m special.
“I’ve watched your work over the years, and I think you’ve really got something special.” He makes an emphatic gesture, his fist closed, his thumb pressed forward, like the presidential thumbs-up.
What do you want? The itch to shout at him grows beneath my skin. But he is a powerful man in the industry that keeps my family fed and housed.
I force the corners of my mouth up. “Thank you. I appreciate that.”
Next to me, my mother makes a quiet noise in the back of her throat. To anyone else it might sound like she’s clearing her throat, politely. But it’s a sign, an audible elbow to my ribs, to be more effusive, more grateful.
I stay silent. I will not crawl to ingratiate myself with this man who treats his son like he’s used gum that somehow got stuck to the bottom of his life and won’t let go.
Rawley blinks, clearly taken aback momentarily. Then he clears his throat and puts his feet on the floor, pulling his desk chair forward. “Listen, I can see you’re a straight shooter, and I admire that. I asked you and your mother here because I have a unique opportunity that I think would be perfect for you.”
Dread pools in my stomach and then slowly begins stretching out tentacles. “Really?” I ask.
“You’ve heard of Triple Threat, obviously,” he says.
I nod. It’s his latest show, a trio of young, attractive, diverse women who solve crimes at the behest of a mysterious benefactor. The twist? The benefactor may or may not be evil, and they’re trying to determine that along with the solution for the case of the week. In other words, a thinly veiled take-off of the old show Charlie’s Angels. But it’s already renewed for a second season.
“We have a recurring role that I think would be perfect for you. A troubled teen hacker who may have insight into Mr. X’s true motivations.” He picks up a heavy-looking silver pen from his desktop, as if he’s ready to sign this deal into existence right now. “She also may or may not be Veda’s daughter.” He raises his eyebrows at me, indicating the significance of this, expecting me to be impressed.
Veda is the tall, blond, Nordic-looking one. I think.
“Wow,” I manage. In truth, if it were any other producer, any other show, and if I had any indication that the offer was genuine, I might have been excited. Or at the very least tempted to consider it, given that I’m still not sure what I want for my life. Because if nothing else, Fly Girl has reminded me how much I miss having that on-set family. The shared experience of working on something together.
Not to mention, the money. More than enough to help my mom and Wade with whatever is going on with the house.
“It would be at least five episodes for this season,” Lori says eagerly. “With the possibility of more.” She looks to Rawley for confirmation.
He gives a magnanimous nod, clicking his pen lid on and off. “We are considering making the role a series regular.”
So even more money, then. The faintest flicker of excitement moves within me. I could maybe save up enough to finish school. And if I’ve gotten my mom and Wade straightened out on the house by then, I could be free. Really free.
“Depending on how the rest of the season plays out,” Rawley adds quickly.
Ah. So Veda’s possible teenage hacker daughter will probably die in a mysterious accident as soon as Rawley can cut me loose. The season finale shocker. That feels more likely. But still. A recurring role on a network show is not a small thing. It would be a huge boost to my career (that I’m not sure I want) with a paycheck (that I desperately need).
But I still don’t understand what’s motivating this sudden generosity. Why me? Why now?
“That’s incredible,” I say, and I mean it—in the sense that it fails to meet any level of credibility. “I don’t know what to say.”
Rawley waves his hand in the manner of a generous king overturning a death sentence. “You don’t have to say anything. We’re just so pleased to be working with you,” he says, and to his credit, the words flow smoothly.
But before I can respond—or even figure out how to respond—he continues, his brow furrowing. “There is just one small complication.”
Here we go. I school my expression into pleasant blandness.
“You know how it is, always complicated with scheduling and casting.” He rolls his eyes as if he has as much control over those things as the weather. “We would need you to start next week.”
My mouth falls open. “Fly Girl is still filming next week.”
But of course, Rawley already knows that. And he can’t quite hide the smugness beneath his faux-troubled expression.
Suddenly, his long game is very clear.
“Don’t worry,” my mom steps in. “Mr. Stone has already said they’ll arrange to buy you out of your existing contract. No harm, no foul.” She beams at me, but it feels like her eyes are drilling desperate holes in my skin.
We need this. You need this. Do you know how rare chances like this are? A producer offering you a job that you didn’t even have to audition for?
I can hear her in my head without her saying a word. Suddenly, I’m wondering if this is what was behind her sudden change in attitude toward me over the
last day or so. The compliments, the kindness, the fruit-and-nut bar, even. Was she manipulating me?
That sets off a terrible ache in my chest that I can’t examine closer. Not here, not now.
If I leave Fly Girl now, it’ll shut Eric down for weeks until he can find someone else to play Evie—a prospect that sends a sharp arrow of loss through me. Fly Girl is my dream project, too, not just Eric’s. Maybe my involvement isn’t precisely what I thought it would be all those years ago, but the end result is the same—I’m helping to transform a book I love into a show I’m proud of. And recasting this late in the process may, quite possibly, kill the project entirely.
Rawley is sabotaging his own son. Even worse, he thinks I’ll go along with it. That he can buy my loyalty because he’s purchased my mother’s. That I’m the kind of person who will turn away from Eric because his father offers more. How many people have already done that in Eric’s life?
Anger on Eric’s behalf roars through me, like a fire turned loose on a pile of dead leaves.
I stare at Eric’s dad. “Why?” I ask.
My mother gasps.
“Why do you want to hurt him so badly?” I continue.
Rawley jerks back, his mouth falling open slightly. I’ve cracked his veneer.
But he recovers swiftly. “I assure you this has nothing to do with my son, no matter what you may think. My motivation for offering you this opportunity is based on nothing but your talent and a fit for our show.”
“Calista,” my mother hisses at me.
I ignore her, continuing to watch him.
He laughs abruptly, surprising me. Then he holds up his hands in surrender. “You want the truth? Fine. Here it is: Regardless of my reasons, you should take this opportunity and run with it. Who else is going to give you a chance? You had a modicum of talent and looks, but now you’re damaged goods. Unreliable. A former junkie.”
I flinch.
“Everyone knows it. And offers like this aren’t going to come along very often in your future, if at all. You need to look out for yourself.” He points his pen at me.
His words are too close to my mother’s and to the secret, panicky fears I’ve tried hard to shove down. Hearing them aloud from such an authoritative source makes my stomach turn with nausea.
