Moth to a Flame

by Cambria Hebert

  I smiled. “Would that be okay?”

  “Well, I guess it would be okay.” He reasoned, pulling the phone out of his fanny pack. “You just want to see if she made it home okay?”

  I nodded.

  Carson hit the screen, and faint ringing filled the area between us. “I can ask her—”

  Plucking the phone out of his hand, I grinned. “Thanks, Carson. I’ll bring you a pink donut tomorrow to make up for the one you threw away this morning.”

  His eyes widened. “You saw?”

  I winked, and he started fanning his face.

  The phone kept ringing, and the knot inside me tightened. Just when I thought maybe she wasn’t going to answer at all, her voice filled my ear.

  “Am I fired?”

  Relief poured through me, and the grip I had on the cell relaxed. Then my brain registered what she said.

  “Why would you be fired?” I intoned.

  There was a pause in which I imagined her pulling the phone away from her ear to stare at it like it grew legs. It was entertaining as hell.

  “You aren’t Carson,” she said, cautious.

  “Figured if I called, you wouldn’t pick up.”

  “You don’t have my number to call.”

  She knew who it was.

  “So you would have answered?”

  “What do you want?”

  I’d just take that as a yes. Glancing up, I noted the interested audience who wasn’t even trying to pretend not to be listening. I’d give them points for that. At least they were honest.

  I wasn’t going to reward that honesty by giving them a front row seat to the rest of my conversation, so I turned and went to the other side of the room, lowering my voice. “Did you make it home okay?”

  “Well, since I’m not screaming in your ear, I would say so.”

  False bravado. Her voice was filled with it.

  It pissed me off. “Don’t be fake.”

  She sputtered.

  “Did you watch?”

  I could almost hear all that bravado slip away. The way her shaky breath expelled made my palm hit the wall.

  “They released my name,” she answered, hoarse.

  “The footage didn’t show much of your face,” I said low.

  “I didn’t want this.”

  “It’ll blow over. It seems like a big deal now, but by next week, someone else will have done something juicier.”

  “Next week.” Her voice was stricken as though I’d just sentenced her to something that would last forever and wasn’t temporary.

  “Zo—”

  “I have to go.”

  “Wait!” I said, pushing off the wall, my voice rising.

  She was quiet so long I thought she’d hung up. Swearing beneath my breath, I began to lower the phone.

  “What?”

  Jamming the phone against my ear, I said, “You’re not fired.”

  She didn’t say anything.

  “You’re coming to set tomorrow, right?”

  The desperation I felt was entirely new to me. I never had to work to see anyone. I never feared they might disappear. I never cared enough even if they did.

  I wanted to see Zoey again. My instincts told me this was a girl who would run and never look back. Not even at Nick Preston.

  “You have to come to work.”

  “Why?”

  I faltered. Why did she have to come? “We’re in the middle of shooting a scene. If you don’t do my makeup, it will look off and I’ll have to reshoot everything.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  I started to say more, but she hung up.

  No one had ever hung up on me before.

  I wanted to disappear.

  Disappearing would make me look suspicious. Like I had something to hide.

  I did, but that wasn’t really the point. The point was to make it look like I wasn’t hiding anything. Of course, wasn’t this all a moot point anyway?

  Everyone knew I was hiding something, thanks to Hollywood Access and all the blabbermouths on set.

  “It could be worse,” I told myself for the thousandth time. And it could. Really, it was all rumor and speculation. There were no actual photos of me with my real face exposed. And those claiming to see it wouldn’t have gotten a very good look because Nick had done so well covering me. So even if people did think I had some scarring, no one would really ever dream it would be as bad as it was.

  I’d have to acknowledge the foot. People saw, and if I didn’t concede the fact I had a prosthesis, it would just make people more curious. Usually, the best way to get in front of a rumor was to confront it.

  I could do that. It might even work in my favor.

  Did I actually believe that? More or less. It felt like I was trying to convince myself.

  Glancing at the TV as pictures flashed across the muted screen, my heart squeezed. That report scared me. In so many ways. Grabbing the remote, I shut it off and stared around the room, numb.

  Without thinking, I pushed up off the couch. Then I realized I didn’t have my prosthesis on. I couldn’t just pace across the room the way I wanted.

  I’d have to hop.

  Hopping and pacing were very different movements.

  Blowing out a breath, my chin dropped against my chest. Strands of dark hair fell over my shoulders, and my bangs caught in my eyelashes, making me blink furiously.

  Forgetting all about my hair, I lifted my arms, gazing down at myself. When did I put this on?

  The second I got home from the studio, I took off the sweats Nick had given me, tossing them right on the couch. I’d forgotten about them while I showered, changed, and did my best to dry off my prosthesis, which was currently upside down in my bedroom. I hadn’t been submerged enough to do any serious damage, but getting it wet like that wasn’t advised. It wasn’t something I could swim in. Those kinds of prosthetics had to be specially made.

  The foot shell was a different matter. I’d spent quite a bit of time taking it apart so I could dry it out. It was currently still disassembled, so I was going to have to get out my spare when I went to work tomorrow.

  Was I going to work tomorrow?

  Again, I looked down at the sweatshirt I was wearing. Nick’s hoodie. I didn’t even realize I put it on. I must have subconsciously reached for it and put it on while watching the Hollywood Access broadcast.

  “Why?” I asked myself out loud. “Why would I do that?”

  A feeling I didn’t like squirmed around in me, and I made a face. “I was probably cold. It was there. Watching that trash on TV was enough to make anyone feel cold inside.”

  Frustrated, I grabbed the hem, pulling the fabric up over my head. With the shirt partially inside out, my face buried in the ultra-soft fabric, I paused.

  Dropping my arms, the shirt fell back into place, and I flopped back down on the sofa. Scratching my forehead through my bangs, I gazed at the phone lying beside me.

  You’re coming to set tomorrow, right?

  A rude noise burst from my throat. He just wanted me to come so he could gawk at me, just like everyone else would. The thought made me shrink into the cushions of the couch, and my lower lip puffed out.

  I hated when people stared with that look in their eye.

  Like they were dying of curiosity, but they knew it was rude to ask. So they just looked and stared in a way they thought was noninvasive. It was. It always was.

  And the pity.

  Don’t even get me started on the pity.

  But you know what?

  I could live with those things. I had for many years. It was the feelings that arose inside me when those looks were levelled at me. It reminded me of things I didn’t want to remember and brought back memories I already battled to keep at bay.

  Those were things I hated most of all. The things people stirred up unknowingly... things people couldn’t even fathom.

  Absentmindedly rubbing my palm over my middle, I glanced down once more. Where the hell did he ge
t this shirt? Shangri-La? It felt like it was spun from clouds and beamed down from heaven.

  Seriously.

  Tugging it off, I looked at the tag. My look turned into a gaping stare.

  It was designer. This one shirt probably cost more than an entire month’s rent. Folding it carefully, I set it aside with the matching pants. I’d take it back to him tomorrow.

  Guess that meant I was going to work. Just thinking of it made me nauseous. What else could I do? Run? Hide? Let one mishap at work ruin everything I’d built for the last seven years? There really was no reason to run, was there? The cops didn’t think so.

  He can’t hurt you anymore.

  My head told me this constantly, so why did my heart struggle to believe?

  “You know you can’t do that,” I said, rubbing my temples. The sun wasn’t even up yet, and this day was already dragging.

  “Just who do you think you’re talking to, mister?”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t call you back last night, Mom. It was insensitive, and you have every right to be upset.” I wasn’t just saying that to pacify her. I actually meant it. I should have called. She probably hadn’t slept a wink, something that was proven when my phone rang ten minutes ago.

  “Well, if you aren’t hurt, why didn’t you call?” she demanded.

  I watched a few raindrops slide down the outside of the window. It was raining. It hardly ever rained in L.A. “I was distracted,” I mumbled.

  I had been distracted. Fuck, I still was.

  I couldn’t stop thinking about Zoey and if she would show up to work today.

  “Well, I guess that’s understandable given what you went through. You’re sure you aren’t hurt?”

  Groaning, I looked away from the rainfall. “I told you I wasn’t the one who fell. I just dove in the help since I was wearing a harness.”

  “I want the name of the set director. These things are inexcusable.”

  “Shit happens.”

  “I’ll be there after the sun rises. I—”

  “Mom!” I said, strengthening my voice. I tried to play the indulgent son, but I’d had enough. “You know you can’t just show up to the studio like that. It will cause commotion.”

  “Maybe if I did more drop-ins, things like this wouldn’t happen. Set safety is of utmost importance.”

  “Everyone agrees with you on that. I’m telling you I’m fine. No one was hurt. If you show up, it will only incite more press and publicity.”

  She sniffed. “Well, that would make the director happy.”

  “The woman who fell doesn’t want the attention.”

  “This is Hollywood. Everyone wants that kind of attention.”

  “She doesn’t,” I deadpanned. I felt Callie glance at me from across the seat.

  Lowering the phone from my mouth, I whispered, “Pink donuts.”

  Her eyes widened, and she leaned up behind our driver to instruct him to make a stop.

  “I’ll come see you after we finish shooting tonight, okay?”

  “I’ll have dinner prepared.”

  “I have no idea what time shooting will go to. Yesterday was cut short.”

  “I’ll have something in the fridge you can heat up.” After a pause, she added, “Something good.”

  “Don’t tell my trainer,” I whispered.

  “Please be careful,” she said after a light laugh. “If anything happens to—”

  “I know.” I cut her off gently. “I’m going to be fine. I promise.”

  When the call ended, I leaned my head back with a breath of relief. A few minutes later, the car pulled up to the door of a local donut shop.

  “Make sure they have sprinkles.” I reminded Callie. “And are pink.”

  She nodded.

  “Carl, you want anything?” I called up to the driver.

  He held up a plastic shaker, half full of his morning protein shake, and declined.

  “Should I get you a coffee with cream?” Callie asked.

  “Please.”

  After watching her fumble with the door handle for a few minutes, I reached up and hit the lock button so she could get out.

  Wincing, she glanced at me. “Maybe I should get a coffee too.”

  “A big one.” I agreed.

  As expected, the press was gathered outside the gates leading onto the lot. The amount of security buzzing staff through was doubled, and the second our car paused, it was swarmed with reporters, flashing cameras, and incessant knocking on the windows.

  My driver barely had to lower the window for the guard to wave us through. A few sleuth-y reporters tried to slip beyond the gates with the car, but they were caught and escorted back. They would camp out there all day, waiting and hoping to get a glimpse of anything they could print or put on TV that would fuel the already-swirling rumors.

  Gazing at the cars as we passed, I realized I was looking for Zoey’s, but I didn’t even know what she drove. If she drove.

  Could she drive?

  What if she didn’t show up?

  Panic met me with that last thought. She had to come to work today.

  I wanted to see her.

  “Here’s fine,” I called.

  My driver slowed, glancing into the back. “You usually go to your trailer first.”

  “I don’t need to this morning.” I held up my coffee like it was some kind of proof. Holding a hand out to Callie, I said, “Donuts.”

  “I’ll carry them for you.”

  I shook my head, gesturing for the box in her lap. “I need you to get my script for the day and find out what hair and makeup needs to do first.”

  “Right.” She handed it over, a bit of confusion in her eyes.

  I smiled. “Don’t tell me I’ve been so spoiled that you’re shocked I’m carrying a box of donuts on my own.”

  “Of course not.” She scoffed, then scratched behind her ear. The short blond hair was left sticking out when she pulled her hand away.

  “Thanks for the coffee. It’s one of the best you’ve made me.”

  “That’s because I didn’t make it,” she muttered.

  “I know.” I snickered and let myself out of the car.

  Nerves knotted high in my stomach as I pulled open the hair and makeup door. I felt everyone’s eyes turn toward me, but I didn’t meet any of them, scanning the space for only one face, only one person I genuinely wanted to see.

  She wasn’t here.

  Swallowing down the stark disappointment, I went over to where Carson stood, extending the box of donuts. “Pink. With sprinkles.”

  His dark eyes rounded. “You didn’t!”

  “I told you I would.”

  Leaving the box balanced in my hand, he pulled the lid up to look inside. He squealed, then pressed his fingers against his mouth. “How can I eat these?” His words were muffled by his fingers.

  “Preferably over there.” I motioned across the room. “So I don’t have to watch.”

  Carson made a stricken sound and snatched the box, holding it against him like it was precious. “I’ll never forget this.”

  “That’s because those fried puffs of pastry will attach themselves to your ass for the next ten years,” Laura called out.

  He gasped. “Honey, don’t you know that everyone needs a little extra junk in their trunk?” To prove it, he rotated and stuck out his khaki short-covered rump and smacked it. He glanced back at me and winked. “Men love a booty, isn’t that right, Nick?”

  “Where’s Zoey?” I asked, avoiding all talk of booty.

  Straightening, he flipped back the lid on the box to snatch a donut. Taking a bite, he turned, glancing at the door leading into the bathroom at the far side of the room.

  As if on cue, it opened, and she stepped into the space.

  I scanned her like I would the page of a script, trying to commit even the smallest details to memory.

  If I hadn’t seen her myself yesterday, held her while she sobbed in this very room, I probably wouldn’t believe it had ha
ppened. She was completely put together, the L.A. girl I’d thought she was.

  Her tall, thin frame was draped with wide-leg, high-waist jeans, the hems skimming the floor with every step she took. She wasn’t wearing the shoes she had on yesterday, the one I had to dive back into the tank to retrieve. I wondered if they were ruined after all or if maybe they were still wet.

  She had on a loose, long-sleeved white T-shirt, the hem tucked into the waistband of her jeans. Long dark hair fell over her shoulders, layers resting against her face almost like armor and the dark curtain of bangs over her eyebrows, nearly into her brown eyes.

  They weren’t supposed to be brown.

  My stare latched onto her face, remembering the glimpse she let me have yesterday and marveling at how well hidden it all was now.

  Her eyes flicked to me, then away quickly. Shoulders tensing, she walked to her station and picked up a tumbler with the string of a tea bag hanging over the side.

  Carson cleared his throat. “Who wants a donut?” he announced, moving past.

  I noticed then how quiet the room grew when she walked in. How charged and mildly uncomfortable the atmosphere became.

  Carson chattered on about donuts and some new line of sunglasses by his favorite designer launching later today. His attempt at restoring the normalcy to this room was admirable even if it only half worked.

  Zoey watched the room as she took a sip of her drink, her eyes shuttered. Pulling it down in front of her, she walked toward the center of the room, not having to ask for everyone’s attention because she already had it.

  “I have a transtibial prosthesis, which means from below the knee, all the way down, I am missing my leg and foot.” I watched her chest expand a bit when she pulled in a deep breath. Lifting up her jeans, she showed a glimpse of the prosthetic. “I was in an accident when I was young. I’m sorry if you felt like I lied. It’s not something I like to talk about. I... I’m embarrassed about yesterday, about how it came out. I hope we can all just go back to the way we worked together before.”

  When she finished talking, it was me who swallowed thickly as if I were the one who said those heavy words, as if I were the one who felt the eyes of the room.

  I wanted to speak up, to be the first to just move on with the day and make it so what she wanted could happen seamlessly. I couldn’t find the words.