Say Yes_Ian

by Amelia Mae

  Cora: Better.

  Aya: Ugh. I’m so fucking jealous. So are you guys together or what?

  Cora: It’s complicated. We’re exclusive, but I made it clear that I wanted to keep it casual. I mean, we’re great when we’re alone, but there’s so much hiding and jealousy. And I have no idea what’s going to happen when the tour ends.

  Aya: You think Ian’ll end things?

  Cora: I hope not. But if we ever do become an item, I’m going to have to deal with a public breakup with Dylan. Plus the comments about my hopping from one bandmate to another. The tabloids with have a fucking field day with that.

  Aya: You’ll figure something out.

  Cora: And my acting life is suffering. I’m missing out on a lot of auditions back home.

  Aya: I’m sure. That video is everywhere. You look hot in it by the way.

  Cora: Thanks.

  Aya: And I mean it. You’ll figure it out with Ian. You’ll figure it out with acting. You’re a smart girl.

  Cora: Maybe usually, but I was really thinking with my vagina when I decided to follow this boy and his rock band around the country.

  Aya: Is he worth it?

  I sigh out loudly.

  Cora: Yeah.

  Aya and I say goodbye and I watch as Frasier and Niles compete to be cork master of their wine club. I’ve ordered a burger and fries and a bottle of wine from room service and all feels right with the world for a couple of minutes.

  My phone rings and it’s my agent.

  “Hello Mr. Hoffman,” I say.

  “Hello Cora,” he says, “Please call me Paul.”

  “My apologies, Paul.”

  “No need to be so formal. Not that I don’t appreciate politeness. It’s a rarity in this business,” he chuckles, “What are you doing this afternoon?”

  “Nothing.”

  “There’s an audition,” he starts.

  I cut him off, “I’m not in L.A. at the moment…”

  He cuts me off right back, “I know. While I don’t agree with your decision to follow a band around the country at this point in your career, I’ve been following the tour.”

  “Oh no.”

  “I know you’ve received a lot of negative attention, but you’ve received a lot of positive attention too. This is an audition for an indie film. It’s the lead and it’s meaty,” he says. “It’ll show you in a different light.”

  “Sounds perfect.”

  Paul gives me the basic information. The director’s last project was a critical darling in some independent film festivals and this script was written by his wife/production partner. He lets me know when and where to show up and emails me the sides for auditions.

  He’s right. It’ll show me in a different light. But, I’m hesitant about the script. It’s a feature and I’m not sure if it’s supposed to be a horror film or a slapstick comedy. It has kind of a so-bad-it’s-good quality.

  I decide to go for it.

  Actually, I decide I need this part.

  If I get this part, I feel like my decision to tour with Say Yes will have been justified. The nagging guilty feeling that I have about choosing Ian over my career will dissipate.

  Yes, I decide, it’s that big a deal.

  I clear it with the band that I’ll be taking the afternoon off for the audition.

  They wish me luck.

  I arrive at the production office and meet the director, Rodney Peterman and his wife Karen, the writer. I also meet the lead actor, Tyson Greer, who definitely has leading-man good looks.

  He was the star of his graduate acting program at UCLA.

  “It was an amazing experience,” he tells me, as Rodney and Karen finish up with the actress auditioning before me. “I know the academic route isn’t for everyone, but it was right for me. I got to take two years of my life and focus exclusively on acting.”

  “Haven’t you been acting your whole life?” I ask. “I thought everybody had. Or at least it seems that way.”

  “In high school, yeah,” he replies, “But I gave it up for something practical to make my parents happy. I had a whole career in advertising before this.”

  “And you just gave it up? Just like that?”

  He laughs. “Wasn’t easy. I disappointed a lot of people. But, I found myself hating my job and making myself miserable. If I had a wife or kids or anyone dependent on me, it’d be different. But the timing was right and I had the money. So I decided to go for it.”

  I think about it. I definitely like the sound of taking the next couple years of my life and studying acting seriously.

  “You could check out NYU while you’re here,” he suggests, “One of the top programs in the country.”

  Hmm…

  I hear my name called. I take a deep breath.

  Tyson wishes me luck before I head into the small audition room.

  I’m auditioning for the role of Bee (not Bea, like short for Beatrice and she doesn’t have a last name because this is an artsy film) in the noir style horror-drama-slash-maybe-comedy. Bee is a serial murderer with multiple personality disorder who has several deep conversations at different points in the film with her pet kitten, which I’m not sure how seriously to take.

  It’s definitely darker and more complicated than any role I’ve played before, but it’s challenging and I need to be able to show range.

  I get through my scene with Tyson, which culminates in a lengthy monologue for me and I think I do rather well.

  Rodney and Karen, however, seem unimpressed.

  “Thank you,” Karen says, “We’ll call you.”

  Knowing that this is basically industry speak for no, I feel defeated.

  “May I ask what I might improve on for next time?” I ask.

  Rodney sighs. He must deliver speeches like this a lot. I brace myself for either horrible criticism or a canned, rehearsed apology for rejection. A we’ve decided to go in another direction type of thing.

  “Your acting isn’t bad, necessarily,” he says, “It’s unrefined and it lacks nuance, sure, but you have a real presence. And you don’t hold back, which is good.”

  “Thank you,” I tell him.

  “And you’re beautiful,” Karen adds, “That’s always I plus.”

  I don’t mean to sound ungrateful for the compliment, but it frustrates me. Being pretty is a privilege, but it doesn’t make me any better an actress.

  “We just don’t look at someone like you and think you could pull off a role this… deep,” she tells me.

  Really?

  I must look insulted. I mean, I am, but I’m trying to keep my facial expression neutral.

  “You’re too pretty,” she says quickly, with a little laugh that I’m sure she thinks will lessen the sting. “Trust me, there are worse problems to have.”

  She’s right. I’m grateful for my features. But I never imagined they’d hold me back.

  “We have another role you can test for,” Rodney chimes in.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  “In the opening scene of the film, right before Tyson’s character meets Bee, he’s in bed with a prostitute. We still haven’t cast her yet” he explains.

  “What would I have to do?” I ask, fearing where this will go.

  “Well, the role doesn’t have any lines,” he says.

  “And it requires a nude scene,” Karen adds.

  Now I’m insulted. I’m not necessarily opposed to a nude scene, but this is clearly a gratuitous one.

  “So you want me to just be the pretty naked girl. No thank you,” I manage to spit out.

  I get my bag and I’m ready to leave.

  “Please don’t take this poorly,” Rodney says, “But, come on, your only credit thus far in your career is a music video for a B-list band. Be realistic. This role is actually a step up.”

  “And it could kind of work to cultivate a brand for you, Cora,” Karen adds, “There’s nothing wrong with making a career out of being the sexy girl.”

  Okay, I know tha
t this is the kind of problem that other people will hate me for, but, still, I’ve had enough. I’m thoroughly repulsed and these two can’t even fathom why. And to make matters worse, they’re staring at me like I owe them a thank you.

  I can’t even come up with the words to tell these people off.

  I just leave.

  I’m hardly in the mood for the concert tonight. I mostly just want to take my too-pretty tongue and lick my too-pretty wounds. But I’m not being paid to mope around a hotel room depressed.

  I’m being paid to be pretty. I’m being paid to lavish my attention on a man.

  I’m being paid to put my dreams on hold.

  I may not be sleeping with someone for money, but I certainly feel like I’ve sold myself.

  Well, fuck me.

  I put on a dress I’d bought earlier with Dylan. Black, super clingy, with an asymmetrical top. It leaves little to the imagination. I complete the look with dark smokey eyes and ankle boots with high, high heels.

  I look hot.

  I look the way I’m supposed to look for this job.

  I look like… a fucking groupie.

  19

  Ian

  A hush falls over the crowd as the lights go down. Then the screaming starts as I walk onstage, mostly in the dark, and take a seat at my drum kit.

  They keep screaming as Shawn comes out.

  It gets louder when Jack takes his place across from Shawn and by the time Dylan takes his place at the mic, front and center, the screaming is deafening and it feels like the roof is about to blow off.

  “Hello New York,” Dylan bellows into the mic.

  And if the screaming could possibly get any louder, it does.

  We open with Down We Go off of our new album and shift seamlessly in to Come Closer and Hold that Thought. The crowd is hanging on our every word, every note. They sing along with Dylan.

  I look around for Cora, not having seen her before the show, and spot her standing in the wings, leaning against the wall, hot as all fucking hell in a tight black dress and heels.

  God she looks good. Different. But good.

  Distractingly good.

  And… I miss the next second of the song because I’m trying to figure out whether that dress has a zipper or if I’m just going to have to tear it off of her body the second I can get her alone.

  I catch her eyes and I know she sees me, but she doesn’t smile. She stares at me with this angry-hungry look that sends all the blood straight to by dick. I’m so hard it’s painful. Thankfully, I’m sitting, so no one can tell. I try to channel my frustration into drumming, pounding the hell out of my kit in my solo during Have You Ever.

  I have to calm the fuck down. I have a big surprise for Cora tonight.

  “Thank you New York. We love you,” Dylan says, clearing his throat.

  The crowd rewards him with thunderous cheers. Shawn, Jack and I are from the L.A. area, but this is Dylan’s hometown. He always has a little extra spark when we play shows in New York and the crowd can feel it.

  “We’re gonna play one more song. This one is brand new,” Dylan tells the crowd, “This one is for everyone out there falling in love.” He chuckles and winks offstage at Cora.

  The crowd cheers, a mix of shouts and swoons and we love you Dylan.

  If only they knew, I think.

  Okay, I know I shouldn't shit on him like this. He’s be a fucking saint, finding the balance between pleasing the cameras and keeping up appearances while subsequently not crossing any lines with Cora. That cock piercing and subsequent lack of sex really is making him smarter.

  I know Dylan can’t tell the audience the truth, but I look at Cora and I immediately know that she got the message. Her face softens. Her eyes get wide.

  We start playing the first few notes of the song I wrote.

  It’s the first set of lyrics I’ve ever written.

  “This is called Spin the Bottle and this is for Cora.”

  20

  Cora

  “You’re the first thing I ever wanted,

  Turned me into a lovestruck fool,

  Now I have you and I’ll keep you.

  Kiss me, baby, you know the rule…”

  I listen to Dylan sing a new song, my song, and I love every minute of it. I recognize my own words. The words I’d said to Ian in his kitchen, daring him to kiss me. He wrote this this. I can feel it.

  It has Ian all over it.

  I close my eyes and remember that first kiss, that first night together, and it gives me chills. As I stand close to the stage, leaning against the wall in my sexy dress and fuck-me heels, I can almost feel his hands on my body as the words wash over me.

  I’m watching Ian and the rest of the band rock a sold-out show.

  They’re always good, but there’s something special about tonight.

  It’s like each of the guys is playing or singing with everything he has and it’s all coming together in this incredibly powerful way. Tonight is pure rock magic and I’m honored to be a part of it. Even if I’m only standing in the wings, looking on.

  They hit the last note on Spin the Bottle and the crowd is clamoring for more.

  One more encore.

  Ever the showmen, the guys oblige and bust out Her Name in Stars. For the first time, I really listen to the words. Most people think it’s just a catchy love song, but the lyrics are wrought with pain. It’s about a girl who thinks that after a one-night-stand, she’ll be forgotten, like all the others.

  She jokes that it’s not like the guy she’s just slept with will close his eyes and see her name in the stars.

  I know that feeling. I had it after the first time I slept with Ian. While I searched for my panties in his kitchen, hoping he’d ask me to stay the night. While I nervously made French toast in his kitchen wondering if I was overstaying my welcome.

  I still feel it when I think of this tour ending and don’t know what’s in the cards for me and Ian.

  I take a break from watching Ian to narrow in on Dylan. This song means a lot to him and it clearly pains him to sing it. But he does. And watching him sing it is so beautiful.

  I wonder about the mysterious Jane Doe. If she cut through Dylan’s cocky arrogance and forced him to remember her, she must’ve been pretty special.

  Not like some video girl who will only be remembered for being pretty. Or, maybe one day, if she’s really lucky, naked and pretty because there’s nothing else that’s special about her. Jane Doe was worthy of a song. I’m sure of it and I’ve never even met the woman.

  I look back at Ian. He’s completely lost in the music, limbs flying, sweat dripping off of him, totally at home on this stage with his band, living his dream.

  And what am I doing?

  I don’t deserve a beautiful song written about me.

  It’s only a matter of time before Ian sees it.

  The show ends. We end up in some club. I take my usual spot on Dylan’s arm and pound back three shots of tequila.

  Tequila’s never really been my friend. It makes me mean.

  But, tonight, I need to be mean.

  “Maybe slow down on those, huh?” Dylan says to me.

  Fuck off, I think, I slam a fourth.

  I look around for Ian. He’s keeping his distance from me, like we agreed on. He’s talking to a couple girls who are clearly interested in him, but he’s not touching them. He makes a joke and they all laugh hysterically, like it’s the funniest thing they’ve ever heard.

  I keep a smile on my face.

  I adhere myself to Dylan like a good fake girlfriend, paw at him lightly and kiss his cheek. It’s more PDA than normal, but I’ve decided to really get into my role tonight.

  “I like that dress,” he tells me, “You look hot tonight.”

  I know that the correct response is thank you, but I’m too deep into the insecure, bitchy, tequila-drunk version of myself to say anything polite.

  “Well, what good would I be otherwise?” I ask, practically snarling.
>
  Dylan’s had a few drinks too. We all have. Even Ian’s had more than his usual single beer. But everyone else is pulling it together a lot better than I am. The look on Dylan’s face is one of pure concern.

  “Are you okay?” he asks.

  “I’m perfect,” I answer, “Fucking perfect.”

  I order another tequila. The bartender pours it, but Dylan intercepts.

  “Cool it with the hard shit, okay,” he says. He downs the shot himself and orders me a beer.

  “You don’t get to tell me what to do,” I tell him.

  “When it’s four in the morning and you don’t have your head in a toilet, you’ll thank me,” he says.

  Fuck. He’s right. I hate that he’s telling me what to do, but he’s right.

  I sip my beer. I try to calm down.

  I look at Ian again. One of the girls is really fawning over him. She touches his shoulder, but he delicately moves her hands away. Is that for his benefit or mine?

  “Did you like the song?” Dylan asks.

  I nod. “I loved it.”

  “I think it’s going to be our next single,” he says with a smile, “Ian wrote the lyrics. I’m sure you could tell. I mean, I helped him, but it was about ninety-nine percent Ian.”

  Despite myself, I melt a little inside.

  “You’re staring at him again,” Dylan says, calling me out. “I know this is rough, but I need you to pretend to be my girlfriend, Cora, not ogle the drummer.”

  “I’m sorry. It’s been a rough day,” I apologize.

  “Bad audition?”

  I nod.

  “Want to talk about it?” he asks.

  Dylan and I have become closer, naturally, throughout the course of the tour. He’s good company and he’s had a sense of humor about the whole deal. But, besides that first day at breakfast, we don’t really ever get into really personal stuff. And I’m not really in the mood to start now.

  “Not really,” I tell him.

  He leans down to talk to me in a way that’d be a romantic gesture if our current situation weren’t… well, very fucked up.

  “I know this relationship stuff is all fake. But we are friends. At least that much is real.”