My Unscripted Life

by Lauren Morrill

  “You’re nothing like I thought you’d be,” I say instead. “Or what I thought you were after I actually met you, for that matter.”

  She laughs, then leans into the mirror, dabbing at her eyes with a paper towel. “What can I say? I contain multitudes,” she replies, her tone wry. “So I take it you’re going to give it a go with Milo?”

  “I think so,” I say, hoping I sound sure and wishing I felt it.

  “Good,” she says. “I think you’ll be good for him. He never really did fit in with all the Hollywood bullshit anyway.”

  I’ve never been so happy to be a Hollywood outsider in my life.

  The rest of the day is pretty tame. Lydia gets her line on the first take back from the break, and every time after that for all the close-ups and various shots. Then Rob calls, “Check the gate,” and we move on.

  The last scene we’re filming is actually from the middle of the film, where Kass is watching Jonas paint in his bedroom when she gets the call that her father has died. Lydia is fantastic, a fact I can admit now that I know she’s not trying to steal my boyfriend or ruin my life. When her character gets the news her face goes completely blank, then slowly starts to chip and crumble until she’s a wailing pile of tears. It’s incredible to watch her do take after take, each time managing to go from composed to a wreck with big, fat tears rolling down her porcelain cheeks. She’s good. Really good.

  And when Milo steps forward and gathers her in his arms each take, his face buried in her hair as Jonas tries to comfort Kass, I don’t feel a dump truck of jealousy running me over. Not even a bit. Because I don’t see Lydia and Milo, I see Kass and Jonas. It’s breathtaking.

  After the final take, Rob steps out from behind the monitors and shoves the roll of papers that I’ve come to know as his trademark into his back pocket. He removes his Yankees cap, runs his hands through his salt-and-pepper hair, and then replaces it with both hands, a big grin on his face.

  “Well, people, that’s a wrap!” he calls, and the crew let out a thundering of applause along with a few whoops and woo-hoos. I’m midclap myself when someone comes up behind me and covers my eyes.

  “Guess who?” Milo asks.

  I spin around. “You know, that only works when I’m not intimately acquainted with the sound of your voice,” I reply with a grin.

  “Oh? ‘Intimately,’ you say?” he says, and I instantly blush.

  “You know what I mean,” I say. I glance around at the crew, who’re starting to break down the camera equipment and the lighting rigs. My excitement over the final shot melts away. It’s over. It’s really over.

  My face must give me away, because Milo ducks slightly to look into my eyes. “Are you okay?”

  “Uh, yeah,” I tell him, though I’m mortified that I let a tiny sniffle escape. We still haven’t talked about what’s happening next, but whatever it is it’s coming soon. I heard Lydia confirming her flight out of Atlanta. A red-eye. Tonight, after the wrap party.

  Milo is unconvinced. I’ve proven once again that I’m no actress. But he decides to overlook my reaction, which I’m not sure I appreciate. “So I was thinking I could pick you up for the wrap party?”

  “Yeah, okay,” I reply, realizing this was yet another missed opportunity to figure out what happens, well, tomorrow. “Walk me out?”

  Milo throws an arm around me and pulls me in close to his side. I nestle my head up into the little nook he makes for me and fall into step with him. Even though his legs are infinitely longer than mine, we fall into a comfortable stride. We make our way through the warehouse, stepping over fat bundles of cords and dodging crew members hauling equipment back into the storage lockers.

  “Oh, wait, I have to say goodbye to Ruth,” I say. “Mind if we make a pit stop?”

  We make a quick turn and double back through the warehouse and down the hall into the prop closet. I don’t see Ruth at her work table, but I hear some rustling coming from behind one of the shelves, so I make my way back. I start to call for her, but as soon as I turn down the last aisle of shelving, I’m stopped in my tracks. Leaning up against a rack of dishware is Lydia, and she’s got herself draped all over a bearded guy in cargo shorts and an orange T-shirt, with socks and bandanna to match.

  “Benny?” I yelp, then cover my mouth with both hands. Lydia’s head snaps to me, her hair flying in a silky red sheet. Benny hops a little like he’s been zapped by a jolt of electricity, then shoves both his hands into his pockets, his eyes on his shoes. “Wait, the guy you’re seeing is…Holy crap! Benny?”

  “It’s Ben,” he says, hunching his shoulders up to his ears and shuffling his feet.

  “Is everything—” Milo says, skidding around the corner and smacking into my back as soon as he sees what I’m seeing. Even though they’re no longer attached at the lip, it takes only one look at the pair of guilty faces for Milo to figure out what was just happening. “Wait, Lydia?”

  The whole scene is ridiculous, and I can’t help myself. I start to laugh—low giggles that I’m able to suppress at first, but soon they start to burst through my lips, objecting to the silence. Before long, I’m emitting borderline-hysterical laughter, the kind that makes me feel like I might just pee my pants, and I have to bend over, hands on knees, to try to contain myself. I actually have to squat because I’m so afraid the force of my laughter is going to send me toppling to the floor anyway.

  “Um, Dee?” I glance up at Milo, who is looking at me like I’ve just gone completely bonkers. And honestly, I sort of feel like I have. “Are you okay?”

  “I—” I try to tell him I’m fine, but I can’t even get the words out between giggles.

  “Is she okay?” Lydia asks, which somehow just sends me further into hysterical giggles.

  “Seriously, Dee?” Milo squats next to me with all the patience of an orderly at a mental hospital.

  I take some big gulps of air and try to let them out slowly, and I start to feel myself calming down—though a few stray giggles still sneak in. My cheeks are aching, more from trying to suppress the laughter than the actual hysterics. But I’m starting to get ahold of myself.

  “I’m sorry,” I gasp. “It’s just that, this is all so insane, right? I mean, I’m with you”—I point at Milo—“and Lydia Kane is making out with Benny Orazi!” I point at Benny, who is still blushing so hard I’m surprised his cheeks haven’t caught fire. “I mean, we used to play freeze tag in the Parads’ backyard, and now look at us!”

  Milo, Lydia, and Benny are all crowded around me now, looking at me like I’ve grown a second head. And then it starts. Milo cracks first, laughter sputtering out from between his pursed lips. Lydia goes next, a melodic and somewhat maniacal laugh coming from deep in her throat. And finally, red-faced Benny, who lets out the sort of geeky horse laugh that I remember from when I was twelve.

  “You guys didn’t get into the helium tank, did you?”

  We all wheel around to find Ruth standing at the end of the aisle, arms crossed and looking like we’ve completely lost our minds.

  “Where are we going?” I ask.

  I’m in Milo’s truck, turning onto the highway out of town. The wrap party is at a little Italian place downtown that Rob and the rest of production has rented out for the night. It’s known for its checkered tablecloths, cheesy garlic bread, and meatballs the size of your fist, so it’s hard to imagine it full of Hollywood people. But we’re not headed downtown.

  “I figured we’d take a little drive,” he says, but there’s a glint in his eye that tells me he’s got something in mind. With the way he keeps his eyes on the road, it’s clear he’s definitely not going to tell me what it is.

  Milo rolls down the windows, and I sink back into my seat, my feet up on the dash, and let the warm night air blow through my hair. Tonight I’m going to do it. I’m going to ask him what happens next. I have to. It’s my last chance. It’s like my mother always says: Nothing like a deadline to kick your butt into gear, right?

  I spend the d
rive practicing what I want to say. Or, actually, trying to figure it out. When the truck turns onto a dirt road, I still don’t know. But it doesn’t matter, because I suddenly realize where we are. The trees line up in neat rows in either direction, tiny dots of light from fireflies dancing around their trunks. Then the canopy of live oaks appears, and then we’re pulling up in front of Westfell Grove.

  The sun is starting to set, and those first fireflies are dancing around the trees in the early dusk. There was a brief storm about an hour ago, so everything smells earthy and damp. I lean my head out the window to take in a deep breath of the summer evening.

  Milo puts the truck in park and climbs out, then hurries around to my side to open my door for me, since I’m too busy staring at the house to open it myself. I’ve never been here at night before. There’s a full moon tonight, bright as a streetlight. It’s sending the shadows of trees pulling along the front of the house in long, lazy angles. But something looks different. Out of place. I can’t quite put my finger on it.

  Milo takes my hand, the familiar calluses on his fingertips brushing along my skin. I hop down from the passenger seat, my feet landing squarely in damp dirt driveway.

  “What are we doing here?”

  Milo looks at the house, then back at me, practically knocking me back with the depth of his gaze. He bites his lip, then takes a deep breath. “I wanted to show you my new place.”

  My head snaps toward him so fast that my hair whips around and sticks to my glossed lips, which are parted in shock. I sweep it away, my hand lingering on my cheek as I try to compute what he’s just said. His new…Does he mean…?

  I look back at the house, and I suddenly realize what looked different. It’s so obvious I can’t believe I missed it. The ancient plywood that covered the windows on the first floor is gone. Now you can see the rows of floor-to-ceiling french windows, all flanked by tall black shutters, that run along the front of the house. And they’re new. Clean. Freshly installed. They sparkle in the moonlight. It takes my breath away.

  “How?” is all I can manage, as I keep looking from Milo to the house and back again.

  Milo starts toward the porch, still holding my hand, so I shuffle along behind him. We climb up on the steps, still crooked and sinking.

  “I called the owner and asked him what he wanted for it. Then I offered him a little bit more to make the deal happen quickly,” he says, and the glint in his eye from earlier is now a full-on light show. He’s practically glowing, between his eyes and his smile and the light from the moon. He shoves his hands deep into his pockets and rocks back on his heels. “You’re looking at the new owner of Westfell Grove.”

  “Oh my God,” I whisper. There are sparklers in my chest crackling and popping, burning a growing heat that’s rising through my body up to my brain.

  Milo’s smile falters. “Are you good surprised? Or creeped-out surprised?”

  “Good surprised!” I practically shriek the words, the full meaning of what he’s done washing over me. The house is his. He has a place here. A place with me. “Definitely good.”

  His smile widens until it practically glows brighter than the fireflies.

  “I’m just completely shocked. I was planning on asking you tonight when you were leaving, but I guess not?”

  Even though this is all but an answer, I still need him to confirm it. I need him to say it. I look into his eyes, and when he shakes his head, I swear my heart turns a cartwheel. I fling myself at him, wrapping my arms around his neck and practically tackling him with such force that he lets out an oof of breath. The porch railing creaks behind him.

  “Careful, I haven’t done any work on the exterior except for the windows,” he says, his voice muffled in my hair. When I finally release him, he smiles. “I’m glad you’re happy. I was a little worried you were going to be freaked out. But this summer, with you, out here, I felt free. Like I didn’t have to duck or hide. I realized I can’t go back to LA.”

  It’s real.

  “So you’re staying here,” I say, waiting to hear one last time for the cheap seats in the back.

  “I’m staying here,” he says. “I mean, I’ve got to go back to LA to pack up. I’m keeping my house for when I need to be there, and also because my accountant told me not to sell it. And obviously I need to do some serious remodeling of this place before I can move in. But yeah, I’m staying.”

  I can’t keep my mouth from hanging open in a wide smile. It’s just too good. Better than I’d hoped.

  “Oh, I almost forgot.” He trots back to the truck and pulls out a cardboard tube from behind the seat. He pops the top off and pulls out a roll of papers, which he unrolls on the hood of the truck. They’re blueprints, the top one of the front of the house as it will look when it’s restored. No more crooked shutters, no more missing panes of glass, no more sagging porch.

  “So I’m going to have them restore it as close to its original beauty as possible, with a few upgrades, of course,” he says.

  “You mean like central air?” The sun may have set, but it still feels like a sauna out here.

  He laughs. “That, and I’m going to put a studio here.” He points to an outbuilding that’s been added to the back of the property. “Screw my label. I’m going to do the album that I want, now and forever, even if the only person who listens to the music is you.”

  I shake my head, trying to wrap my brain around what’s happening, but all I can focus on is the tally of kisses. It’s just gotten much, much larger. As I rise up on my tiptoes to kiss him, the number doesn’t subtract.

  This one is a freebie.

  ORIGINAL MOTION PICTURE SOUND TRACK

  1. “Closer to You” by Brandi Carlile

  2. “Starlight” by Taylor Swift

  3. “Feel Like Makin’ Love” by Bad Company

  4. “Overkill” (acoustic) by Colin Hay

  5. “Two of Us” by Aimee Mann & Michael Penn

  6. “Ain’t Wastin’ Time No More” by the Allman Brothers Band

  7. “Skinny Love” by Birdy

  8. “Helpless Hands (If I Go Under)” by Hayward Williams

  9. “Farewell” by Bob Dylan

  10. “Love Will Come to You” by the Indigo Girls

  11. “The Power of Love” by Huey Lewis and the News

  “Nazaneen is here!” Dad calls from the hall.

  Outside, I hear Naz honk twice. I take one last look in the mirror to make sure there are no visible stains on the vintage white cap-sleeve party dress I’ve chosen for the evening. I’m sure that’s likely to change (because I’m me), but for now, I’m all good.

  I grab my purse from my desk and head out into the hall, running into Dad.

  “You’re going to change before you go, right?” I ask.

  “What’s wrong with my outfit?” It’s the first week in October, and classes at the college are in full swing. Dad is out of his running shorts and back in his professor uniform of khaki pants, tweedy blazers with worn elbow patches, and various threadbare button-ups. He looks fine for the classroom, but I’m hoping he’ll put on something less wrinkled for tonight.

  “I’ll make sure he puts on something that doesn’t scream ‘dusty historian,’ ” Mom says. She’s still wearing her new NYU T-shirt. We just got back from the college trip I put off all summer, visiting several schools up into New England. We visited Pratt and RISD, but now I have my heart set on NYU, where I can double-major in studio art and film. Or change my major entirely if I have another crisis of direction like the one I experienced this summer. I know now that I need to keep my options open, both for my future and for my own mental health. “Don’t worry, I’m ironing my dress, too.”

  “We’ll see you there,” Dad says as I bolt for the door. Naz is honking again. She doesn’t like to be kept waiting.

  When I reach Naz’s car, I climb into the backseat, since shotgun is occupied by Colin, the guy she met at Governor’s School who she calls her “dude friend,” but who is clearly her boyfr
iend. Colin lives two towns over, so he and Naz manage to see each other most weekends. I don’t mind sharing her, since she forgave me for the unfortunate lies of omission I told via text over the summer. Turns out she was spending quite a lot of her summer operating her own heat-seeking missiles at one sandy-haired aerospace engineer. She and Colin are so perfect for each other that she overlooks his love of the Yankees.

  “Hey, Colin,” I say as I buckle my seat belt.

  “What?” He jumps a little, like my presence in the car surprised him, even though Naz has been honking for five minutes now.

  “Excuse him,” she says, putting on her blinker as she pulls away from the curb. “He’s still sort of jittery about tonight.”

  “Am not,” Colin says, but his tone is clipped, and from my spot in the backseat I can watch him rub the back of his neck repeatedly.

  “He’s just a person,” I say. It’s the refrain I’ve been using since senior year began and pretty much every single person in my school, whether I’d met them before or not, tried to find a way to ask me about Milo.

  “I know,” Colin says.

  “Besides, he’s taken,” Naz adds, and Colin blushes.

  When we arrive at the familiar old dirt lane, the crumbling brick gate is gone, replaced by a shiny new iron gate with a call box. Naz pulls up and rolls down the back window so I can lean out and enter the code. The gate smoothly, silently glides open.

  The property still has the same majestic quality as before, with the canopy of trees hanging low over the driveway, but it’s gussied up quite a bit now. The leaves of the pecan trees are just starting to turn golden. It’ll be a few weeks before the grove is blazing red. The grass has been trimmed, all the errant weeds removed. Overall it’s just a better version of itself, like it’s dressed up for the first day of school. Even the dirt road feels more groomed and orderly.

  But it’s nothing compared to the house itself. The last of the remodeling finished last week with an exterior paint job. The peeling, moldy old siding is now a bright, spotless white. The shutters have all been repaired and coated in black, and the front door, with its newly installed stained glass, is made of oak and shiny with lacquer. Lights twinkle in nearly all the windows, making the house look alive for the first time in a very long time.