Acting on Impulse

by Mia Sosa

  I don’t have to survive Carter. I just need to move on.

  AFTER PAYING MY short-term parking fee, I drive to my apartment in the city’s Fairmount section. Because it’s Saturday, I zip through traffic and get to my place in less than thirty minutes.

  With one hand on the carry-on handle and the other hand holding my keys, I kick the door to the apartment closed. I’m not sure if it’s the apartment or me, but something has changed. It feels empty, or maybe I’m empty. I just don’t know. I take a deep breath and drop my keys into the bowl in the foyer. Abandoning my suitcase at the door, I sort through the mail that came in while I was gone.

  Eva’s melodious voice drifts through the apartment, which means it’s cleaning day. She’s singing to the tune of “I Feel Pretty” from West Side Story, except this is Eva, so she changes the lyrics—typically, to fit her mood.

  I feel petty,

  Oh so petty,

  I feel petty, and bitchy, and right

  And I pity

  Anyone who fucks with me tonight

  Lalalalalalalala

  Oh, I’m returning to grumpy Eva. Fantastic.

  My roommate breezes through the living room with a duster in her hands. She halts when she sees me. “What are you doing home? I expected you to come back tomorrow.”

  I’m not ready to debrief her on my vacation—not yet—so I shrug. “Change of plans.”

  She tilts her head and surveys my face. “Spill it. And don’t be cute about it, because today’s not the day. What happened?”

  Eva rounds our teal sofa, drops onto it, and sets the duster by her feet. She adjusts the neckline of her black tank top, looks up at me expectantly, and pats the seat cushion.

  I blow out a harsh breath and flop onto the faux fur armchair across from her. “I met someone.”

  Her dark eyes brighten, and she claps. “Please tell me you had copious amounts of cake by the ocean.”

  “I did not. But he was nice. And I enjoyed his company. And I kissed him.”

  Eva purses her lips. “None of that sounds like a reason to come home early.”

  “And he neglected to tell me he’s a minor celebrity.”

  She sits up, her eyes glowing and alert. “Who is he? Someone I’d know?”

  I nod. “I think so. Carter Stone.”

  Eva widens her eyes and leans forward. “The TV actor? From Man on Third?”

  That’s not how I think of him, but yes, that’s exactly who he is. “Yep, that’s him.”

  “Ooh, he’s hot.” Then she shakes her head and frowns. “But how could you not know it was him?”

  “He’s lost some weight. A lot of weight, now that I think about it. And he was sporting a beard. I’m telling you, Eva, you wouldn’t have made the connection, either.”

  “Right,” she says with a dubious glint in her eye. “So how’d you find out he was Carter Stone?”

  I give her a play-by-play of my last evening in Aruba. Afterward, she regards me with a bemused expression. “You left without talking to him?”

  “Yes,” I say, drawing out the word. “What the hell would we talk about?”

  “You could have asked him to explain why he never mentioned his true career. When you ask questions, you get answers. You should try it sometime.”

  “I ask questions all the time,” I say.

  “No, you really don’t,” she says with a laugh. “May I remind you that you left the country to escape a confrontation with Mason? Who, by the way, has stopped by twice in three days.”

  “Oh, Eva. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to leave you to clean up my mess. Is that what’s got you grumpy?”

  “I’m not grumpy because of Mason. I’m skilled at showing men the door.” She sweeps a demonstrative hand up and down her body. “This less-than-bubbly mood is courtesy of my dad.”

  Eva’s parents separated when she was ten, and her father took primary responsibility for her care after that. Unfortunately for Eva, he reminds her of his martyrdom any chance he gets. “What’d your father do now?”

  “I told him I was studying to get my personal training certification, and he was not impressed.” She mumbles something to herself. “Told me to stop futzing around.” She runs her fingers through her hair—this week it’s styled in a pixie cut—and rests her fingers at the nape of her neck. “Anyway, you’re trying to change the subject. So what happens now?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “With Carter Stone?”

  There’s not much to think about here. “Nothing. Nothing happens now with Carter Stone. He’s off to Hollywood, and I’m off to bed for a nap.”

  She rises from the couch and pulls me out of the chair. “I’m glad you got home safely,” she says as she wraps me in her arms. “And I’m sorry Stone disappointed you. But consider the bright side: You kissed a celebrity, and you and Mason are history.”

  Well, Carter and I are history, too.

  And for some annoying reason, that fact doesn’t comfort me in the way I know it should.

  Chapter Eleven

  Carter

  I RETURN FROM Aruba to the Philly condo I’m still renting for another few weeks. A day later, Julian visits me, and his appearance forces me to stop thinking about the many ways I screwed up any chances I might have had with Tori.

  “What’s up?” I ask after closing the door.

  Wordlessly, with a thick letter-size envelope under his arm, he glides past me and enters the living area.

  I plod after him, scratching my ass through my sweats and not giving a shit that I haven’t showered or tackled my beard today.

  Julian faces the wall of windows, an imposing dark-suited figure with impeccable posture. When we were younger, we’d wrestle each other to the ground, giving each other noogies and wet willies. Even the occasional wedgie was part of our bond. I wonder if he remembers that as well as I do, or if he chooses to stuff it away in some part of his brain he refuses to access when he’s in agent mode.

  I’m reaching for the remote on the coffee table when he rounds on me.

  “Is there something wrong with your phone?” he asks.

  “Nope.”

  His eyes diminish into narrow slits. “So you’re intentionally ignoring my calls?”

  “I needed a little space.”

  “I’m not your girlfriend, Carter. I’m your agent—”

  “Friend,” I say, my voice rising to match his. “Don’t forget you’re my friend, too.”

  He takes a deep breath. “If you want me to be your agent, you have to pick up the phone when I call. I can’t do my job otherwise. I half expected the doorman to tell me you wouldn’t see me.”

  “Sorry, it won’t happen again. Did you have a chance to talk to Ashley?”

  He drops his head and pinches the bridge of his nose. “She’s fine. But can we talk about that later?”

  As usual, Julian approaches our discussion like a Venn diagram: agent business in one circle, personal business in the other, and any overlapping is limited to transition sentences. Taking in the bags under his eyes, I resist giving him shit for it. “Okay, what’s so important that you got on a plane to see me?”

  “I was here for other business. Thought I’d stop to check in on you, since you’re so hard to get ahold of.”

  What business does Julian have in Philadelphia? Sure, he has other clients, several of them to keep him busy when I’m not, but they’re all in LA or New York. “Other business, huh? You cheating on me again?” I say with a laugh.

  Julian’s face reveals nothing. “It’s only cheating if we’re exclusive. And we’re not. I’d hardly be able to make a living otherwise.” He circles the couch, sits on it, and motions for me to do the same. Satisfying my need to be contrary, I take the single seat to his left and prop my feet on the coffee table.

  Julian shakes his head and pitches the envelope onto my lap.

  “What’s this?” I ask as I lift the flap and pull out a stack of papers.

  “That’s the partial scr
ipt for Swan Song. They want you to read for the lead.”

  My gaze shoots up to his. “Seriously?”

  Julian nods, a hint of a smile softening the hard lines of his face. “Seriously.”

  Getting a lead in Swan Song would be huge. Career-defining. The film adaptation of the best-selling book by the same name is still in development, but it’s already the subject of a lot of buzz. Gwen Styles is rumored to be in talks to play a fifty-something divorcée and cancer patient who falls in love with a soldier twenty-five years her junior.

  I cover my mouth and blow into my hand. “They want me to read for Alex’s part?”

  Julian again nods. “I wouldn’t have bothered coming here if it was a minor part. But remember, it’s just a read. And before they make a final decision, they’ll want you to do a read-through with Styles.”

  “Where and when’s the first read?”

  “New York. May fourteenth.”

  Holy shit. That’s two days from now. “Location shooting?”

  “New York and Denver.”

  “You think this is the right move?”

  Julian furrows his brows. “It’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”

  “But maybe I’m reaching. Playing a cantankerous soldier who falls in love with his pen pal isn’t exactly what my fans expect of me.”

  “The question is, what do you expect of yourself?”

  I expect to be perceived as more than a handsome face or a well-timed joke. I want my work to matter. Losing forty pounds for my cameo in Hard Times was my first attempt at making that happen. A featured role in Swan Song would cement it. “Point taken.”

  “So you’ll do it?” Julian asks.

  This time there’s no hesitation. “Hell, yes.”

  “Congrats.”

  I flip through the pages, my hands already itching to read and highlight my parts. “Thanks, J.”

  Julian and I discuss a few issues about my contract renewal for Man on Third.

  Twenty minutes later, he asks, “Anything else? Are we done here?”

  “Yes.”

  He removes his jacket, folds it in half lengthwise, and places it over the back of the couch. Then he turns back to me. “Okay, now that we’ve got the business out of the way, why don’t you tell me what bug crawled up your ass.”

  I collapse in the chair. “No bug. A woman.”

  “Didn’t know you rolled like that,” he says, his face deadpan. “Figured you for missionary all the way.” When I don’t hit him with a snappy comeback, he leans back and surveys my face. “Back the hell up. A woman’s got you twisted?”

  That’s not what’s going on. It’s just . . . I can’t shake the memory of Tori’s face when the paparazzo ambushed me at the resort. She’d been ready to charge into the fray in my defense, until she’d undoubtedly heard his question and figured out I’d been less than forthcoming with her. She’d furrowed her brows as her run had turned into a trot, and then she’d stopped altogether.

  With the photographer’s camera flashing in my eyes and chaos surrounding me, she’d become my beacon, and I couldn’t take my eyes off her. I’d expected her to be livid. Wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d clocked me. Instead, she’d taken a visible breath and dropped her shoulders before she turned away in the direction of the resort’s courtyard.

  “I met someone on vacation.”

  Julian motions for me to continue, his eyes impatient. “Do tell.”

  “And I liked her.”

  He again motions for me to continue, this time wearing a grimace. “But?”

  “But I didn’t tell her I’m Carter Stone, and when she discovered that small detail, she bolted.”

  Julian’s face relaxes. “Ah, she’s a challenge.”

  He’s wrong. Well, maybe there’s a kernel of truth in there somewhere, but it isn’t as simple as he’s making it out to be. “It’s more complicated than that. At first, she didn’t know who I was, and she liked me anyway.”

  “Given that you look like shit, I question this woman’s taste.”

  “Fuck you, Julian. My point is, we hung out, just as friends, and I think she liked me. It was nice.”

  “Nice? It was nice? Who the hell are you?”

  I rise from the chair and chuck the remote onto the couch. “Screw it. Forget I said anything. It’s neither here nor there anyway. She obviously wants nothing to do with me. The end.”

  Julian slouches and falls back against the couch, a million personalities away from the guy in the suit who arrived thirty minutes ago. “I’m not trying to be a dick, man. If there’s something there, why not explore it?”

  Because I misled her.

  Because I’m sure she thinks I was toying with her.

  “Because it’s pointless,” is what I tell him. Then I recount my run-in with the paparazzo.

  “Did you tell her your compelling reasons for withholding critical information about your identity?”

  “It’s scary how those words just roll off your tongue.” The observation reminds me of the jab Tori made at me at the bar. “Are you sure you aren’t a robot, J?”

  He ignores my question. “What did you tell her?”

  Needing something to do with my hands, I swipe a pillow off the couch and toss it in the air. “I didn’t tell her anything because she never gave me a chance to explain. She left the next morning.”

  Julian considers me for a moment. “Ah. Then what you need is closure.”

  “C’mon, man, it’s not like we were dating.”

  “No, but you’re feeling guilty, and you want to be absolved of your sins. Can you locate her?”

  I nod. “She manages a fitness center here in Philly.”

  Julian jumps to his feet and slips back into his jacket. “Then find her and apologize. You’re trying to get the acting role of your dreams. This isn’t the time for you to be distracted.”

  He’s right. I need to make peace with Tori, so I can be in the proper mind-set to prepare for auditions. But I want more than that, too. I want a chance to experience that sliver of magic I felt in Aruba.

  I walk Julian to the door. He surveys the kitchen and living areas as he slips into his jacket. “Nice digs. How long you plan on staying here?”

  “I have the place for a few more weeks, but I think I’m going to ask Jewel to negotiate a lease through the end of the summer. I’m in no rush to go anywhere. I’ll check in with you after the read.”

  “You do that,” he says.

  After I close the door, I lean my head against it and realize Julian never fully answered my question about Ashley. And I still don’t know what other business he had in Philadelphia. That sneaky bastard. I’ll hound his ass later.

  For now, though, I’m focused on Tori. Tomorrow I’ll find her and apologize. Maybe then I’ll be able to concentrate on preparing for the audition that could make or stall my career.

  Hard Core Daily Motivation

  Watch Out for Fitness Saboteurs

  Posted 5/13/2017 by Tori Alvarez | Leave a comment

  Hey, everyone! This month’s motivational tips will focus on “Fitness Saboteurs,” the people in your lives who undermine your fitness goals. We’ll talk about family members, coworkers, and, yes, the person in the mirror. Today we’re tackling a group of saboteurs who may be under your radar: celebrities. We covet their bodies and envy their ability to eat junk food and maintain six-pack abs. How many times have you seen a photo of a perky celebrity carrying a yoga mat, her skin dewy and her ponytail perfectly in place? Did that photo warm your insides? Be honest. Look, it’s fine to admire a fit body, but if you’re comparing your body with a celebrity’s, you’re also setting yourself up for disappointment. Many celebrities, or at least those celebrities who are photographed with yoga mats under their arms, get paid to sell us an image. Their bodies are part of their brands, commodities to be shaped and reshaped to meet consumer demands—or their latest role. Some celebrities spend hours exercising, hire celebrity chefs to plan their meals, and enhance
their natural assets. *cough* And I say more power to them, but unless you’re similarly situated, bemoaning your ability to attain a celebrity body will sabotage your fitness goals. Studies show that people who commit to a regular exercise routine because they want to improve their health outcomes are more likely to stick to it than people who do so for aesthetic reasons. So throw out that celebrity rag mag and head outside for a brisk walk—or better yet, come visit us at HARD CORE. Your body (and mind) will thank you.

  Chapter Twelve

  Tori

  AFTER TWEETING A link to Hard Core’s daily motivation tip, I roll back my chair and stand in front of the trainers’ desk in the corner of the gym. My first client won’t arrive for another hour, but I’ve been away from the gym for almost a week, and I’m eager to get back to my regular routine. Also, I need to be busy. Idle hands are Google’s best friends.

  I print several copies of the gym’s group fitness schedule and post them on the glass doors to each of the three studios. After pinning the last one to the corkboard above the water fountain, I turn around—and gasp.

  “Tori.”

  “Mason.”

  He’s wearing vintage Mason. The ensemble consists of a light gray suit that’s purposefully snug around the widest part of his muscular thighs, a bright white shirt, and a red silk tie. He wants to project confidence and power, but he’s always been woefully unimaginative about it.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask through gritted teeth.

  His smile falters at my icy tone. “Figured this would be the only way to get you to talk to me. You haven’t answered any of my calls. And Eva wouldn’t tell me where you were.”

  I stride past him and stand behind the trainers’ desk. “I’ve been out of town.”

  He visibly relaxes, picks up the orange on the desk, and tosses it in the air.

  I want to smack him for touching my morning snack.

  “Where’d you go? Anywhere fun?” he asks.

  Is he kidding? The man announces he’s single and available in a radio interview and we’re supposed to chitchat as though nothing happened? Not in this lifetime. Plus, why does he have his hands on my orange? “Seeing as I’m not anyone special in your life, I don’t imagine that’s any of your concern.”