Better than the Book: A Romantic Comedy (Charitable Endeavors Book 4)

by M. E. Carter

• • •

  “Man, I’m so glad to be out of that conference for a while and into the sunlight.” Matthew closes his eyes and tilts his head up to the sun. “I know I’m good at my job, but holy shit. People in the finance industry can be soooo booooring. They just drone on and on about numbers, their pasty white skin practically glowing.”

  “Talking about math all day sounds like my worst nightmare.” I chuckle as the waitress drops our plates of food in front of us. “I’m almost surprised you didn’t get hit on. I bet you were the tannest and most in shape of anyone there.”

  He grabs his napkin and shakes it out before dropping it on his lap. “I try really hard to ignore anyone attempting googly eyes. Years ago I made that mistake once. It did not end well. Besides, I’m fresh off the best honeymoon ever. Well, except when Carrie got in an argument over pet adoption.”

  “She wanted to adopt a pet internationally?”

  “She wanted to adopt an Australian possum. You should have seen her arguing with the guy. I really think she wanted to bring one home.”

  “A possum?”

  Matthew nods as he takes a bite and chews his food, a twinkle in his eye as he tells me about Carrie’s efforts to adopt a rodent. Or whatever possums are. The only point of reference I have are the ones that used to sit on the wall behind my parent’s house and stare at us in the dark. Creepy bastards.

  “Your wife is a little crazy.”

  “Nah, she’s passionate about animals. Especially any with a disability.”

  I’m still trying to wrap my brain around the idea of them having a pet squirrel and now he adds in the possum tidbit and I’ll never look at Carrie the same again.

  “Enough of that. I’ve been instructed to get the real story about you and Celeste. Carrie thinks she’s holding back and is worried about her.”

  Choking on my burger, I swallow and take a drink from my beer before clearing my throat and giving him my attention. “Worried why? Is something wrong? She’s been a little distant and I figured it was because she’s tired from the production.”

  “Relax. She’s fine. My wife, gosh I love saying that, anyway, she just worries about Celeste. It’s hard for her with them being so far apart. They are the closest of friends but most of their time together is virtual.”

  “If you’re sure. Maybe I should call her again.”

  I begin to shift in my seat, checking my phone for a message from her. Matthew has me worried.

  “What went down with you two anyway? I know you snuck off during the reception and spent that last day together after we all left the resort. Then when Eddie called me after he couldn’t reach you for a week, I knew something else was going on.”

  Will he believe me if I tell him I have no idea? Because it’s the truth. There’s more to it, but we didn’t have enough time to figure things out for ourselves.

  “We’re friends.”

  Matthew chuckles lightly and shakes his head. “I think you’re a cool guy, Hunter, but I’m friends with Celeste too. And I don’t think I’d be as stressed as you obviously are at the mention that she may be in some sort of trouble. Admit it. You like her.”

  Scoffing, I reply, “Of course I like her. She’s cool. We’re friends.” And I have no idea why I’m downplaying my feelings. This isn’t an interview where I need to be careful with my words. This is Matthew Roberts. My friend. He’s more trustworthy than a slimy reporter. Still, I fight to hold back because I just don’t know.

  “Mmhmm. And?”

  “And what? We spent time together. I had some time off after the wedding, so I hung out with her in New York. I got some much needed rest. That’s it.”

  “If you got so much rest why do you look like shit?”

  Ignoring his comment, I take another bite of my burger and watch as he pulls up his phone and begins tapping away on the screen. Matthew is silent for a few minutes, clearly concentrating on whatever he’s looking for on his phone. It allows me enough time to think of a new topic of conversation. Finances. That’s as far away from this conversation of feelings as we can get. Instead, he continues beating a dead horse before I can swallow.

  “I’ve known Celeste for a while now. She’s part of the package with Carrie. Her and Luke. And Jamie. Damn my wife has a big circle. Anyway, when we were going through our wedding pictures, Calypso said this was her favorite. She said these two people looked really happy together.”

  Turning his phone my direction, I look at the screen and my heart jumps. I expected it to be a picture of him and Carrie. Maybe them saying their vows or their first dance. Instead, it’s me and Celeste. We’re both a few drinks in, that much is obvious by the red cheeks we’re both wearing. With her in my arms, we’re looking at each other, smiling as we dance under the white lights and moonlight. Her arms are draped over my shoulders and I can almost feel her fingers weaving through my hair.

  “Maybe I’m overstepping but right now you look like shit. Celeste looks sad. Neither of you look like the two people in this photo. I know it’s none of my business but if I’ve learned anything in the last few years it is that when you find the person who makes you want to be better, who brightens your days without trying, you’d be stupid to let that go.”

  His statement doesn’t require a response and honestly, I’m not certain there is one. Comparing my relationship with Celeste to the one he has with his wife is like comparing apples to oranges. But I can’t deny I understand what he’s getting at and it leaves a lot for me to think about.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Celeste

  “Do you have the rehearsal schedules for everyone?”

  I’m barely listening to Manuel rambling off instructions to the cast, instead absentmindedly doodling on my to-do list. The extra ink is going to drive me crazy later, but right now the fidgeting is helping me feel more anchored. Carrie’s words about how love works keep running through my mind.

  For the last few weeks, honestly ever since Hunter left, I’ve had this weird out of control feeling. For someone like me who prides herself on schedules, lists, and staying on task, feeling all over the place isn’t a comfortable feeling. Fidgeting on a piece of paper seems to calm that anxiety for whatever reason I don’t want to think too hard about. However, it also comes with the unintended consequence of distracting me from my job. Could Carrie be right? Am I broken-hearted? Is that why I’m so absentminded?

  “Celeste.”

  “Hmm.” I look over at Manuel, who is sitting next to me at the long table we use for rehearsals. I use it to take notes and whatever else Manuel needs. He uses it to house about a dozen empty paper coffee cups. I really need to bring him a travel mug every day.

  “Are you okay?” he asks as I jot down the word “travel mug” on my to-remember list.

  “I’m fine. Why?”

  “Because I’ve asked you twice for the printouts of our rehearsal schedules.” He not angry with me. But he does look concerned.

  I give him a half smile, face flush with embarrassment at being called out for my lack of attention and pat his arm in an attempt to smooth things over. “I’m fine. A little off today but nothing a good night’s sleep won’t fix. Here.” I hand him three dozen copies of our schedules that have been organized and color coordinated according to importance—green for the leads, blue assigned to the understudies, and orange for the general cast. Eventually, I’ll email the entire production a final version but until then, we need everyone to confirm there aren’t any conflicts.

  As with most artsy-type jobs, pay is low at this phase of production, so most of us have a second job to bring in enough money to pay the bills. Fortunately for me, most everyone in this cast works in a restaurant at night so creating an itinerary for daytime hours was relatively easy. I’m grateful for that. I’ve seen some calendars that were really wacky when a main actor had a day job. Talk about scheduling conflicts.

  Fortunately, my mood has not affected my mad organization, and nothing needs to be changed. Except maybe my attitu
de.

  I try to tune back into the conversation as they go over some blocking for a particularly vital scene, but my thoughts continue to wander. It’s not that I don’t enjoy working on this production. I really do. The play is well written. The cast is so very talented. The skeleton crew that’s starting to build the sets are fantastic. Even the producers are relatively chill compared to others I’ve worked with in the past. The problem isn’t anything to do with the job. All my feelings are because I made a big mistake.

  I brought Hunter to work with me for the first couple of days and now all the memories that flood my mind when I’m here are of him. Hunter reading through lines and following Manuel’s blocking instructions. Hunter laughing with one of the producers, who still doesn’t know he wasn’t just some scruffy wannabe actor but a bona fide movie star. Hunter winking at me when he caught me watching him from across the room.

  It all happened just feet from where I’m sitting and because of it, the loss of him is heavy. Which makes no sense since we were together for such a short amount of time. There were no expectations and no rules. Just two people getting to know each other and liking what they found.

  And now he’s gone.

  I try to remember that while he’s off walking red carpets with beautiful coworkers, I’m back to eating Ramen noodles and slogging away, riding the subway every day. Our lives were just too different for anything between us to work out. That’s what I need to stay focused on.

  Well, that and work.

  Rehearsal finally wraps up and I smile as brightly as I can while Manuel gives me last minute information he needs sent out to the crew on some potential changes to the set. And then I’m alone again…

  walking down the streets of Manhattan…

  riding the subway to my stop…

  meandering toward my building…

  opening my front door…

  “Hi honey, you’re home!” Anna yells around a mouthful of Ding Dong, her trusty guitar lying carefully on the coffee table.

  “Where did you get those?” I ask as I close and lock the door behind me. “Are those Hunter’s?”

  She shrugs in indifference. “If there is food in my apartment, I will eat it. Besides, he still owes me from that Twinkie incident.”

  “He bought you a brand new super-sized box.” I drop my bag on the floor and plop down on the couch, beginning the process of removing my shoes.

  “And it was a good start. But he still broke my roommate’s heart and for that he must pay.”

  I freeze, one shoe almost all the way untied, wondering how she came to that conclusion. “He didn’t break my heart.”

  She shoots me a look and says, “Okay.” Her tone means she’s not buying what I’m selling.

  “What? It’s true.” I continue getting rid of my shoes because I may be wearing sneakers for safety and comfort, but that doesn’t mean my peepers don’t hurt after a long day.

  “Then what’s with the moping around lately?”

  I scoff. “I have not been…” Yet another look that means I can’t lie to her. I sigh. “Fine. You win. But I wouldn’t call it heartbroken. We weren’t together long enough for that. I think. It was just a fling so maybe just disappointment.”

  “You mean heavy disappointment.”

  “Fine,” I concede.

  “So heavy you mope around all the time.”

  “Fine. Okay. I get it. I’m a grump and I’m difficult to live with.”

  Anna holds her hands up in front of her like I’m the one who started this whole thing. “Whoa there. Calm your tits. I didn’t go that far with my assessment.”

  I sigh and drop my head onto the back of the couch, arms wrapped tightly around my bent legs. “I promise I’ll be fine. It’s just taking me a little bit to get over the loss of him being here. I think maybe the emotion of it all is a little unexpected so it’s taking me a little longer to push through this weird feeling. It’s also making me hungry.”

  I snatch up the box of Ding Dongs and pour the last one into my hand with a maniacal laugh as she protests.

  “I was going to eat that!”

  I shrug. “If it’s in my apartment, I’m going eat it.”

  “Touché, my dear friend.” Cramming the last bite of her faux cupcake in her mouth, Anna grabs the box and begins breaking it down for the trash. “You know what else I do when I’m feeling down in the dumps?”

  “What?” I take a bite and moan in delight. She’s right. I should have been emotional eating all along.

  “I write.”

  And I choke on my bite.

  Not concerned by my impending death, Anna calmly hands me the glass of water she has on the table and I drink down its contents quickly, just trying to stay alive.

  When the Ding Dong is finished trying to kill me, I’m finally able to speak. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I think you do. There is a manuscript that’s been sitting on this table in that exact same place for close to a year.” She points and waves her finger around.

  “It is not,” I argue. “Hunter moved it over a bit.”

  Anna smacks my leg lightly. “Seriously, Celeste. That screenplay and that dumb convention were the only things you talked about for like two years. They were your goals, remember? You finally made it to the con and came home with the best kind of parting gift, if I do say so myself.” She waggles her eyebrows making me huff a small laugh. “Why aren’t you working on that second dream?”

  I shrug sheepishly. “I have writer’s block.”

  “And now that you’re an emotional mess, you might find yourself unblocked.” She grabs the notebook off the table and tosses it on my lap. “And if not, it won’t hurt to get some of your feelings on paper. Many great stories have been written because someone opted to write for free instead of pay for therapy.”

  With those parting words, she grabs her guitar and heads to her room, closing the door quietly behind her.

  I think about what she’s said and how getting my emotions on paper might be the key to getting out of this funk I’m in and unlocking my creativity. And then I remember Hunter’s words.

  “Maybe you’re stuck because your passion is plays over movies.”

  And then it hits me and as Anna predicted, the wheels start spinning with solutions to every corner I’ve written myself into. The entire story plays out in my brain like it’s happening in front of my eyes. Quickly, I grab a pen out of my bag and flip open the notebook, frantic to get everything on paper before I forget.

  Taking a deep breath, I put my pen to the paper and write.

  And write.

  And write.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Hunter

  It’s been a few months since the wedding in Turks and Caicos. Months since I’ve overindulged in whiskey. There’s a reason I don’t do it often and last night’s events would be why.

  My most recent go-around didn’t lead to laughter, long talks by moonlight, or a beautiful blonde. No, last night I gave in to my shitty mood and exhaustion and drank until I could see the bottom of the bottle and then passed out. On my couch. In my underwear. Aren’t movie stars sexy?

  Unlike the morning after I drank a little more than I usually do with Celeste, today I woke up feeling like a truck ran over me. Then backed up and did it again for fun.

  Dog shit. I feel like dog shit. But, at least I finally slept and didn’t have dreams of the East Coast and a different life.

  The shower I took and the greasy bacon and egg sandwich I scarfed down this morning didn’t help but at least now my pounding headache is more of a low rumble. That is thanks to the empty bottle of children’s rehydration drink sitting on the table.

  Now, my future sits before me on the table. The same table my proposed contract with Prince of Darkness has been sitting on since I returned home. A stack of papers waiting for me to sign my life away. Or at least commit to three more seasons with the show. Every provision I asked for has been met and then some. Ap
parently when I wasn’t looking, Eddie added in a few stipulations that would allow me to dip my toe in the producers pool as well.

  It’s everything I wanted and some of the things I’ve only dreamed of. Yet, I can’t seem to sign it. That was a contributing factor to my drunken weeknight. The stress of these decisions weighing heavier on me than I let on. At least I’ve learned to keep this type of behavior to the confines of my condo. Or a tropical island where I know there isn’t any press.

  Eddie expected me to scribble my signature on the dotted line without a second thought. Truthfully, I did too. This is what I’ve worked for. This is why I’ve sacrificed a life. To get a contract like this. The series is hotter than ever and unbeknownst to the public, the plan is to go out on top with these next three seasons being all that remains. Other shows have done this in recent years and the move has catapulted not only the ratings but the actors to the next level.

  It should be an easy decision. And still I continue to ignore the document and the decision. The idea of being committed to the show for years to come seems daunting. Stifling.

  The ringing of my phone draws my attention from the show I’m watching, which incidentally is not at all vampire related. As I reach for the phone, I mute the television.

  “Hello?” I greet without looking at the screen.

  “My son is alive. Thank goodness. Daniel, we can stop printing the missing posters!”

  My mom has jokes. “Very funny.”

  “I thought so. Your nieces and nephews think I’m quite funny. Perhaps since you’ve missed Sunday dinner more than you’ve made it, the fact that I’m quite the comedienne has escaped you.”

  Ah yes, mother’s guilt, we meet again. I’d almost forgotten what it was like to be on the receiving end of her passive aggressiveness. Paola Stone is forthcoming and outspoken when it comes to most everything. Except when it comes to laying on the guilt. That she saves for casual and sometimes dramatic comments.

  “I’m sorry. I promise to be there this weekend.”

  “What’s going on, Hunter?” Her tone softens from one of reprimand to genuine concern. That almost makes me feel worse. “You’re busy, I know that, but you’ve always made time for your family. It’s been months since we’ve seen you.”