Total pages in book: 244
Estimated words: 236705 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1184(@200wpm)___ 947(@250wpm)___ 789(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 236705 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1184(@200wpm)___ 947(@250wpm)___ 789(@300wpm)
“It is,” I echo, then scratch my arm. My skin crawls. These banal words are bugs creeping over my flesh.
The letter echoes in my head.
After this final week, you’ll lie low for a bit. TJ will be busy writing. Jude will be busy in rehearsals. Then it’s Oscars, baby, Oscars! That’ll be your last hurrah together and after it you’ll be free. A few weeks later, you’ll each post a breakup letter to your socials. It’ll say—Hi Everyone. We wanted to let you know that we recently decided to part ways. We respect and admire each other and remain friends. Thank you for honoring our privacy. Jude and TJ.”
It’s awful.
In its starkness. In its blandness. In its mere existence.
I shake my head as if I can erase this message—return to sender. “I don’t want to deal with this right now,” I say.
“Me neither.”
I need something to wash the taste of this letter out of my mouth. A poker game. A roller coaster. An arcade. Vegas is the land of distractions. This ought to be easy. I scan the hotel, looking for an escape from reality. But when I see Malcolm Mann saunter past the nearby roulette game, laughing as he talks on his phone and giving us a wave, this hotel is the last place I want to be.
“Let’s get out of here,” I say.
His eyes say hell yes.
We fly out the door.
25
SECOND CHANCE SHOPPING
TJ
We map out thrift stores on our phones, and it feels like old times as we shop. Jude’s dead set on unearthing a trendy, button-down shirt with illustrations of foxes. When I told him on the Lyft ride over that I donated one a few weeks ago, he went apoplectic and insisted I get a new one stat.
But we come up empty as we hunt through Vegas thrift shop after thrift shop, though he does snag a pic of me laughing when he calls me a lumberjack as I model a flannel. We’re almost at the end of our list of stores.
Off the beaten path, far from the Strip, I push open the door to One More Time. “Last chance,” I say.
“I’m finding foxes and you’re wearing them,” he says, determined, as he marches to the racks, saying hello to a shopkeeper along the way.
The store is huge and practically deserted on a Friday afternoon. We riffle through the men’s shirts.
He grabs a teal one and thrusts it at me. “I did it!”
I crack up. “Baby, these are chipmunks.”
“No!” Jude goes full Edvard Munch.
“But c’mon. They’re cute.”
He huffs. “Fine. Whatever. Wear chipmunks. I’ll find a fox shirt online for you. I will prevail,” he says, lifting his fist.
Shopping is so much better than the hustle and bustle of the hotel. I feel like I can breathe. “Let me try it on,” I say and head to the dressing room.
Jude follows behind, and while I’m changing, I hear a frustrated oh.
“Everything okay?” I ask when I step out of the dressing room to show him the shirt.
He’s leaning against a rack of leather jackets, his brow creased. “It’s this rewrite for my character on Unfinished Business. It’s driving me a little batty.”
I move next to him. “Why? What’s wrong with it?” I ask, concerned.
He shows me the script on his reader app. I scan the scene. Jamie’s character is talking to a friend, who makes some mysterious reference about the secrets he’s keeping.
“I asked the showrunner what that meant, so I know how to approach the scene and, more so, the character. She just gave me a basic note. He has secrets from his childhood.”
I laugh humorlessly. “Don’t we all.”
“Well, not me. But part of my job is to make a believable backstory for Jamie so I can get into his character, so I’m working on that.” When Jude meets my eye, he’s thinking and then brightens as if an answer has occurred to him. His smile builds. “Hey, what’s your motivation for being secretive?” he asks, a little awkwardly, maybe joking but not joking at all.
I have a damn good answer to the question and, finally, a reason to share something deeply private at last. This might help him. “I’ll give you my motivation. Because I’ve got one,” I say, dead serious.
His smile disappears. “You. Do?” He’s stunned, and I’ve barely said a word.
I glance around. No one’s here. No photogs, no randos. Just a shopkeeper, far, far away.
So there, by the leather coats, I wipe away the cobwebs and open the drawer of secrets. “My parents got divorced when I was fourteen. I’ve told you that,” I begin, and that’s easy enough to say. That’s just a plain and simple fact. “And the accepted story is it was a happy divorce. Or as happy as a marriage ending could be,” I say, stopping before I tell him the rest of it.