Love Signals: An opposites-attract, forced proximity, only one bed, revenge romantic comedy (Love St

1. Gnarly Waves, Green Drinks, and Hair Plugs…

Hudson Finch - Malibu, California

The thingno one tells you about life in Hollywood is how rare it is to see a clear blue sky. It’s almost always smoggy, occasionally there are clouds, but that pure blue that lets you see all the way from Malibu to the Channel Islands? Almost never happens. Which is why giving shit news on a day like today should be outlawed.

I glance out at the perfect swells of the Pacific, itching to grab my board and run out into the water while my agent, Paul, prepares to give me whatever bad news he’s got coming for me. I can tell by the ‘too bright’ smile that has been plastered on his face since he strolled through my front door with a tray of green juices for him, my brother/manager, Gershwyn, and me. Paul is a total health nut, and I sometimes wonder if it’s because he likes it, or because he’s trying to normalize the whole L.A. body-obsessed lifestyle for his clients. Keeping us in shape makes his job a lot easier. But maybe that’s me being cynical, which isn’t my norm. Although, if any place on earth will bring out the cynic in you, it’s Hollywood. Everybody’s lying about everything all the time. And I’m no different.

“Say, Hudson, you might want to change out of that wetsuit. This conversation is going to take a minute,” Paul tells me, settling himself on my tan leather sectional.

I glance out the wall of windows just in time to see a barrel wave roll toward shore, feeling like a broke kid standing outside a candy store. In about an hour, the barrels will be gone and I’ll be left with ankle slappers not worth getting wet for. “Can this wait, Paul?” I ask, pointing to the ocean. “I know you drove all this way, but…”

“Wish it could, bud, but it’s really important.”

My gut tightens and I glance at Gershwyn, who looks as dumbfounded as I am. He has a sip of his juice. “Is this about the Lightningman reboot? Because we already knew they were looking at McAuliffe for that one.”

“Yeah, you don’t have to break it to me gently, Paul,” I add. “I’m totally okay not donning a pair of tights to pretend I can shoot lightning bolts out of my dick.”

Paul scrunches up his face. “I think it was out of his fingertips, but glad you’re okay with it because you didn’t get the part.”

Nodding quickly, I say, “Yup, totally fine with it. In fact, I’m great. Don’t mind taking a break from acting for the next few months. Maybe do a little surfing…” I give a head nod toward the ocean.

“It’s not just the Lightningman thing. It’s also the whole Beach Cops III flop and…” Paul says, rubbing his forehead. “Why don’t you sit down?”

I suddenly feel like I swallowed a twenty-pound kettle bell. My wetsuit tugs as I drop onto my Eames Lounge Chair, the high neckline pressing against my throat. Oscar, my mini-dachshund, gets up from his bed and trots over, pawing at my leg. I reach down and scoop him up, then give him a scratch behind his long, brown ears. In exchange, he gives me a couple of licks on my chin with his tiny tongue. “Lay it on me, Paul. What’s going on?”

“There comes a time in every actor’s career when we need to have the talk.”

I grin at Gersh, then back at Paul. “I already know about the birds and the bees.”

He offers me a polite smile, then his face grows serious again. “You’ve had a great run as the wild, fun, daring young guy, and I mean, let’s face it, the ladies love you. Love you…”

“You don’t have to sugarcoat it,” Gershwyn tells him. “Hudson’s not one of your clients with a porcelain ego.”

I offer my brother a nod. “Thanks, Gersh. I appreciate that.”

“No problem, bro.”

We both turn back to Paul who stares at me for a moment before he blurts out, “Your leading man days are over.”

What the actual fuck?!“Okay, you could protect my ego a little. I’m not made of stone.”

“Sorry, but it’s better to rip off the Band-Aid,” Paul answers.

“What are you talking about?” Gersh asks him. “He just wrapped a movie with Margot and it hasn’t even come out yet.”

“Yeah, well, the testing isn’t going as hoped.”

Uh-oh. Here it comes. “What do you mean?”

“The audience isn’t seeing you as ‘that guy’ anymore. I don’t want to get into specifics, but the studio is thinking of shelving it.” Paul picks up his juice and sucks down a few gulps while I sit with my jaw somewhere around my knees. “In fact, they are shelving it.”

Shelving it. The two worst words you can hear as an actor. One shelved movie can make you a pariah in Hollywood. Oh fuck, is this seriously happening? My mind races to figure out how the hell this happened until I key in on Paul’s comment about not wanting to get into specifics. “Be specific.”

“Yeah, Paul, be specific. Otherwise, how will we know what to fix?” Gersh asks.

Shaking his head, Paul says, “This isn’t something you can fix. It’s just … part of aging.”

“Aging?! He’s only thirty-nine years old!”

I stare at the shag rug, trying to make sense of what’s happening while Paul and Gershwyn go back and forth.

“Overwhelmingly, the audience thought you would’ve been better cast as … the villain.”

Gersh gasps. “The villain? Hudson is not a villain! Villains are played by washed-up has-beens.”

Paul pulls a face that says the phrase washed-up has-been suits me perfectly.

“Hudson? You okay, buddy?” Paul asks.

Plastering on a wide grin, I say, “I’m great. Well, not terrific. I’m a little sweaty. I should’ve taken your suggestion and gotten changed.” I chuckle a little and look over at my brother. “This thing should be called a sweat suit, not a wet suit.”

“A sweat suit is already a thing,” Paul says.

“He knows that, Paul,” Gershwyn snaps. “He was making a joke.”

“Right, yeah.” Paul nods. “Good one.”

Standing up, I carry Oscar over to the window again and stare out. The waves are already dying—the perfect metaphor for my career. Taking a deep breath, I turn to face Paul, doing my best to look breezy. “So? What do we do? How do we pivot?”

“There is one option, but I don’t think you’ll like it.”

“Hey, a few seconds ago, you told me my career was over. If you’ve got a Hail Mary pass in that playbook of yours, you better believe I’m going to take the ball and run.”

“We go full McConaughey.”

“Full McConaughey?” Gersh asks, wrinkling up his eyes in confusion. “Hudson doesn’t need hair plugs. He’s got great hair.”

“For the record, Matthew didn’t actually get hair plugs,” Paul says. “He uses some sort of cream. Rubs it into his head for ten minutes a day.”

“Really?” Gersh says. “Huh.”

Are they really talking about hair loss treatments right now?

“Yeah, apparently it’s some sort of miracle cream.”

What the fuck is going on?

“You wouldn’t think that would work.”

Oscar wiggles a little in my arms and I put him down on his bed, where he curls up into a tight ball. A wave of nausea comes over me and I pull on my collar again. “Could we get back to the matter at hand? Because, honestly, I’m freaking out just the littlest bit.”

“Right, sorry,” Paul answers. “The full McConaughey. We prove you’ve got the acting chops to play serious roles. Meaty stuff. I’m talking Oppenheimer, Killers of the Flower Moon. Get you a real Oscar,” he says, glancing down at my dog.

“Hey, Oscar is a real Oscar,” I answer, feeling defensive on behalf of my tiny buddy.

“It’s what you’ve always wanted, isn’t it, Hud? It’s why you named your dog after a trophy,” Paul says.

Yes, yes it is. But I certainly can’t admit that. Shaking my head, I say, “He’s a wiener dog. His full name is Oscar Mayer.”

Oscar opens his eyes, his ears perking up, but when no one says the magic words ‘walk time’ or ‘treats,’ he closes his eyes again.

“I don’t know. I’m not a drama guy. You said it yourself—I’ve been playing the wild, fun guy my entire career. I’m a lifeguard, a bodyguard, a ski champion.”

“Yes, up until now, but it’s time to expand your skills. Go deeper. Try something new. Show everyone in this town you’ve got what it takes to be up there with the big dogs,” Paul says. “DeNiro, Pacino, Streep.”

There is no way I’ve got what it takes to do that. I look over at Gersh, knowing I’ll be able to read the truth all over his face. If there’s one thing Gersh isn’t, it’s an actor.

He nods at me, looking one part proud and two parts scared. “You can do it. You’re constantly underestimating yourself.”

“I’d say I’m more of a realist.”

“No,” Gersh says. “What you are is your harshest critic.”

He’s not wrong about that. Well, I’m probably third harshest, right behind my father and this nasty little guy who reviews movies for the Harvard Crimson. He hates my guts. Planting my hand on my hip, I say, “Even if I did have what it takes to do a serious drama—and I doubt I do—who’s even going to give me a shot?”

“I’m repping a new director—Peter Ma. Super talented. Up and coming. He’s the next Scorsese. He’s working on a new project with the woman who wrote The After Wife,” Paul tells me.

“I loved that movie.” Gershwyn shakes his head and puts a fist up to his chest. “The part when she saves Olive from drowning? And then you find out Liam’s dying?”

Paul nods at him, looking suddenly verklempt. “It was too much for one family to go through.” He glances at me and winces a little when he sees the glare on my face. “Anyway, this script? It’s one hundred times better. It’s a once-in-a-lifetime role, I’m telling you,” Paul says, leaning down and flipping open his messenger bag. He pulls out a script and tosses it onto the coffee table. “Galaxy Studios has agreed to a package deal—Ma, Summers, and you.”

“What’s the catch?” Gersh asks.

Paul pauses just long enough for me to know we’re getting to something else I won’t like. “It’s a pay cut.”

“How much of a cut are we talking?”

“Like, indie film pay,” Paul tells me.

Gersh and I both cringe. Before either of us can answer, he adds, “But doing indie films is cool these days. It says to the world that the art matters more than the money. You get to be the hero that brings a big name to the film. Plus, it’s your chance to go to Sundance and Cannes. You’ll finally be taken seriously.”

My muscles feel all rubbery at the thought of having a film at the serious festivals. No way I belong there. “I’ve never wanted to be taken seriously. My whole thing is to keep it fun.”

“There’s only so long you can do that,” Paul tells me. “And I’m afraid we’ve reached the end of what’s been a great run.”

My shoulders drop and I let out a long puff of air, trying to absorb what’s happening. I’m being shuffled off stage and into oblivion, that’s what. Folding my arms, I glance down at the script. “What’s it about?”

He offers me his best salesman smile and spreads his arms out to the side as he announces, “A radio astronomer.”

I stare at him for a second, then say, “I don’t even know what that means.”

“People who study space. In this case, the astronomer in question was a man on a quest to find intelligent life in the Universe.” Pointing to the script, he says, “Here, take a look.”

My gut tightens as it always does when I’m asked to read something in front of people. Gersh, the only person other than my parents who knows the truth, gets up and swipes the script off the table, saving me from the embarrassment. “So it’s a space movie?” he asks, opening it up and flipping a few pages. “That’s almost a superhero movie.”

Paul shakes his head. “No, it’s not actually set in space. It’s historical fiction based on something called Radio Silence Day that took place in the 1920s. This guy, David Todd, convinced the US government to get the entire country to shut down all radio signals for five minutes an hour, every hour, so they could listen for signals from Mars. Quite a feat, if you think about it.”

“So, it’s a movie about something that failed,” I say.

“No, it didn’t fail. There just weren’t any Martians up there to talk to,” Paul says. “Todd was an extraordinary man. He also suffered from mental illness. It’s a complicated role, but it’s also about the strength of the human spirit and love and determination. Honestly, it’s a masterpiece. You can’t go wrong with a script like this.”

“It sounds like something we should look at,” Gershwyn says.

“Yes, you absolutely should,” Paul answers. “And I need an answer by tomorrow morning.”

Narrowing my eyes, I say, “Why so fast?”

He swallows hard. “It took a little … massaging to get them to give you the part.”

“Massaging?” Gersh asks, his face turning slightly red. “Hudson is a star. A leading man. And you’re telling us you needed to convince these guys to take him at an indie rate?” Looking over at me, he says, “I think it’s time for a new agent.”

Putting up one hand, I say, “All right, Gersh. Let’s not get crazy here. Paul’s been my champion through everything. If he says this is our only move, then it’s our only move.”

“It really is,” Paul tells me. He sighs, and I can tell he feels bad about what’s happening. “Look, you are a talented actor, Hudson. You really are.” He pauses, then adds, “This is your shot to prove it.”

Nodding, I say, “Give me the night to read it, okay?”

“Take all the time you need,” he says, standing up. “Well, until the morning, that is. It’s a great script. It made me bawl like a baby. Well, it made Tanya cry. I haven’t read the whole thing yet. But she loved it.” He picks up his bag and starts toward the door. “And if you do take it—which you should—I can get you set up shadowing at a SETI research facility upstate. It’ll be the perfect publicity for the film and a chance to start showing the world a new, serious side of Hudson Finch at the same time. The guy who prepares for his roles instead of just showing up. The guy that can carry a film all the way to the Academy Awards.”

“And if I don’t?”

He stares at me for a second. “They’re looking for someone to play the dad in Diary of a Wimpy Kid Six.”

Instagram Reel: Hollywood Dish with Ferris Biltmore

The video starts up, showing a young man sitting behind a large glass desk wearing a black turtleneck sweater and a bright pink beret. He grins into the camera. “Hello, bitches! It’s me, Ferris. Yes, I’m back after my impromptu trip to Paris. France, not Texas, obviously, because eww!

“And I know some of my lambs were upset that I left without so much as a ‘see you next Tuesday,’ but fear not because I always come back. And hey, sometimes a man’s got a hankering for baguettes that simply cannot be cured by the stuff they’re trying to pass off here in L.A. No thank you! I need the original. Get over it already!”

The background changes to show a silhouette of a woman. “Guess which celeb, fresh out of her third marriage, is sporting a gigantic engagement ring? I’ll give you a hint. Her last husband just won the World Series.” He taps his lips, then adds, “I’ll tell you later. But first, huge, horrible, awful, makes-me-want-to-curl-up-in-a-ball news coming out of LaLa Land. You know that movie I’ve been dying, and I mean, dying, to see? With Hudson Finch and the beautiful Miss Barbie herself?”

He pauses dramatically and shakes his head with his eyes closed, then whispers, “Shelved.”

Nodding, he says, “Yes, bitches, you heard me right. My cousin’s barber’s best friend’s podiatrist heard the news straight from the dog walker of one of the execs at Tuxedo Studios who shelved the film. And this bit of shit news brings us to a little segment I like to call, ‘Suck My Left Nut,’ where I will speak directly to the inhumans responsible for this debacle.” A graphic reading “Suck My Left Nut” appears behind Ferris’s head and he raises his voice to a high-pitched squeal. “You shelved Hudson?! You shelved Hudson?! You shelved Hudson Fucking Finch, the sweetest piece of man candy to ever—and I mean ever—light up the big screen? You should be ashamed of yourselves, you horrible, awful excuses for people. You … you robots with teeth! You complete wastes of oxygen! How dare you?! You wouldn’t know talent if it bit you on the ass. I hope your dog gets infested with super-fleas, and the fleas have billions of baby super-fleas that you can never get rid of so you spend the rest of your life scratching incessantly until you finally go insane and have to live out your days in a mental hospital for shitty movie executives with fleas. You can suck my left nut. But not righty because righty is perfectly symmetrical. You can suck the one that looks like a meatball that fell off the counter before it was put in the oven. Suck. It.”

He lowers his voice and takes a deep breath, then mouths, “Suck it.”

Ferris closes his eyes and says, “Okay, now, I know you’re all as upset as me, so now it’s time for a new segment I like to call, ‘Don’t Worry Darling.’

He points above his left shoulder where the graphic appears. “This message is for Hudson Finch. Don’t worry, darling. You’re not going anywhere. I promise. Yes, for other lesser actors, one shelved movie would be a career-killer, but not for you. You’re too perfect for that. Too perfect. You’re ethereal. You’re the living representation of an actual Greek god come to life, with your chestnut locks that fall perfectly, even if you just escaped a massive underwater explosion, and your chiseled everything, and that jawline that could serve as a ruler at NASA, and those green eyes that look like a forest bathed in sunlight. You’re going to bounce back. You will. And you will bounce higher than any freaking ball has ever bounced because you, sir, are Hudson Fucking Finch—king of the big screen, lord of the ladies, master of the disaster movies. You, my darling, are just getting started in this biz. You’re going to own this town someday soon. Own it! You will. I know you will. At least you better, or I’m going to be forced to binge watch Beach Cops and Beach Cops II then cry myself to sleep every night for the rest of my life.”

A photo of Hudson in swim trunks appears behind Ferris as he sighs heavily. “You know what, bitches? I’m too upset to tell you who got engaged. My heart’s just not in it. Maybe tomorrow. For now, I’m going to sign off and go treat myself to a bubble bath and a bottle of Nyquil because there is no way I’m going to be able to sleep after what happened to my Hudson. No way in hell.”