30. Grey
Chapter 30
Grey
“ I ’m sorry again,” Aspen says as we drive away from the film festival toward her house in Hidden Hills. The divider is up in the car so our driver can’t hear anything we say unless we press the intercom button, meaning we’re free to drop the dating ruse.
“Oh, please. You think I wanted to be stuck in some pretentious film festival? I’d much rather be alone with my fake girlfriend in the privacy of our own chartered car.”
She smiles, which brightens the entire car. She’s stunning, there’s no other word for it. The type of elegant beauty that captures the attention of everyone in the room without even trying.
She bats her eyelashes dramatically. “Aren't you just the dreamiest fake boyfriend a girl could have?”
“I sure am,” I say, grinning. Then more seriously, I add, “I know the feeling. Hollywood can be suffocating.”
“You do?” she asks, eyebrows knitting together.
“Does that surprise you?”
“Yeah, actually,” she says, tilting her head slightly. Her sapphire eyes search mine curiously. “You always seem so nonchalant, like nothing really gets to you.”
“Believe me, things get to me.”
“Like what? You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, it’s really none of my business anyway,” she backpedals, a slight flush forming on her bare cheeks.
I pause, my heart racing. I’ve never told anyone this before, and the thought is daunting. Of course, my brain tells me it would be a mistake to tell her. That I’ve only known this girl for a couple of months, and we’re not even really friends. My brain also points out she’s literally being paid to spend time with me.
But my heart whispers that I can confide in Aspen. That maybe she’d even understand.
“Promise you won’t judge me?”
“Bible. I promise.”
I sigh, steeling my nerves. Here goes nothing. “People tend to see me as more of an object than a person. And I know I’m a man, and women often have it much worse, but I think that’s a little bit of the reason why it happens so much to me. People think that because I’m a man, it isn’t harassment, or assault, or whatever else.”
“Like you told me on our empanada date. How people don’t have any boundaries around you.”
“I’m impressed you remembered that.”
“Of course I remembered.”
“Well, yeah, exactly. It’s the little things, like being touched by strangers without my consent, being talked about more for my body than any acting skills I might have, being seen as a sexual conquest more than an actual person with thoughts. But they add up, and it really takes a toll on a person. For example, of course it’s flattering to be voted Sexiest Man Alive. But to be the only guy to have won it twice , yet I’ve never actually won a serious acting award? It just rubs me the wrong way. Like all people see when they look at me is my face, or body, or whatever. Not my personality or talent or even my shortcomings. And I’ve never landed any of the films I’ve really wanted to be in.
“Don’t get me wrong, I’m extremely grateful for my career and all of the privileges it has afforded me. It’s an honor to be James Bond, and an honor to be working with you and Jack Mack. But I’ve practically been typecast by Hollywood as ‘Hot Guy #1.’ I’ve tried out for countless other more serious roles, but I’ve never gotten them. One of my dream roles was the Underground Man in Notes from Underground . And I made it to the third round of callbacks but they eventually cut me, and said—seriously, Aspen, they really said this—that they loved my performance and they wished they could cast me, but I was simply too attractive for the role. That me playing the main character would detract from the film’s overall message.”
“That’s awful,” she responds, eyes wide. “I can’t believe they actually said that to you.”
“Yeah, I’m kind of grateful, in a way, that they were honest. The other casting directors never said that, but never gave me any notes either. It led me to draw the same conclusion, but then feel crazy and narcissistic for even thinking that. But nope, turns out it was true.”
Her voice is soft as she asks, “So, what can you do?”
“Nothing, really. Just deal with it. But it sucks. I actually took a year off from acting a couple years after I began because it was just getting too much for me to bear. I was nineteen at the time and was already getting inappropriately touched and spoken to by female superiors. It made me really depressed. There was one incident in particular that made me reach a breaking point.”
Aspen nods encouragingly, so I continue. “I was at a cast party for a film I was in, and one of the producers, she was around forty-five or fifty at the time, brought me a drink. I took it and we chatted for a while, but then I started to feel really weird. Like dizzy and weak and when I tried to stand up, I fell into the wall instead. Luckily, one of the other actors on the film noticed I wasn’t doing well and he promptly got me out of there and made sure I got home safe. As far as I know, he thinks I just got too drunk, or was mixing drugs or something. But that was only my second drink and I’m a big English guy. I can hold my alcohol a hell of a lot better than that. And anyway, I’ve never felt so exhausted from drinking, even after a full night out—I was fighting to keep my eyes open.
“Long story short, the only possible explanation is that that woman tried to drug me. And to make matters worse, now she’s married to a twenty-two-year-old actor who she’s groomed since they met on a film when he was sixteen. The woman has kids older than him.”
“Oh, Grey,” Aspen says, reaching to hold my hand. I let her. “I’m so sorry. That’s absolutely disgusting, she should be in prison. That poor other guy. Is there anything we can do about it?”
“No. I actually sought him out and tried talking to him the second I heard they were involved, but he brushed me off. Her claws were already in too deep, the kid was totally brainwashed. There was nothing I could say to change his mind.”
Aspen shakes her head. “Wow. That's just awful.”
“Yeah, so anyway…” I say, trying to lighten the mood. “That’s my Hollywood trauma. I guess we all have some, in a way.”
“Yeah. I’m really glad you were there with me tonight, Grey. I’m glad you’ve been my costar too.”
“You too, Aspen,” I say, wrapping an arm around her. She leans into my touch.
“Just so you know—I mean, just to clear the air…” she starts, twisting her head to look up at me from where she’s nestled in my arm. “I’ve had a rough year, mentally. If that wasn't evident by now.”
“You don’t have to share anything you don’t want to share, Jordan. But I’m here to listen if you do want to talk about it.”
She sighs airily. “My mom was diagnosed with cancer in the spring. She’s been a fighter the whole time. It’s just second nature to her, she’s so strong. I, on the other hand, have never been strong like her, or either of my sisters. I was already so stressed out about Fairview Ridge ending and where my career would go from there. So seeing my mom suffering through treatments every day—she was staying in LA at the time—was too much for me. I couldn’t handle it. I just shattered.”
And I know what Aspen means. Sitting here with her curled into my side opening her heart to me makes me ache like her feelings are my own. I squeeze her gently, urging her on.
“That was the peak of a really bad anxious cycle I fell into. My parents didn’t know what to do with me, I was just crying uncontrollably and couldn’t really get the words out to tell them what was wrong. I don’t even think I knew what was wrong myself. Anyway, they took me to the ER and the doctors there gave me a choice: either I could do intensive outpatient therapy or I could stay for a few days in an in-patient care unit. I chose the second option.”
“How was it?” I ask, not knowing exactly what to say. I want to be sympathetic but not condescending and I feel like that line is very fine in this scenario.
“It was good, actually. It was a chance to take a step back from everything and just focus on me . Which I know sounds so selfish because I have all the fame and money in the world and my mom literally has cancer, which at the time was very touch and go… Thankfully, she’s better now.”
“I think that was the right move. It’s never a bad thing to focus on your own wellbeing.”
“I agree. Anyway, that’s my sob story. Are we trauma bonded now?”
“I think we were trauma bonded the second Jack Mack first saluted us.”
Aspen laughs. “True.”
We spend the rest of the car ride in comfortable silence, the dim roar of the car’s engine overpowered every so often by the revving of motorcycles, cries of birds, or laughter of tourists. Eventually, we pass through the gates to Aspen’s house and the car rolls to a stop at the end of her long driveway.
I regrettably disentangle my arm from around her, even though it’s long since fallen asleep and is begging for some circulation, and walk her to the door.
“How chivalrous of you,” she comments with a satisfied little smirk.
“You know me. By the way, I don’t think I ever told you how impressive this place is. You have your own little compound here.”
It really is a beautiful house. It’s a huge—8,000 square feet, easily—modern-style home, and looks brand new. The exterior is sparkling white and light brick, accented with sleek black trim. The landscaping is also immaculate, as there doesn’t seem to be a single pebble or blade of grass out of place.
“My parents insisted I get something with top security, and I wanted a pool,” Aspen answers, shrugging off the compliment. “And anyway, when you have a family as ever present as mine, you need some extra bedrooms for them to crash in.”
“That’s as good a reason as any,” I say. We’ve reached her doorstep and are now just standing there, looking at each other. For a second, I think she’s going to invite me in. But that would be completely inappropriate—right?
“Well,” I say, cutting the tension. “I guess this is it. See you next week, Jordan.”
I turn to head down off the porch, when Aspen says, “Wait. Aren’t you forgetting something?”
I furrow my eyebrows. “Am I?”
She rolls her eyes. “Aren’t you going to kiss your fake girlfriend good night?”
“Oh,” I respond, completely taken aback. But I only hesitate for a heartbeat. “Fuck yeah.”
Then I close the distance between us, wrapping an arm around her waist as I pull her close and kiss her, dipping her in the process.
An adorable, surprised giggle escapes her as she clings to me. Then she kisses me back with fervor, like it’s the last time she’ll ever get the chance. Her lips move in perfect harmony with mine for a few blissful seconds before she pulls back, righting herself in the process.
“Good. Very believable.”
“I think so,” I say, relegating my hands to my pockets because I’m scared I’ll reach out and pull her in for another kiss, if given the chance.
“See you next week then.”
“Good night, Jordan.”
And, goddammit, I can’t wipe the smile from my face until I’m halfway back home.