Chapter 11 Miles
MILES
Summer traffic can blow me.
Yeah, let’s all take Sunset Boulevard today! Let’s all get in a tour bus and drive real slow in front of Miles Brodie. Let’s get in a convertible and play Dua Lipa really loud so the serious guy who’s trying to listen to NPR can’t hear the news.
Guess what—the serious guy’s gonna roll down his windows and blast the “Ding Dong Song” from his brother’s Baloney Pony mix, and you can all suck on it!
Fuck you, Sunset.
I wonder what Aria’s doing right now. She’s moving into Mrs. Wilson’s guest house tomorrow, so she’s probably packing up her stuff in Malibu.
I offered to pay professional movers to pack for her, but she refused.
So she’s probably busy putting all of her bikinis and scented candles and peaches and cream–flavored Chapstick in boxes.
Bending down and not wearing a bra and having two perfect ass cheeks that need squeezing.
Fuck you, perfect ass cheeks!
I would literally kiss her ass for two hours if I weren’t such a responsible, rational adult who cared about consequences.
Fuck you, consequences!
I don’t know if I care about consequences more than I care about Aria’s ass anymore, though.
Consequences might be neck and neck with her ass now.
Fuck. Even her neck is hot. I would kiss that neck for half an hour, and then I’d kiss her ass for two hours and then her tits for five hours.
That’s not obsession. That’s just good time management.
Fuck you, guy in the Honda who’s honking at me!
I’m tending to some perfect nipples in here, and it’s not like anyone on this street is moving more than five miles per hour. Jesus. Surrounded by assholes in this town.
My personal phone starts buzzing. It’s Owen.
This is why I wanted to set a conference call with him—so I wouldn’t have to talk to him while I’m driving.
Why can’t anyone do what I ask them to do?
Why does everything have to be so complicated?
I turn off my stereo and answer. “Hello. I’m driving to Soho House to meet Martin. I can’t talk long.”
“Why wasn’t I invited?”
“Because we’re going to talk about the clients we share, and you are not one of my clients.”
“He never invites me to Soho House.”
“Is this why you’re calling me? To be a whiny middle child?”
“No, I’m calling to talk to your grump ass about your lady problems.”
“My grump ass wanted to discuss that particular topic at 8:45 tonight.”
“Well, Frankie and I just decided to go to a movie tonight, so you and I are going to talk about this now.”
I roll the windows up. “Do you have me on speakerphone?”
“He does,” says his fiancée Frankie in the background. “I can go to another room, if you want. Say hi to Uncle Mahty for me. He doesn’t invite me to Soho House enough either.”
“No, stay here, babe. Frankie’s helping me with my standup act.”
“Thank God for that,” I mumble.
“Actually, you can help us settle a little argument we’re having, Miles. Which word is funnier? Vulva or uterus?”
“Well, yer mom thought my vulva was pretty hilarious last night,” Frankie quips. “Huhhh? Funny, right? Bonehead over here is trying to overload a joke about my uterus.”
“Your uterus should be comfortable with the epic length and girth of my jokes by now.”
Jesus, these kids are so fucking in love and cute together I want to drive my car off a cliff.
“Vulva is a funnier word, but neither vulvas nor uteri are a laughing matter,” I bark.
“Well, not with that attitude.”
“Yeah, keep your dirty jokes off my vulva,” Frankie says, but I can tell they’re being all snuggly and lovey-dovey over there and I want to vomit.
“Can we talk about my very serious situation for three seconds before I throw my phone out the window?”
“Yes. Proceed. Frankie can offer a woman’s perspective on how big of an idiot you’re being about whoever you’re being an idiot about. Who’s the lucky lady?”
“This is strictly confidential and it’s not a thing yet, so do not repeat this to anyone—especially Dylan. Do you know who Aria Cross is?”
I hear Frankie gasp. “OMG. Aria Cross from Great Vibes? I had a massive girl crush on her when I was fifteen. I almost wanted to go surfing once because of that show. But then I remembered there are sharks in the ocean and I don’t like to exercise.”
“Isn’t she Tyler Holden’s ex?” my asshole brother asks.
“They broke up over three years ago, and how do you even know that?”
“I think Martin mentioned it when he signed him. How do you know her?”
“She’s directing that musical that Macy’s starring in,” I remind him—conveniently leaving out the minor detail that I’m performing in the musical too.
“Oh, right. You mean the one that you’re playing the Cheshire Cat in? The one we’re all going to on opening night? Are you having a showmance with your director, you saucy little minx?”
“Awww, I love that, Miles,” Frankie coos. “She seems like such a pleasant, easygoing person. You deserve to have a fun summer fling with somebody wonderful who’s nothing at all like you.”
“But she’s my client’s ex,” I say. “They used to live together.”
“They broke up over three years ago,” Owen reminds me.
“Yeah, but he’s weird and sensitive and emotional. You know how creative types are.”
“Yeah. We’re very sensitive. And you’re just making excuses because you’re a scaredy-cat. Tell him, babe.”
“I don’t know. If it were me—if someone who represents me started dating one of my ex-Justins, and if I actually cared about any of them—I’d feel a little weird about it. Lawyers and agents and managers are supposed to have their clients’ best interests at heart.”
“Lawyers and agents don’t have hearts,” I point out.
“Good point. I misspoke,” she admits.
“Well, I boned my manager’s niece and he got over it.”
“Yeah, but my uncle never boned me. See the difference?”
“I mean, I feel a little sick now,” Owen replies, “but no. I don’t see the difference.”
I feel like a third wheel in this conversation that’s supposed to be about me.
This is how it’s going to be for the rest of my godforsaken life.
I’ll be the third wheel around Owen and Frankie.
I’ll be the third wheel around Dylan and Scarlett.
I’ll be the third wheel around Mama and Pops.
One day, in the very distant future, I’ll be the third wheel around Macy and her boyfriend whom she will never have sex with.
Owen continues. “I mean, Tyler Holden’s really talented.
He’s one of the coolest clients you’ve got, Miles.
But if he decides to leave you because of this, you have other clients.
And you can sign more clients. How many women have you actually been interested in in your entire life?
Clara and this woman, as far as I know.”
“Well, when you put it that way…” Frankie says. “If it’s a fun showmance fling, that’s one thing. If it has the potential to be something more than that, then…I think you need to talk to your client about it first. But then again, maybe it matters more how Aria feels about things.”
“Okay. This was not helpful and I’m pulling into the parking garage now, so goodbye.”
I hang up on them.
They both made valid points, and I am exactly as confused and frustrated as I was before they called me.
Now I have to put on my game face and discuss Tyler with Martin.
We’re sending another one of Tyler’s scripts out at the end of this week, and we’re going to strategize over impeccably prepared shrimp tacos and sweet potato fries.
God help me, Martin will probably insist on calling Tyler so we can give him a pep talk.
Tyler’s a talented filmmaker, but he’s neurotic and needy and I can’t believe he got to see Aria naked every day for years and he’ll probably win an Oscar for his next film. What a dick.
The restaurant at Soho House is filled with low-key celebrities, plants and small trees, and it’s flooded with natural light.
It’s beautiful here, and I hate it because I’d rather be here with Aria.
I’d rather be anywhere with Aria. Instead, there’s Martin Hancock waving at me from a big table—and he’s with Shane Miller, Nico Todd, and Alex Vega.
They’re all so good-looking and smile-y, I want to throw food at them. How dare they.
“Hello, gentlemen,” I say. “It’s so wizard to see the three of you together like this.”
“Ohhh!” Shane exclaims, pretending no one’s ever said that to them before. “He said that because we were on the show That’s So Wizard! together—did you guys get that? So clever and original.”
“Was Vega on the show too?” Nico deadpans. “I don’t remember that.”
“Yes, I was,” Alex says. “I wish more people would bring up the Disney Channel show I was on when I was a teenager. I certainly wouldn’t want to be known for the award-winning plays I’ve directed and the stellar film I have coming out this year, starring Dylan Brodie—the talented younger brother of some asshole who thinks he’s hilarious. ”
“Hey.” I point a finger at him. “Owen’s not that big of an asshole.”
“Owen Brodie is, in fact, just as talented as Dylan and just as big of an arsehole as Miles is,” Martin says. “There, I just did my job representing him. Should we snag our table?” he asks me. “I was just stopping by to say g’day to these bastards.”
“No, no, let’s hang out. I haven’t seen these guys in ages.” I take the remaining seat at the table. Let’s not talk about Tyler and never call him and not think about what his ex-girlfriend’s nipples are doing right now.
“Hey, did you guys hear the big news?” Shane says. “Miles Brodie has taken up acting and will be treading the boards in a brand-new Alice in Wonderland musical along with his daughter and my twins later this summer.”
Nico nearly does a spit-take, but he still manages to look cooler than everyone else in the room. “That is not at all surprising, and I am only low-key looking forward to recording that on my phone and then posting it to YouTube.”
“Smiling and nodding to show my support.” Alex grins. “Wishing I’d been the first to cast you in a stage production.”
“Why is this the first I’m hearing of it?” Martin asks. “Do I need to give your contract a squiz? Do you have everything you need backstage? Juice boxes? Union-mandated nap time?”
“It’s not a big deal. Just a father-daughter bonding thing.”
“Speaking of not-big deals,” Shane says, looking very concerned. “How’s your love life?”
I pick up a menu and hold it up in front of my face. “Should we order?”
“How is your love life, Milesy?” inquires the Aussie. “You seem even more tense than usual, mate.”
“Uh-oh,” mutters Alex. “This sounds like a job for the Lazy Wingmen.”
“Nope.”
“Here, lemme get this.” Shane raises his water glass to his lips and starts muttering in the general direction of two women at a nearby table.
“Hey. See this guy over here? He has a job that rhymes with schmawyer and a car that rhymes with Schmee Schmem Schmubbayoo. Maybe you could let him touch your schmoobs sometime?”
Nico nods at a lady who’s typing out a text as she walks by our table. “Hey,” he mutters. “I see you have a phone. This guy over here has one too. Whaddya think?”
Shane is doubled over laughing, even though none of this is funny at all.
“Hey, you over there with the eyes and the hair,” Alex stage-whispers into a napkin, “Do you like apples? Because this guy does too. How’d you like to talk about apples with him or something?”
“Oh, it’s a comedy bit, eh? I’m gonna get in on this!” Martin gestures for the waitress to come over and totally ignores the guys when they shake their heads and mime slitting their throats. He winks at me.
I raise the menu to hide my face again.
“Hi, what can I get for you?” the waitress asks.
“How ya doin’, lovey? Put the bill for this table on my tab, yeah, and my mate over here could use a nice gobby.”
“A what?”
“A gobby. Y’know.”
I can’t look, but I’m sure this poor waitress is so confused. I really hope “gobby” is a Harry Potter character or Australian slang for a slice of apple pie with ice cream, perhaps. But I have a feeling it’s blowjob-related and Martin might get his membership to this very exclusive club revoked.
“Actually, lunch for the table is on me.” Shane changes the subject as he and the other two wizards get up. “We’re gonna head out.”
“Great to see you, elder Brodie,” Nico says. “Break a leg.”
“I really want to see your show,” Alex tells me, patting me on the shoulder, “but I’m guessing you really don’t want me to.”
“Absolutely right. Please don’t come.”
“You got it. Happy for your daughter, though.”
“Thanks, man.”
“I’ll see you at the theatre when I pick up the twins one of these days, right?” Shane says. “Summer’s super stoked that Aria Cross is directing.”
“Yeah, see you around, probably” is my response as I deftly avoid talking about Aria.
The Lazy Wingmen abruptly leave me alone with Martin, who is furrowing his very tanned brow at me when I finally lower the menu.
“Aria Cross is directing you in a musical?”
“She’s directing my daughter in it, mostly. I have a small part in the show.”
“Tyler’s ex, Aria Cross?”
“Yeah. They broke up over three years ago. She’s a very talented musical theatre person now, and she cast Macy as the lead in the musical she wrote.”
“Uh-huh.”
I can feel him staring at me, so I stare down at the menu. I have the whole thing memorized by now. “End of story…”
“Pretty girl…” he says.
“Is she? Did we order?”
“You must see her at rehearsals, though, yeah?”
“First rehearsal’s on Saturday. Think I’ll have the steak. How ’bout you?”
“But you auditioned for the part?”
“Not really, no.” I put the menu down and stare back at him.
I’m dying to talk to him about this. Maybe he’ll be on my side.
I’m not sure what my side is right now, but Martin’s my friend.
My business-friend, but still. We know each other a lot better than we know Tyler Holden.
I’m the one who got Tyler to sign with him.
If I have Martin’s blessing, then maybe I’ll feel better about how desperately I want Aria to give me a gobby…
“She’s giving my daughter voice lessons,” I tell him.
“Aria is. And she’s coaching me too, a little. ”
“Aw, fuck me dead.” He scrubs his tanned, stubbly face. “Just stop right there, all right? Don’t tell me anything else. I want plausible deniability. What is it with you Brodies?”
“Well, nothing’s really happened yet.”
“And nothing ever will, as far as I know.”
“I’m just saying there’s nothing to tell.”
“Not interested in knowing either way.”
“Fair dinkum.”
“Incorrect usage.”
“Bonzer.”
“Also incorrect.”
“Strewth. But this won’t affect my ability to negotiate on Tyler’s behalf, is all I’m saying. Not that ‘this’ is anything or ever will be anything.”
He keeps shaking his head at me. “Fucking Brodies.”
“I know. We’re the worst.”