Chapter 34
Chapter Thirty-Four
It’s funny, I ponder as my driver speeds past a yellow light in downtown Los Angeles, how the more you insist you will never do something, the harder life comes back to bite you in the ass.
Six years ago, I promised myself I wouldn’t come back to the city where so much was taken from me. I can only guess the universe is now laughing at the way I’m eating my words.
The navigation system shows we’re ten minutes away when the sound of my phone makes me jump.
“Hi.” My throat is dry when I speak.
“Hey, Allie.” There’s a mixture of softness and urgency in Tom’s voice. “Are you in the car already? I checked online, and your plane landed fifty minutes ago.”
I clear my voice. “Yeah, I’m in the car. We’re almost there.”
“Good, good.” He pauses, and I hear voices and commotion behind him. “How are you feeling?”
I’m surprised he’s asking. Hollywood isn’t exactly known to care about nobodies, but then again, maybe I’m being unfair. When he emailed me back yesterday, he did it with a contract, a one-way plane ticket, and a promise to make me feel as comfortable as possible through this whole thing. He also wrote that I was really brave for speaking out, and that they appreciated it more than I could ever know. He sounded genuine when I spoke to him on the phone this morning, too, before boarding the flight.
“Nervous,” I tell him honestly.
Before my flight, I gave in and checked my phone. I have several missed calls from Jada, as well as texts from her that I couldn’t bring myself to open. I need to do this on my own. I can’t keep using her as a crutch, even though I love her more than anything. I need to stay in my own bubble right now; a bubble that is fragile enough to be burst by the smallest of doubts. Shutting everything and everyone out is the only way to do this.
I also saw texts from Charlie, Jude, and Sandra. I didn’t open them either.
Nothing from Travis.
A sharp, piercing feeling stabs through my chest. Don’t think about him.
“George will tell you when you get here, but I want to remind you again,” Tom starts, pulling me out of my thoughts. “You can speak as much or as little as you want. We won’t pressure you. The fact that you’ll be speaking out at all is a big deal in itself.”
“I appreciate that,” I mutter.
“I have to hang up, but we’ll talk shortly. Thanks again for agreeing to this, Allie.”
The reminder of what I’m about to do bulldozes right through me. Last night, I didn’t sleep a wink. I couldn’t, not when I knew what would happen today. And so I did something I was sure I’d come regret—I searched my name online.
For years, I’d been terrified of the internet. It’s a wild thing, caring about what strangers think of me. I couldn’t, and still can’t, understand how people I don’t know, people who don’t know me , have such strong opinions about my private life. A private life I never agreed to showcase in the first place.
I’d never felt in control of my own narrative, not as a child and not as an adult. In a way, by looking myself up, I regained scraps of that agency. And even though it was uncomfortable, I pushed through for myself, because it was about damn time I faced my fears.
I saw dozens of differing viewpoints—that I was an attention seeker, that I was a victim, that I should speak out, that I should be allowed to remain silent—and it only proved my long-standing theory that the human brain isn’t built to take in so many opinions at once. That we shouldn’t have to.
“We’re here, ma’am,” the driver says, bringing me back to the present.
I let out a shaky breath as I take in the tall building we’re parked next to. I can’t see much other than the buzz of people coming in and out the main entrance of the TV studio, busy workers with phones pressed to their ears and important places to be.
“Ma’am?”
My cheeks heat up. “Yes, sorry.”
I rush out of the car and get my suitcase and backpack. Tom said the production company would pay for my hotel here, but apparently, I don’t have time for a stop and a quick shower. All this urgency isn’t helping my already-panicked state.
Shortly after I tell the receptionist my name, Tom appears down the hallway wearing a set of headphones and holding a clipboard. His smile is tight-lipped but warm.
“You weren’t kidding when you said you were almost here,” he says easily. “How was your flight?”
“Good.” I don’t want to be so awkward, but I’m so nervous I might throw up.
He picks up on it. “Follow me. George is dying to meet you.”
The next hour flies by. I’m thankfully allowed to take a quick shower in one of the dressing rooms. Then a man approaches me with a change of clothes—a plain white shirt and dark jeans. Once I’m dressed, someone else ushers me to a makeup chair, where one lady works her magic to make me look less zombie-like, while another straightens my hair. There’s a tray with snacks and water there, too, so I eat a granola bar and drink a whole bottle of water before I’m led somewhere else.
Every corner I turn, I spot someone’s stressed face. If this is what it’s like to work in the entertainment industry, it looks like a nightmare.
Shortly after they tell me I’m ready, Tom somehow finds me again. It feels like he’s everywhere at once.
“I apologize for the chaos,” he says as if he could read my mind. We start down a well-lit hallway. “I can only imagine how overwhelmed you must be by all this.”
“A little.” There’s no point in hiding it. “Is it always this hectic?”
He throws me a smirk over his shoulder, power walking way faster than me. “You’ve seen nothing yet.”
I gulp, then do it again when we enter a studio, a real TV studio, and I spot him—George Eden in the flesh.
I don’t know why, but my first thought as he shakes my hand is that he’s shorter than he looks on TV. His brown hair looks lighter in person too. My nerves must be making me delirious.
“Allison.” His smile is genuine. “I’m George Eden. Thank you so much for coming today. I’m happy to hear you’ve changed your mind about the interview.”
The percentage of people who have never heard of George Eden and his provocative journalism in this country is probably very low, so the fact that he introduced himself calms me down a little. I have no idea why. Maybe it’s because I expected to find a demanding, cutthroat man despite Tom’s reassurance that he’s everything but.
“I…” I start, but my throat closes up. The weight of the last twenty-four hours, paired with what I’m about to do, sinks in.
George and Tom exchange a knowing glance before George says, “Everything’s happening so fast, and I understand how you must be feeling. My team and I want to make sure you’re as comfortable as possible. We’re going to sit down for our interview, just you and me, whenever you’re ready. I’ll ask some questions, and you can answer however you want. If you feel uncomfortable or overwhelmed at any point, we’ll stop.”
I nod along, making a superhuman effort to take in what he’s saying. My brain is overstimulated in the worst possible way.
“Thank you,” I finally say. At least my voice isn’t shaking. “This isn’t… I mean, this isn’t ideal for me, but it isn’t because of you. Your team has been great so far, and I…”
Jeez, Allie. Forgot your English?
I shake my head. “I’m sorry. I’m just nervous.”
George gives me an understanding smile. “That’s all right. Just remember we’re here to cater to your every need. Whenever you’re ready, we can start.”
I’ve seen George Eden’s famous interviews before. They’re always engaging, covering controversial and lesser-talked-about topics that soon become relevant conversations people have in the line in coffee shops. He’s an industry pioneer, and whatever subject he touches becomes gold, which doesn’t ease my nerves.
He’s also famous for his interviewing style—casual but intense. I can see it clearly in the sobriety of the set we step in moments later—the same one I’ve seen on TV. The lights are low, the space empty except for two identical deep green velvet armchairs positioned one in front of the other. To my right, there’s a black side table with some water. George has one too.
My pulse accelerates when Tom steps away after putting a microphone on my shirt, leaving me alone with the one man who’s about to change my life.
The crew keeps moving around us, positioning cameras and microphones in every corner. Yet despite the crowded set, it feels like it’s only George and me.
“Are you ready to start?” he asks me in an easy voice.
I’m only able to nod.
“I tend to be more serious in interviews. Just as a warning,” he tells me. “Matches the ambiance.”
My lips tilt nervously because yes, he’s known for being serious and a little invasive in his interviews. He always gets the answer he’s looking for.
Oh god, what have I agreed to?
George signals something I don’t understand to the crew before setting his eyes on me. I can pinpoint the exact moment his interviewer mask slips on, and a brief wave of regret hits me—nobody knows I’m here. Not having Jada’s reassurance makes me feel momentarily weak before I realize that’s exactly why I told no one in the first place.
I’m ready to make my own choices without needing anyone’s approval. I can’t keep using Jada as a crutch, or even Travis. He makes me feel safer than I’ve ever known, and I’d give anything to be in his arms right now. I’d give anything to finish the conversation we started in his office. But I can’t think about him right now or I’ll crumble, so I take a quick gulp of water and focus on the man in front of me.
“Rolling,” a masculine voice says somewhere on the set.
George gives me a discreet thumbs-up.
I promised.