8. Emmett
The knock, knock, knock on my front door wakes me up before my eyes open. I blink a few times, letting the sunlight bring life into my groggy body. I roll over onto my left side and reach onto my nightstand. I search through the mess, a chapstick and my water bottle topple over, until I finally uncover my phone. I look at the screen to check the time. It’s seven in the morning. There is only one person who shows up unannounced this early.
For that reason, I take my time getting out of bed. I swing my legs around, step into the pair of shorts on the floor, then walk to my closet and grab the first shirt I find, a very worn Foo Fighters shirt that has a faded logo and frayed edges. I stop in the bathroom to look in the mirror. To wake myself up, I turn on the water and splash cold water on my face.
The knock, knock, knock echoes through my apartment again.
“Coming!” I yell from the bathroom. I look back in the mirror one last time, taking a deep breath before I turn off the light and walk toward the front door.
I turn the lock, twist the knob, and open the door. On the other side, there”s a man dressed in a full three-piece suit, holding a briefcase in his right hand and a cellphone in his left.
“Hi, Dad. How wonderful it is to see you on this bright and early morning. Please, do come in,” I say with added sass and wave my hand toward the living room.
He doesn’t even look at me. Typical. He strides into the room, his fingers furiously tapping on his phone as he sends off a final text before acknowledging my presence.
By the time he completes his task, I’ve already closed the door and begun my journey to the kitchen, my mind set on making a fresh cup of coffee. I’m going to need my largest mug filled to the brim to get through whatever he came here to talk to me about.
“Don’t you have someone clean this place?”
Of course that’s the first question he asks. I look behind my shoulder to see him snooping and looking around the living room.
“Why do I need someone when I’m the only one living here? I can clean just fine,” I mutter as I pour my coffee.
He scoffs, clearly unimpressed.
“What are you doing here, Dad?” I ask. Taking a sip from my mug, I lean against the counter, my gaze fixed in his direction.
He walks toward me now, setting his briefcase down at one of the island chairs.
“What? A father can’t stop by and check in on his son?” he asks. Passing by me, he grabs a mug, fills it with coffee, and turns back around at the island, facing me.
“I haven’t seen you in months, so sorry if I seem taken aback by the sudden drop in,” I respond. I don”t mean to be so short with my dad, but it”s hard to argue against the truth. The only form of communication we have had lately is through random texts, and it has been a while since I last saw him. He hasn’t checked in.
For most of my childhood, I was close with my dad. I wanted to be just like him. He would come home after a job and tell me about his day. He’d tell me about the scenes he filmed, the people he met, and anything else that went on. I looked forward to it. Then, before bed, he’d act out my bedtime stories and do a voice for every character.
Everything changed when I got older. My dad wanted me to act, which I was excited to do at first. I looked up to him. Why wouldn’t I want to follow in his footsteps? My first job in a movie was a minor role. I played a little boy in a family on a summer road trip. It was a comedy and so much fun. Acting for that was great and all, but I fell in love with the script. I wanted to know who could write something so funny and intriguing. I was only 13, but I asked the director if I could see the writers’ room. He took me; I met the writers, and just like that, I had a new dream.
That dream was stifled when my dad found my first script shortly after. I don’t know if you could even call it a script. It was just some words on a paper that barely morphed into a story. It was more a shell of something that could have been a script. My dad told me to be realistic and pragmatic and sensible and all the synonyms to describe his disapproval.
That’s why I stopped talking to him when I got old enough. Once I turned 18, I moved out. I only saw my parents on holidays and sent texts on birthdays. Eventually holidays turned into once a year and that’s where we’re at now. Sometimes I see them more, depending on if my mom asks to see me. They only live to the west, in Malibu, but I do a good job to stay busy or just avoid them.
“What are you doing here, Dad?” I ask again. It’s too early to try to be nice and have a semi-friendly conversation.
“I thought we might get breakfast,” he says, like it’s a normal outing for us.
I suppress a groan. “Today?” Maybe he meant with my mom, on a different day, on a day that we plan ahead of time.
“Do you have any other plans for breakfast?” he asks.
“No.”
“Great. Go change. We’re going to Amore Bakery. I’ll meet you in the car.”
I offer a thin lipped smile and a slight nod.
He walks to the door, but before leaving, says, “Don’t take too long,” then slams the door.
Of course he shows up, unannounced, just to eat breakfast. I’m sure he wants to ask me questions about my next movie, which I haven’t signed a contract for yet. I don’t even know if I want to keep acting. Ever since meeting Cassie, I’m doubting it.
I find his car in the garage, open the back door, and slide into the seat. For once, he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he’s on his phone typing away and sighing every five minutes.
On our way, we hit traffic on I-5. I groan and slide down in the seat, knowing I’ll be stuck with him for a little while.
I decide to text Cassie because I’ve been scrolling and my mind is still distracted from thoughts about her. Her hands on her hips as she scolds me, her eyes always finding mine, and her mouth responding to my banter like we have been doing it for ages.
Emmett
Help. I have an emergency.
Cassie
What is this *emergency* you speak of?
Emmett
I’m being kidnapped.
Cassie
And this kidnapper didn’t take your phone?
Emmett
He’s not very smart, I have to admit, but I’m here against my will.
Cassie
And here is…
Emmett
In the car with my dad. *shudders*
Cassie
Oh, you poor thing.
Emmett
You joke, but even a knife couldn’t cut this tension.
Cassie
Sorry, Hotshot, this sounds like a you problem and I cannot help.
Emmett
You wound me.
Cassie
You’ll survive. ;)
The sound of my dad clearing his throat catches my attention, so I shift my gaze from my phone to him.
“We’re here,” he mutters.
Sure enough, I look out the window to see the bakery. Busy as ever on a weekday morning, and it doesn’t bother my dad in the slightest. He would rather a place be busy with opportunities for press than to be empty. I’d rather have the latter. While I don”t mind conversing with a few people who recognize me, being constantly interrupted to take photos while eating prevents me from enjoying myself. My body stiffens when I think of the added attention, and my mind remains on edge.
I exit the car and follow my dad inside. The soft lights of the inside compliment the soft music playing in the background. We’re directed to a table by the window, Dad’s signature table. Anyone can see him sitting here while they walk by, and he can see anyone who enters the restaurant.
We place our order, eggs benedict for him and an egg sandwich for me, and I’m thankful to have some food in my stomach before the interrogation begins.
“So, Emmett.” I look up from eating to find my dad staring at me, a mug full to the brim with coffee in his right hand. “How is the movie going? How long is your current contract, again?” He leans back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other.
“It’s going well, still early in the schedule. It’s a few months long.” Like any other movie.
“And after?”
“After what?” I raise an eyebrow in challenge, daring him to make a scene in the restaurant.
“You know what I mean,” he deadpans.
“I have a few options, haven’t signed anything yet.” Not sure if I will.
“If you need more options, or advice, let me know. You might have capacity to take on two movies in parallel if you didn’t hangout with those guys.”
“Those guys are my friends, Dad. You’ve met them plenty of times,” I say, rolling my eyes. Every time we talk about my career, he has to throw my friends under a rug, as if they aren’t important to me.
He doesn’t respond, just nods and waves the waiter over for the bill. We don’t talk much for the remainder of our time together, except for our exchange when he drops me off at the studio for work.
The rest of the day goes by smoothly enough. I rarely see Cassie, glimpsing her once or twice on opposite sides of the studio. Marcy likely has her occupied with various tasks that don”t include me. I believe it”s revenge for spending time with her. That”s okay though, because we find ways to talk to each other all day long.
I want to get to know Cassie. I want to know what her favorite color is, even though I could bet that it’s blue. She’s always wearing blue. I want to know what her favorite food is, whether she prefers scrambled or sunny-side-up eggs in the morning, or what her go-to activity is when she”s stuck inside all day. I want to know Cassie better than I”ve ever wanted to know anyone, and the thought sends shivers down my spine.
Cassie has taken to calling me Hotshot, so I’ve started calling her Sass, as her sassy remarks seem to be never-ending. I like it. It”s a nice change of pace from always hanging out with the guys.
Finally, the day is over and I’m able to head home to my apartment. It’s Friday, so thankfully I don’t have to be at the studio tomorrow. I get the next two days to relax and prepare for my scenes for next week.
When I finally get home, I collapse onto the couch, drained. I pull out my phone to text Cassie back, but at the last minute decide to call her.
“Hello?” Cassie answers.
“Hi, Sass. This okay?” I ask.
She chuckles. “Yes, it’s okay, Emmett. What’s up?”
“I just wanted to see what you thought about your first week.”
“Oh, um, it was good. Exhausting. Is it always like this?” she asks.
“Yep, the first week of the job is always the worst.”
The first week is typically full of stress and anxiety, but ever since I started considering quitting acting, it has been a relief. I’m still ensuring I do the best job, but I no longer feel the overwhelming need to constantly be “on” around others. I’m there to act and that’s it. I know I should worry about what’s next for me, but I think for a little while I’m going to pretend that nothing is.
“Well, I’m tired and not looking forward to working tonight. What are you doing tonight? Are you going to spend any time writing?” Cassie says.
“Maybe. I’ll likely open my computer, stare at a blank document for an hour, and close it without typing a word.”
“That’s still considered writing, you know. Do you want to talk about it?”
“Yeah, I know. I’m just starting to think I don’t love acting as much as I thought I did. I thought I would be an actor for life. I thought that if I did it for long enough, I would learn to love it. Or at least, resent it less.”
“Does anyone else know that you write?” Does anyone else besides her know?
I lean back on the couch, sigh into my phone, then say, “Tyler, Max, and Lane know. But they think it’s just a hobby, not something I’d actually want to pursue.”
“And do you?”
“Want to pursue it?” I clarify.
“Yes. If you were given two pills; red for acting, blue for writing… which one would you take?”
“Okay, Morpheus, I’ll play your game.” I laugh. “I’d take the blue pill, assuming I would still have the experience from acting, but be able to pursue what I love.”
“That’s what I thought.” I can hear her practically grinning through the phone.
“You know me so well already, Sass. I wish you were here.” The words are out of my mouth before I have time to second guess them.
“If I didn’t have to work, I’d be over in a heartbeat,” she admits, and it does something to my chest.
“I know.”
After a few minutes, we end our call because she has to go to the diner. I decide to try and sit at my computer, but it’s hopeless. It only took a moment for imposter syndrome to rear its ugly head and infiltrate my thoughts. Just like that, I close the Microsoft Word document I was writing in and forget about it. Writing didn’t seem like something I could actually transition into.
Not only was I feeling like a fraud in my life, I thought maybe it was too late for me. I turn 30 in a few weeks. Shouldn’t I have my life figured out by now?
I know it sounds ridiculous, but you get into a routine as you get older. You go to your job that makes you money and provides a decent living, hang out with friends when you have the mental energy to be with others, and keep your living space clean. Thinking about transitioning to do something else is mentally exhausting. It’s uncomfortable. But, that’s what they say right—you only grow when you’re uncomfortable? Well, no one ever said growing was easy.
The rest of the weekend goes by faster than it should. Each day begins with a run, then I dedicate a few hours to practicing lines, and finish by relaxing in front of the television at night. I open my computer, intending to write, but I find myself lost in old stories; the cursor blinking patiently on the empty page. I still consider it progress since I haven’t opened those documents in months.
When I get to my trailer on Monday morning, I find Marcy standing outside my trailer again. It’s like déjà vu.
“Hi, Marce. Have a good weekend?” I say to her as I walk up the road to my door.
Marcy looks up from her phone and smiles. I walk past her on the stairs and unlock my trailer door, open it and walk through. Marcy follows me like last time and closes the door behind her.
“Hi. Yep, it was fine. I didn’t do much. What about you?” she says, stopping to stand next to the island. I move into the kitchen to make myself a coffee before I go onto set. I could get coffee from the cafeteria, but it’s never as strong as I need.
I grab a mug, position it under my coffee machine, press the bold button, the 12 oz button, and brew. I direct my attention toward Marcy as the machine brews my coffee.
“Same, uneventful. I think I’m still recovering from seeing my dad on Friday.” The coffee machine signals it”s done with a series of beeps. I turn toward the counter, stir in two scoops of sugar into my mug, and carefully slurp a sip.
Marcy rolls her eyes and sighs. “I forgot Mr. Davis stopped by.”
“Mhm.” I nod and take another sip. I forgot I had just brewed the coffee and ended up burning my tongue. Under my breath, I let out a curse, and then set the mug down with a sigh. “It was a great time, let me tell ya.”
She laughs at that. “As much as I’d love to chat about your daddy issues, I wanted to let you know Ed has asked me to work on a side project since I have Cassie as my assistant.”
“Side project?”
Her lips move into a thin line and she nods. ”Yup,” she says, drawing out the ”p” with a hint of sarcasm, and releases a long, dramatic sigh. “Not exactly the best timing, but Ed volunteered me to help with an independent film. It’s offsite, which is why Cassie will take over my daily tasks. I know you have a…” She pauses, which I can only assume she’s trying to think of how to put what she’s thinking into words. “friendship.” She winces.
“C’mon Marce, can’t share me with another female?” I tease.
She groans.
“Don’t worry, I’ll be on my best behavior.” I wink at her.
“I don’t know why I deal with you sometimes,” she says, heading toward the door. “Just don’t do anything stupid while I’m not here, okay? You know you’re not allowed to date anyone that works at the studio. She’s not an exception.”
I just nod in response. She doesn’t need to know how excited I am for more time at work with Cassie, even if it is just seeing her more often. Her schedule is so busy this week with acting classes and working at the diner, I was already annoyed that I wouldn”t see her at work. Marcy always has her doing some dumb activity on the other side of the studio, or being on set when I’m not.
Now, she can’t do anything about it. I have no intention of taking things with Cassie beyond friendship. I just want to talk with her and hang out with her like I do with everyone else. Of course, all of that is subject to change. I don’t have a hard rule on no dating or anything, I’ve just avoided it.
I wanted someone with whom I could be myself around, and that never happened. It was always Emmett, the actor, that they wanted. They didn”t want Emmett, the writer who had a soft spot for romance movies, the guy who always chose a cozy night in over a night out.
When I was at the diner with Marcy last week and I saw Cassie, I felt this pull between us when our eyes met for the first time. I had just had a string of bad first dates and didn’t know why I was feeling different about Cassie when I didn’t even know her name. I know she knew who I was because I saw her talking with her friend. They kept whispering to each other and looking in my direction. I barely even knew her, and I asked her to sit and eat with me.
When I saw her the next day, I took it as another sign to talk to her. She’s never tried to keep me in the box that I live in everyday, and I think that’s what I like most about her.
Every time we talk, she sees me. She doesn’t see the mask I put on for everyone else, and maybe that’s because I’ve let her be close enough to me already to see that side of me. It’s why I’ve already shown her my writing. Whenever I see her, my heart races and my feet automatically gravitate toward her. I get nervous. I don’t get nervous about anything.
Maybe seeing her more will be bad. Or, maybe, just maybe, it’ll curb this infatuation. Only time will tell.