2. Zayn
Zayn
“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.” My heart beats out of my chest as I pace the same ten steps in my trailer. My right hand threads through my freshly faded hair. This was supposed to be my I’ve accepted the job of my career haircut.
Ed, the director at January Studios, remains still, perched on the arm of the couch, letting me stew in my anger. After the year we’ve had on set, he knows it’s best to give me a few minutes to collect myself. This has been a recurring meeting for Ed and I.
“You need to calm—”
“Don’t tell me I need to fucking calm down, Ed. I’m fucking calm,” I huff. Placing a hand on each hip, I lean back into the kitchen counter, stopping the pacing. “Sorry,” I mutter, peering to my left to catch Ed offering me a thin smile.
“The answer isn’t no to the role, Zayn,” Ed says.
The role that he’s referring to is the lead male in an action trilogy.
I’ve been pining and searching for a lead role for the last two years.
It’s a role that will move me from B-list actor to A-list actor.
I need this. I’ve been acting for nearly a decade, five of those years being here at the studios, and I haven’t had my break.
Most of the actors that film here have, but not me.
Instead, I’ve been in various movies and short films, but nothing blockbuster worthy. People recognize me around the city, mostly from the last movie I did, and only because I was the token lifeguard who saved the lead characters from a near-death situation.
“I know I haven’t had the best year, Ed,” I say.
“You broke a reporter’s camera.” Ed glares at me.
“He asked a dumb question.” I shrug. The reporter should have seen it coming when he asked about my ex-girlfriend of twelve years.
“You also cussed out the news reporter. On live TV.”
I just nod, no excuse for that one.
“And then don’t get me started on how you’ve been treating the staff here,” he says.
“I don’t talk to the staff,” I argue, holding up both hands.
“Exactly. You need to improve your image, be friendly again, be the Zayn you were a year ago before all this started happening.”
He means the old Zayn, when I was twenty-nine, had myself together, and had a promising future with what I thought was the love of my life. When I hung out with other actors on set, volunteered to help run lines, and donated time and money to a local organization that helps young actors.
“What if I don’t want to be friendly again?” I grimace.
“Look, Zayn, I’m going to be honest with you, if you don’t fix your image and attitude toward the media, I won’t be able to offer you the role.”
My chest sinks and my gaze follows, making its way to the floor. There’s a part of me that wants to quit, walk away from all this. But what would that mean for me? If I didn’t even try to fix myself? If I didn’t give this an honest shot before it all likely goes to shit?
“Got it,” I mutter. “Any ideas on how I’d begin to do that?”
“Yes, two. And they aren’t ideas, but things I need you to do.” Ed grins, flipping the papers on his clipboard until he finds the one he’s looking for.
“Hit me.” I return my focus to him.
“Great. Okay, one, I need you on set three days a week to help run lines with new actors.”
I grumble. Not what I want to do with my spare time, but having experience with coaching beginner actors and the possibility of Ed not giving me this role, I can’t say no. I nod for him to continue.
“And two, for help with the media, I’ve been talking with Logan, and he hired Starlet PR over the weekend.”
Logan, my agent for the past decade, kind of my friend. “And by hiring, you mean?”
“You’ll have to ask him. I don’t have all the details.”
I slowly move my chin up and down. This isn’t going to be fun.
“Alright, kid. I need to go chat with Emmett for a few minutes before the day gets away from me. Listen to Logan, okay?” Ed asks.
Emmett, an actor and writer here at the studio, is a few years older than me, but we hung out a time or two before my life flipped upside down.
“Yeah, Ed. I will.”
Ed leaves the trailer and I’m grateful to have a few moments alone. My eyes close and I inhale deep, letting the air travel in my nose, down my throat, to my lungs. I hold it for a few seconds before opening my mouth to exhale. The rock in my chest loosens as I do this a few more times.
I could use a few minutes outside, so I take a walk before meeting Logan. He’s the only person I talk to besides my younger sister Kiley. I take the long loop around the studio so I have enough time to give her a ring.
“Z!” Kiley’s excitement instantly brightens my mood.
“Hi, Kiki. What are you up to?”
“Just studying.”
“This early in the morning?”
“Z, it’s nearly noon.” She scoffs, and I can picture her shaking her head at me. “I have finals for my summer classes.”
“I still don’t understand why you wanted to go back to school.”
Kiley and my younger brother, Dan, are twins. They both went to school twice.
Dan’s the lawyer, Kiley works in marketing. She wanted to go back to get something—a certificate, maybe?
“I need it for my promotion. Not all of us can use our good looks to get the jobs we want,” she says.
“And abs.”
“Right,” she chuckles. “How can I forget your best feature? You did spend the last film with so few clothes on that I thought Mom was going to pass out from covering her face with a pillow for most of it.”
“Kiley, I was a lifeguard. I had on swim trunks.”
“Still.”
“Well, anyway, enough about me... I just wanted to call and check in,” I say.
“Everything’s good on my end. I’m hoping to make it over to your place soon, it’s been a while.”
“Sure, Ki, I’ll be around. Well, hey, I need to go, okay? I have to meet with Logan,” I say, seeing Logan waiting for me in the distance.
“Yeah, sounds good. Love you!”
“Love you.”
Kiley never asks about work. Maybe it’s because she doesn’t know what to ask or maybe it’s because I’ve told her to mind her business one too many times.
Either way, it’s always a relief when she doesn’t ask me to explain my vague answers.
Maybe I should. My family tries to be supportive of this career, even though it’s not the most stable or predictable.
Kiley also never brings up my ex, Marissa.
We were together since high school. She became family, and everyone loved her as much as they love me.
When we broke up, it broke my relationship with my family.
They didn’t ask me about my grief, or about what happened.
The only person I talk to is Kiley, even if I don’t open up to her.
After the one person you love the most decides you're only holding them back, it's easy to decide you don't need to trust anyone. I don’t need to open up to others, wail about my own personal story and struggles.
“There he is!” Logan looks up, puts his phone back in his pocket, and starts jogging toward me.
“Hi Logan, sorry I’m late.”
“You’re not sorry.” Logan glares my way.
“No, I’m not.” I shake my head. “Ed tells me you hired some PR firm?”
Logan nods. “And we’re going to be late to meet them if we don’t leave.”
“Right now? We’re going right now? Can’t you do this without me?”
“Yes, right now. And no, I need you to meet them. I’ll catch you up on the drive over. This lunch should be fairly quick and painless. Try your best not to be grumpy, okay?”
“I’ll try my best, no promises.” I smile wide, making it painfully obvious that this is not what I want to be doing right now, then I slide into the car.
The ride over to Little Italy Bistro is a short, fifteen-minute drive. Logan does his best to fill me in, even though I find myself zoning out for half the conversation. I don’t need someone to help fix my image. What I need is the space to figure out what my next step is and do it myself.
The driver pulls up to the front curb at the restaurant.
As I step out of the car, I marvel at how packed it is.
It’s always been like this when I’ve been here in the past, which is why I try to avoid it.
All seats are filled, there are servers running back and forth between the patio and inside, and smooth jazz blares over the speakers.
My mouth waters as the smell of garlic and tomatoes hits my nose.
Logan walks in front of me, leading me through the crowd of people. I keep my head down, which I figure is better for my image instead of glaring at everyone out of habit. See? I don’t need a publicist to tell me that.
“Zayn,” someone calls from behind me.
Fuck . I ignore them and keep walking.
“Zayn, just one question,” the voice irritatingly says, reminding me of their presence.
My gaze lifts from the ground at the same time I almost slam into Logan. He’s since turned to face the mystery man, sporting an oddly happy smile and raising his brows at me to oblige the reporter. I simply roll my eyes at his silent request.
“Sure, one question,” I say through gritted teeth as I turn around.
A short, stocky man stands in front of me with a pen in one hand and a notepad in the other. He’s wearing a matching striped suit, which is unusual for this August heat.
“Aren’t you dying in that?” I ask.
“Huh?” The man asks, looking around the room as if I wasn’t talking to him. I point a finger to him.
“Oh.” The man chortles. “No, no, I’m cool as a cucumber.”
He giggles at his own joke until a few beats later when he realizes I’m not laughing with him. His laughs slow until they die out.
“Your question?” I ask.
“Oh, yes, right,” he rambles. “Will we see you at the upcoming gala for the Young Actors Association?”
“No—”
“He will be there,” Logan chimes in, throwing an arm around my shoulder. I jab at him with my elbow and smile as he mutters “ow” and removes his arm.
The short man writes down what I can assume is “yes” in his small notepad.
“And will you be bringing a date?” The man meets my stare and for a moment, I think about grabbing the pad of paper from his hands and ripping it before throwing it back in his face.
“That’s two questions,” I reply, then turn on my heel to continue into the restaurant while Logan apologizes to the man on my behalf.
I find a server who directs me to the back room, finally giving me the privacy I was told I would get.
Inside, there are four chairs and a buffet of food in the middle of the table. I’d rather have the advantage of seeing the people from the firm, so I walk around and sit down in a chair that’s facing the door. Light jazz music plays as I wait for the others to join me.
Logan walks in a minute later with a look on his face that I’m familiar with. His eyebrows are scrunched in tandem, his eyes nearly slits, and his mouth is pushed together in a way that you just want to laugh at because of how ridiculous he looks.
“You’re angry,” I say as a statement of fact.
“This is exactly why we are here.”
“This firm?” I ask.
“Yes, a publicist will be good for you.”
I groan, throwing my head back. “Do I need someone to tell me what to say and what not to say?”
“Yes,” Logan says, shuffling a few papers in front of him to make way for the pasta. “If you want that role in the trilogy, you will do as she says.”
I nod. My knee bounces, the panic of losing control already starting to set in.
I close my eyes momentarily, taking a deep breath to try and calm my nervous system.
Control is something I need after losing everything.
My future was set: get married, get the job, and be happy.
Now, I have none of that. The only thing I do have is the control of my day-to-day, and now I’m going to give that up to some random stranger.
“You need to chill out.” Logan pipes up. He’s already loaded a plate with a mound of alfredo.
Choosing to ignore him, I start to do the same, opting for chicken parmesan. If the firm is going to be late, I’m not going to let that hinder my lunch.
As if on cue, the door swings open to our small room. I glance up to find the server first, smiling at whoever is outside the door. A man, who I assume is the boss of Starlet PR, enters first. He smiles and takes a seat across from Logan.
“My associate will be here in a moment. Thank you for meeting us here, we love this restaurant. My name is Greg.”
Have I mentioned how much I loathe small talk? Luckily, Logan does his job and talks to Greg about his day.
“Ah, here she is. Annie meet Logan and Zayn,” Greg says a few moments later.
That name makes me pause. There’s only one Annie that I’ve known in my life, or at least only one I care to remember.
She was never mine, but every so often the image of her face graces my mind.
Soft brown hair, crystal blue eyes, a dimple on her right cheek when she smiles.
Her laughter fills the air, enough to get high on.
Except, this can’t be that Annie, can it? The one that dated my brother.
The one that likely hates me because of how I treated her two years ago when I met her.
I glance up from my plate to find the same pale blue eyes looking back at me. And from the looks of it, Annie is my new publicist.