Chapter 11 Jason
Chapter 11
Don’t they want to exploit us for their entertainment?
Jason
WHEN THE CREW finally sets me free, I change into my street clothes and settle into the Alfa’s warm, leather cocoon, blasting my Bon Jovi and Friends playlist. Somehow, Jack Johnson got in there (who knew they were friends?), but I don’t kick him out because there’s an ocean view on Manhattan Avenue, and his music is fitting. Sing it, Jack!
At the bookstore, there’s a line for the folding table where Emmy is signing autographs. As I step into the space, which smells pleasantly of book glue and coffee, an employee offers me something small and sandwich-shaped on a tray. I decline politely and pull my ball cap farther down on my head. I could probably march right up and get her attention, but that seems a bit entitled. I’m not too good to wait in line like everyone else. I pull out my phone, noting that Margarita hasn’t replied to my text.
Grrr. I’d really like to get this over with. We’re deep into the filming of #CelebrityCrush, and I’m sure she’ll need at least one night to process the breakup so it doesn’t affect our on-screen chemistry.
Aw, who am I kidding? This is Margarita we’re talking about. I want to get this over with for me.
The line moves along slowly, orderly. The book community is so civilized. No one even looks closely enough to recognize me. They’re like hummingbirds, making low noises to each other and sipping nectar from the tiny paper cups the staff passes around. I accept a cup off a tray with a nod. Red wine. Probably a cabernet sauvignon. Not bad. Twenty minutes later, Margarita still hasn’t texted back, and it’s my turn to meet the author.
“Hi.” I wave Forrest Gump–style.
She doesn’t climb over the table and leap into my arms, but her face lights up, and I immediately feel like five million bucks. “Jason! What are you doing here? Did I miss something? Was I supposed to be somewhere?”
“Nope.” I lean on the table. “I needed to talk to you, and your DMs are closed.”
“Yeah. I had to shut all that down. I started getting…” She clears her throat. “Anatomy lessons.”
“Ew.” I grimace.
“So, what did you need to talk to me about?”
“You’re wearing glasses.” I point at the pink frames that swoop up at the edges.
“Val,” she explains, pushing back from the table so I can see the rest of her outfit—a body-hugging magenta sweater that I like very much and navy slacks. “They’re just plain glass.”
“I like it. It has a media specialist by day, superhero by night vibe.”
She smiles that smile that’s just a tiny bit naughty, and I don’t need the magazine to remind me of our pool shoot. Her hands on me underwater, touching me way more than the occasion called for. The way her eyes lit up like tiny suns. How her body responded when I touched her.
“Ummm, Jason, we should keep the line moving. What can I do for you?”
I jump. “Right! Sean’s having a cast party at his house tomorrow. Would you like to come?” I pause. Then, against my better judgment, I add, “With me?”
Her eyes light up again. They’re like desert glass. “I would love that.”
“The whole cast will be there.”
“I’d love to.”
“It’s going to be a lot of fun.”
“Jason, I already said yes!”
The humming noises behind me grow louder and less civilized. “Maybe we should exchange numbers so we can coordinate?”
She nods and takes my phone. She deftly enters her information, her tanned fingers dancing across the screen. Her phone chimes as it receives my text, and she tucks it away again.
“Do you have a book for her to sign?” the little old lady behind me asks.
I don my most polite smile. “No, sorry, ma’am. I’ll get out of the way.”
“It’s rude to show up to a book signing without buying a book.”
“Oh, I didn’t know that.” Great, now I’ve just offended the book community. Can’t wait to read that grammatically correct headline. “I’ll take one book.”
Emmy looks confused. “I thought you already had the book.”
“I do.”
“Don’t buy another book, Jason. I’ll sign yours tomorrow.”
Meanwhile, the buzzing around me has gotten steadily louder. Someone says, “Are you Jason Connor?”
“I better get out of here,” I whisper to Emmy over the head of the little old lady getting her book signed. “I don’t want to be recognized.”
“See you tomorrow…” She gives me a mischievous smile and then raises her voice to shout, “ Jason Connor !”
She did that on purpose, although I have to admit it was funny. No fewer than twenty selfies later, I escape to my car. Margarita still hasn’t gotten back to me. I turn down Jack Johnson’s “Banana Pancakes” and dial her up. It goes to voicemail like she’s rejected the call. Damn it, Margarita. The reservation is in an hour. I call her again. Same thing.
Jack’s breezy optimism is starting to grate on me, so I skip ahead to Guns N’ Roses. Where would Margarita be? It’s hard to know for sure, but come to think of it, she used to have drinks with the girls Thursday nights at this martini bar near our house. My house, I mean. I head there. Sure enough, after I walk the three blocks from my parking space to the Forty Winks, I catch a glimpse of her through the window at a high-top table with a pair of women, looking as elegant and untouchable as a priceless vase. When I yank open the door and approach them, Margarita’s expression makes me feel like I’m a tornado ripping through the neighborhood. I pull the cap off my head and run my fingers through my hair.
“Jason?” She says my name the same way a person might say, Why are you touching my things?
“I’ve been trying to get a hold of you.”
She uncrosses her legs and then crosses them in the other direction, Margarita Power Move Number Six. “Can’t you see I’m busy?”
“Hi, Jason.” One of her companions flits her fingers at me over her martini glass.
“Hi…” I don’t remember her name.
“Piper,” she supplies.
“Hi, Piper.” I give her a half-hearted wave.
“You didn’t even clean yourself up?” Margarita asks me.
“I just came from the Lost Star set.” I wipe a hand across my eyes. It comes back black. “Listen, Margarita, I need to talk to you. I made us dinner reservations.”
“We just got here.” This one I do recognize—it’s Janice from book club.
“Hi, Janice. How’s book club going?” I ask.
“Well, thank you. We’re reading a very interesting novel right now.” She smiles coyly. “It’s called Hashtag Celebrity Crush .”
All three women giggle, although it’s not really a giggle. Giggles are cute. This is more like a scraping of one serrated knife against another.
“Margarita, I’m sure your friends won’t mind if you have to leave a little early.”
She executes Power Move Number Three—the one where she stretches her neck slowly in a complete circle, like she’s warming up for an exercise class. It’s a move that says, I don’t hurry for anybody .
“Whatever you have to say, Jason, why don’t you just say it now, so no one has to be inconvenienced?”
She isn’t going to make this easy. Of course she isn’t. I lower my voice. “I don’t think you want me to do this here, in front of your friends.”
I think I see a flash of something—fear? anger? disgust?—before she turns her attention to her cocktail napkin, purple-tipped fingers smoothing it flat. “Then I suggest you wait for a better time. Or…” There’s daring in her glare now. “Just come out with it.”
I don’t want to do this here. Not like this. It’s supposed to be a private thing. Well, a private thing that’s documented by paparazzi. It’s not supposed to be in front of her friends with no cameras. “Margarita, can’t we just go have dinner and a discussion?”
“About what? Your next shortsighted decision? You’ve never needed to workshop those with me before. Say whatever you have to say. Just make sure it isn’t something you’ll regret.”
Her unveiled threat is like the prick of a dagger against vulnerable organs, but I remember Amanda’s pep talk. Margarita doesn’t have the legal power to withhold Mattie from me, and without that, she’s got nothing.
I try out Sean’s move, looking around the place like I own it. I know it’s not achieving the effect I want because I’m actually looking for something. I’m looking for some asshole with a camera to document this. And there’s none.
“Well?” Her smile is slithery. She thinks she’s won. But I deserve to be happy, and that starts with getting out of this burning house once and for all.
“Fine.” I project my voice across the room. “It’s over, Margarita!”
Her lips press together, and she shakes her head the tiniest bit, as if she can’t believe I’ve called her bluff. Well, what do you know? I sunk an arrow. But no one even glances our way.
“I said, it’s over, Margarita!” I repeat in an equally booming baritone.
Margarita turns her back to me and reaches for her collins glass. There’s a desperation in the motion, like the glass is the closest thing to a hole she can crawl into. “Stop it, Jason. You’re embarrassing yourself.”
“It’s really over this time!” I announce even more boldly as her friends widen their eyes at one another, probably wondering if they should step in. “We’re done! We’re really, one hundred percent done!”
Now a few patrons are looking my way. Good. No phones out, though. No video. What’s wrong with these people? We’re celebrities! Don’t they want to exploit us for their entertainment?
“Just go, Jason.” Margarita spits the words over her shoulder. “I know you probably have Little Miss Sun Damage waiting in the Alfa.”
The color red taints everything I see. That comment was just plain mean, and there’s no reason for her to bring Emmy into this. This has nothing to do with her. And if it does, so what?
“Like you haven’t been seeing other people?” I snarl.
She spins on her stool. “Oh? Are we keeping score now? Because you and I both know what that tally sheet looks like.”
It’s the same old argument, but something’s different. Margarita and I have broken up a bunch of times before. Neither one of us ever gave the other much pushback.
“Why are you fighting this?” I ask. “You’ve hardly come around at all in the last couple of months. We’re clearly not in a relationship. This just makes sense.”
Her nostrils flare as she doubles down. “I need you to stop talking right now, Jason. I’m here with my friends, and all of this”—she waggles a hand in my general direction—“can wait.”
I feel the teeth grind in my jaw as she turns back to the table. She can’t just switch me off like a TV set. This is happening, whether she likes it or not. I scan the crowd again, but everyone’s attention is back on their dates, on their drinks. So, there’s no one here to document my dumping of Margarita Ayala? Who needs ’em? I’ll do it myself.
The phone dances off one… two… three of my fingers as I juggle it into position. I tap selfie mode and hold it out in front of me with my ex and her friends fluttering like overpriced pet store birds in the background.
“This is Jason Connor, and I’m telling the world right now, I’m breaking up with Margarita Ayala! I don’t love her! She doesn’t love me! It’s over. It’s done. For good! And it couldn’t happen to a nicer person!” I hit STOP . Then, before I can overthink it, I post it.
There. It’s done. I feel satisfied and a little breathless, like after I have to do one of my own stunts.
“Wow,” Janice from book club mutters. “I thought you were trying to convince everyone you’re not an asshole.”
I expect Margarita to get all smug and threaten me some more, but instead her face has crumpled in a way that unnerves me. Immediately, she gets control of it before turning back to the table with languid confidence, a queenly dismissal of an annoying subject. But I know a Margarita cover-up when I see one.
She’s hurt. I’ve hurt her.
I don’t get it. I didn’t break up with Margarita as much as state the obvious fact that we were already broken up; it’s just that neither one of us bothered to read the memo. She’s got to see it that way, too. How could she not? Now this whole thing has backfired on me. Making our split official was supposed to help my image, free up a slot where someone else would be allowed to go. Have you seen Jason Connor lately? He’s single now, and he’s been behaving himself. I hope good things happen for him. Instead, after that video goes viral (and it will), the media will be adding verbally abusive boyfriend and dumb enough to advertise it on social media to my list of offenses. Damn it.
“I didn’t mean for this to happen this way,” I say to the back of Margarita’s head, or maybe to myself. She ignores me. Still, I stand there. “I’ll see you at the studio tomorrow,” I add.
“Goodbye, Jason,” Janice from book club says with a death glare.
The short drive home features plenty of yelled lyrics and drums. By the time I get there, there’s mayhem online, mostly hate posts against me. Every curse word I learned since third grade—and some brand-new ones I’ve just made up—shoot from my mouth. I’ve really effed this whole thing up. The network is going to hate it.
I wrestle up a bottle of Jim Beam and pour three fingers’ worth over ice before plopping down in the den. Possessed Baby is sitting in the middle of the floor, probably summoning a demon. I swear that thing gets up and moves around by itself. But there’s nobody else here to cuddle, so I pick her up and hold her against my body.
“What’ll it be, Spawn of Satan?” I ask her, clicking the TV on. “ 90 Day Fiancé or that nice gentleman with the tigers?” Her glazed eyes and black mouth gape at me. I know she’ll want the greater of the two evils. “ 90 Day Fiancé it is!”
I guess I just wanna see people with worse decision-making skills than me.