Chapter 14 #2
“Honestly, don’t worry. I get it, I really do.”
Griffin wasn’t sure if even he got it, but she was obviously not keen for a discussion. “It came out so very wrong. I’m sorry. Do I also need to apologize for my mother?”
“Your mother is not your responsibility. And I get it—she’s a mom. She worries.”
“That bad? What did she say?”
“A version of the conversation I’m guessing you had with your father. But then she demanded to know the exact date, time and place of my birth, because apparently if I’m Scorpio rising, it’ll never work.”
Griffin grunted. He suspected a motive on his mother’s part that was less about astrology and more about a background check.
“And then,” Lana continued, “she moved on to asking me about the logistics of catching a bus in L.A., followed by grocery shopping, and I think the rest you heard.”
“They always seem to be either acting a role or preparing for one. When I was a kid and they used a parenting voice, I felt like I was trapped in a sitcom. Sometimes, if they stumble over their words, they start the conversation over like it’s a new take.
Then again, their marriage is onto its third take, so… ”
“It’s what?”
“I keep forgetting you don’t know this stuff. They’ve married each other three times—with two divorces in between. They’re probably due another split.”
“Okay. No wonder you have trust issues.”
“Did you tell Mom why you’re really here?”
“I did tell her about Vivien. You think that’s okay?”
“Sure. Your story to tell.”
“You consider your mom more trustworthy than the LAPD?”
“Matter of fact, I do. Despite her … idiosyncrasies, she can keep secrets.”
“She said she’d make some calls and see what she could find out.”
“She did?”
“Can’t hurt, right? She must have connections?”
“Yeah, loads—in the industry.” But he had to wonder how much of his mother’s curiosity was about Vivien, and how much about the woman she’d caught her son with. She was still nagging him to mend things with Estelle. But she’s perfect for you! Perfect, yes. Perfect for him, no.
He stood, grabbing the car keys from the counter. “Care for an outing? Natasha’s found your sister’s ex—he’s working at a soundstage with a director I know. And Darnell wants to meet up.”
As they got to the car, Lana went to open the passenger door, and halted. “I guess I should hide again?”
“Probably for the best. Sorry.”
“Would you hide me even if we weren’t being pursued by masked goons?” she said, folding herself into the footwell. “If I was a girl you were taking home for … other reasons.”
He winced as he started the car and navigated out. “Not proud to admit I’ve done that on regular dates. I realize the optics aren’t great, but it’s not symbolic of anything but my stupid life. And it’s mostly for her protection.”
“Mostly?”
“Lana, I’m not saying it sucks to be me, because obviously it doesn’t. But it does suck to date me.”
He idled the car while the garage door rose.
Sneaking around was a novelty at first—and wasn’t that all you wanted to do in a new relationship?
Hide away and get to know every inch of each other?
But as soon as the novelty wore off, you came hard up against the “Where are we going with this?” conversation.
Maybe a few weeks in—a month or two if you were lucky—but way earlier than he imagined you would in a regular life.
One of you was always ready for the public declaration before the other.
And that person was never him. It was a little different with Estelle—their first date had been a red-carpet event.
They were declared a couple before they’d even kissed.
“I once read a memoir by a woman called Paris Hilton, of the Hilton hotel family,” Lana said as he turned onto the street, her voice muffled by Darnell’s jacket. “You’ve heard of her?”
“I have.”
“She said something like, ‘Fame inflicts collateral damage.’”
“She’s not wrong. So, you don’t do TV or movies but you read celebrity memoirs?”
“Very few. I lack the required context and most are either written for the fans or they’re a little…”
“Self-indulgent?”
“Yes. But when our patrons are all asking for a particular book, I’ll flick through. I read all of hers, though. She had some disturbing things happen to her. I take it you haven’t written one?”
“Can’t think of anything I’d be less likely to do. Biographies have been written about me, but I wouldn’t know what’s in them. We’re coming up to the gate.”
As they wound down through the Hills, Maggie followed in the Chevy, with Sweetie in the passenger seat. Griffin couldn’t remember her real name from his security team’s files, but he tried not to be on first-name terms with his stalkers. He warned Lana to stay hidden.
At a red light, Maggie came alongside, waving. “Where are we off to?” she shouted.
He lowered his window. “The restraining order still applies, Maggie.”
“Suit yourself, but I’ll follow you anyway. It’s a free country.”
“Except when there’s a restraining order against you.”
“Which you broke. Where’s Lana?”
“Who?”
“That girl you were with. The pretty little one.”
“The background actor? She went home, I guess.”
The lights turned green. Maggie stayed on his tail all the way to the studio Natasha had tracked Julian Vega to.
Griffin vaguely recognized the guard in the security booth. “Hello there, Stanley,” he said, reading his nametag. “Working the weekend?”
“Mr. Hart?” he said icily. “I don’t have you on my list.”
“I got a meeting with Elmore.”
“You’re not on the list, you don’t go through. Doesn’t matter who you are.”
“Screw it then. Beautiful day like this? I got better things to do. You’ll explain to Elmore what became of the meeting? Tell him I’m out of town filming for the next month.” Griffin started reversing out.
“Wait, just go through. Whatever.” The barrier arm lifted.
“Thanks, Stanley.”
Griffin watched in his mirrors as Stanley stopped Maggie. He turned a corner, putting the admin building between them. “Safe to emerge, Lana.”
“That guard didn’t seem to like you much,” she said, getting up.
“He just doesn’t know me yet.”
“How many people do know you?”
“Including you? Maybe eight? Unless you count all the people who think they know me. I mean, you only had like a week’s worth of preconceptions about me when we met, and you expected a jerk.”
“Who said I—?”
“Everyone does. Don’t lie.”
“As if I could get away with that.”
He glanced over his shoulder, eyebrows raised.
“Okay, yes, I was expecting a jerk. A hot jerk. But a jerk.”
“So you saw evidence to back that up, even subconsciously.”
“Confirmation bias, I know the theory—you see what you want to see. It didn’t last long.”
“Vanity Fair once wrote—back when I was stupid enough to read what was written about me—that I was ‘unapologetically’ myself. I felt like calling the writer and asking him who the hell that was.”
“Have you figured it out yet?”
“Well, sure—now that you’ve given me a name for it.”
“I have?”
“See, all my life, I’ve been told who I am.
Nepo baby. Entitled playboy. Hollywood bad boy.
But really, this is an industry run by mega corporations, and I am their brand.
Their fidget spinner, their toaster. The merchandise spat out of the myth machine.
They tell the world—tell me—who I am, and thus, I am that product. ”
“But it’s so consistent that people think you’re an asshole. I don’t get it—how does your real personality not come out—assuming this guy in front of me is your real personality?”
“I’m not great at being ‘myself,’ in public—like you with your arms not feeling like part of you.
Years ago, my publicist created this regular-dude, boys-will-be-boys persona for me, and that’s still my default for interviews.
He’s the guy you can’t help liking, even if he comes across a little arrogant.
He’s flirty, he’s charismatic, he’s witty, so you forgive the rest. Charmed, in spite of yourself.
He doesn’t take anything seriously, this Griffin Hart product, especially not himself.
Doesn’t get sucked into deeper discussions, because that doesn’t end well.
Is that me? I suppose it’s a version of me, but how would I know? I am just another character I play.”
“Okay, so trust issues and existential issues. That’s a lot.”
“Lana, I’m boring as shit. I got into this business because I like pretending to be other people, and it’s the only thing I seem to be good at.
No one sees me, whoever that is. They see all these layers of engineered bullshit.
I look in the mirror, and even I don’t know what I’m seeing.
Well, I didn’t until I met you. You might have changed my life. ”
“What are you talking about?”
“It turns out I am an alien hermit, and maybe I shouldn’t fight that anymore. So thank you for that.”
Lana laughed, and he shouldn’t get as much of a kick out of that sound as he did.
There was so much normalcy in their conversations, amid the chaos.
And now they’d kissed, so whatever they had going on, it’d moved into a gray area.
“Oh, I don’t know. Vivien always says I use my introversion as an excuse to be an introvert. ”
“Come again?”
“You have to push yourself outside your comfort zone sometimes, right? It’s the only way to get over yourself.
Like, I know there are jobs I could do remotely so I’d never have to leave my apartment, but then …
I’d never leave my apartment. And that wouldn’t be healthy.
I don’t particularly like going out, but I do it because it’s good for me.
Like trivia night. It makes me anxious—the pressure, the noise, the peopling—but if I force myself to go once a week it makes me less anxious about doing other things. It’s practice at being human.”
He frowned. “Huh.” What was his trivia night—the thing that routinely pushed him outside his comfort zone? When was the last time he even stepped outside his comfort zone?