Chapter 2 – Braxton
CHAPTER TWO
brAXTON
"These are our real lives," I say somberly, making direct eye contact with the camera.
Talon, one of the junior producers for the show, stands behind it.
"And unfortunately, that means we don't get to hide anything.
" A mischievous grin settles on my lips.
"The good news is that you're about to get some great footage. "
Talon flips his wrist outward and yells, "Cut."
I groan, repositioning myself on the barstool as he approaches. "What now?"
"We've talked about this," he sighs with a patience reserved for a saint.
"What you just did was break the fourth wall.
The viewers obviously know they are watching a show, but when you mention anything related to production, it breaks the illusion.
" He points at me and smiles the kind of smile a teacher would give a young student—annoyed but hopeful that whatever he's saying will go in one ear and stay inside the brain instead of going right out the other.
"I love the energy, but we're going to redo it without breaking the fourth wall, okay? "
It's only been a few weeks of filming, but the confessional portion of the job is already grating on my last nerve.
It's easier to be natural when we're filming as a group because we have a long history with each other.
Here, it's just Talon and I having a conversation, but I'm not really having it with him.
I'm having it with the camera, a piece of fucking glass that somehow records my reflection while a low-paid intern holds a boom mic over my head.
My stomach growls just before the red light on the camera begins to flash.
"If Tamra thinks she can cheat on me with a Magic Mike wannabe from fucking Canada during her little girls' trip to Vegas, then she's absolutely right.
She can do that, and I can throw her ass out of our apartment.
" I shoot Talon a glare. "Is that better? "
He stops recording, cradles his hands over the top of the camera, and shrugs. "Much better, except that last bit, but it's easy enough to cut it out."
I'm sitting on the couch when I hear keys jangling on the other side of the door.
A foreign feeling of nervousness chews through my stomach.
Back in my college days, I was known around campus as the breakup king.
Girls came and went through a revolving merry-go-round of slamming doors.
Tears were shed. Voices were raised. Once, one of them threw a glass vase at my head, narrowly missing.
She stepped over the glass debris in her bare feet on her way out the door.
Breaking up with girls comes naturally to me. They come and they go, and there never seems to be a piece missing in my heart when they're gone. It's all too easy to move onto the next piece of ass.
This doesn't feel quite as easy as all the ones that came before.
That might have something to do with the bright, hot lights, the cameras, or the producers standing behind the cameramen.
Breaking up with someone is something you're supposed to do alone.
Letting it play out for the cameras feels like a violation, but to be fair, it's one Tamra has both earned and signed up for.
Tamra walks through the front door with a heavy sigh.
She turns and drops her keys in a bowl on a stand beside the door.
She's already mic'd up with a square-shaped bulge on her back, barely hidden by the thin white fabric of a tank top.
Either she was tipped off in advance that we would be filming, or production sandbagged her in the hallway and taped the mic to her.
She plays the part well, though. She doesn't even look at the cameras or the crew as she makes her way to the couch and sits next to me.
The smell of rose petals and cotton candy burns at my nostrils.
She's wearing a fresh—and heavy—spray as if she's trying to impress somebody, as if she believes the cameras will pick up the scent.
I wonder if she wore the same perfume when she fucked that man in Vegas.
My stomach twists sideways. A burp escapes my throat, which is a nervous tic that's well documented by all those who know me.
Tamra turns to meet me where I stare—straight at her. She squints her eyes. "You're being weird."
"Isn't that why you love me?" I scrub a hand through the hair on the back of my head. Absolutely not the words I should be saying when I'm about to break up with the broad.
She leans against me, a mischievous grin hitching across her lips. She taps me on the cheek playfully. "There are so many reasons." She lowers her hand to my thigh, her fingers dancing over my shorts and making their way to my crotch.
I respond with another burp.
She recoils with a grimace. "So damn attractive."
I shift my gaze to the cameras, staring straight into one of them.
Something feels as if it's about to explode from my esophagus, like the inverse of a water slide.
Instead of going down, it's about to come out.
I jump to my feet and wipe my brow. It's damp.
Nervous sweat? I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror hanging over the couch.
Shaggy hair with sun-kissed highlights and a beet-red face.
She stands up to join me at my side, concern written all over her face. The touch of her palm over my cheek feels like well-used sandpaper—grating—even though I know her hands are smooth as glass. "Are you having an allergic reaction?"
"Yeah," I whisper with a nod, all the while thinking to myself, be dramatic. Put on a show.I swallow a nervous lump in my throat. "I'm allergic to your bullshit."
Her eyes widen until they strain as she tries to quiet a guffaw.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of Talon smiling behind the cameraman. His approval is enough to steady my nerves.
"I'm being serious, Tamra. I'm done with the bullshit."
She shakes her head and huffs. "What the fuck are you talking about?"
I respond to her inquiry with a knowing smirk because I know it'll drive her mad. The silent treatment gives her the opportunity to sit with her guilt for a moment. I can see the wheels turning in her head like a hamster desperately trying to remain in control.
"You know, this is my fault." I tongue the inside of my cheek, thinking back to all the times she told me who she was, and I didn't believe her. "All the warning signs were there, but I love red flags."
"Is this about Vegas?" she scoffs. "Because nothing happened."
I wag my finger at her. "There was a whole lot of nothinghappening from what I heard."
She teems quietly before me, her eyes fixed on mine. "Who told you that?"
An amused chuckle slips free as I shove my hands into my pockets. "There were five people with you in Vegas. You're going to have a lot of free time to figure it out."
She grits her teeth, desperately trying to regurgitate a lie that's going to save her ass. "They're lying."
"Really?" I raise a brow. "Do photos lie? Does video? Your lips on his. Your naked body curled under the covers next to him."
"I..." She cocks her head to the side, wiping her lips with her palm. "I don't know what to say."
"Nothing," I seethe, pinching my fingers and drawing them sideways like I'm sealing a Ziploc bag. "We're done. See yourself out."
"Can I please talk to my boyfriend alone?" She pleads with Talon.
Talon shakes his head and coldly says, "We're rolling."
"Okay," she sneers, throwing her hands into the air. "Fuck this."
And then she's gone like all the others before her—with a slamming door behind her.
In the quiet that follows, I find myself standing frozen in place. The adrenaline simmers, and for the first time, I can feel my heart racing. There's a cloud where my thoughts should be.
"Good job," Talon says, patting me on the shoulder. "I know that wasn't easy."
"Thanks." I feign a forced smile because I should feel something other than relief. Something other than freedom. And then I laugh it off with a joke, "At least I won't be at risk of being fired like Luke and Paul."
But the truth is that it was easy. Too easy.
Tamra and I have been together for the better part of two years, which is by far my longest relationship.
I don't feel anything ending it. I don't feel sad.
I don't even feel betrayed. It all felt performative, as if I was acting for the cameras.
I feel this sense of relief that swelters in my gut and rises through my esophagus. It's easier to breathe.
We've been saying "I love you" for almost as long as we've been together, but they never felt like anything more than words we were supposed to say. Like you spend so much time with someone that you don't have a choice, like you're stuck in the fucking mud together. For better or worse.
"I need to do some shopping before the shoot tonight," I say, lying through my teeth.
That's something else I'm good at: lying.
I've been lying since I was old enough to talk, and it's become both a skill and a pastime.
Sometimes, I lie for the hell of it. It amuses me.
Small lies. Big lies. Never life-ruining lies, though. I don't think so, anyway.
"Try to be on time," Talon says with a smirk. "You'll find out pretty fast that the quickest way to make enemies with your friends and the crew is by consistently showing up late."
I wait for Talon and the small crew to pack up their gear and leave before heading out the door myself. They take the elevator while I take the stairs. It's a quick jog down three flights of steps before I'm knocking on my friend's door.
The door opens, and Dixon peeks between the cracks, his eyes shifting to the side. "Are you being followed?"
"I certainly hope so." I push the door open, sending him piling backward against the wall. "I just broke up with Tamra."
"It's about fucking time," he sneers. "That girl is awful."