Chapter 50
Ava
“That’s a wrap, folks,” Jay says.
I know it was asking a lot to cut production short.
But if Princess Luna can’t call in a favor once in a blue moon, what’s the point?
Jay isn’t just a director. He was my first real acting coach. The one who taught me how to stop performing and start listening.
How to find the truth on camera and stay there, even when it was uncomfortable.
Somewhere along the way, he became family. A second dad.
Which means, he knows this wasn’t a casual ask.
It’s been three weeks. Three weeks since I’ve played zombies with Connor. Since Ollie tried to convince me the Hulk could beat anyone if he was angry enough. And three weeks since I read my sweet little Snooki the same bedtime story twice just so she could have some extra time with me.
It’s also been three weeks since Harrison Evans warned me not to say the word divorce to reporters.
Which was the last time I heard his voice.
The kids call all the time. Too much, maybe. Or not enough. It’s hard to tell when every call leaves me feeling both fuller and emptier at the same time.
And as much as I hated asking production for a break, if I don’t call them now, they’ll already be asleep.
The three-hour time difference is brutal. But it's all I have, so I take it.
I walk over to Jay. “Thanks for calling it short today. I owe you.”
“Anything for Princess Luna.” He wraps an arm around me as he walks me out. “How are you doing, kiddo?”
“I’m fine,” I lie.
He hums, unconvinced. “Myra making you bat shit with all the appearances?”
“Ugh. She’s trying.” I roll my eyes. “She’s also pushing to get Pierce and me on set at the same time. I owe you for running interference on that.”
“I’m afraid it won’t be for much longer. The two of you will be on set,” he says, checking his iPad, “starting next week. Through April.”
My heart sinks. I was really hoping to get back to New York.
“Are we really filming for that long?”
“We have to.” He slides the iPad under his arm. “International translation will be waiting on us.”
He leans in and kisses my cheek. “Welcome to the big leagues, kid.”
I force a smile.
He’s about to head off when he turns back. “Are you going to see that family of yours from New York?” he asks. “Are they coming in for Christmas Eve?”
Sadness floods me.
Mark and Jess host an enormous Christmas get-together every year. Family. Friends. Fire pits and s’mores. A visit from Mr. and Mrs. Claus and reindeer. Actual freaking reindeer.
I can’t compete with that.
“No,” I say. “They can’t get away.”
He nods, already understanding more than he lets on. “Why don’t you come over? Elise is cooking up a storm.”
I’ve had so many offers this week.
People who want the Princess Luna actress.
People who want to keep an eye on me, like Myra.
People who would give their right arm for a girls’ sleepover full of man-hater movies and bad wine, like Kali.
I could do the Hollywood thing, going from party to party to party. Barely coming up for air.
But the truth is, I’m too hollowed out to do much of anything.
“I’ve got plans,” I reply.
By myself.
“Give Elise my love,” I add.
“Will do.”
I wave as he shuffles off.
I try to focus on something happier. The kids.
It would be more comfortable calling from the ocean views of my rental, but the traffic on the 405 is always hell, and I’ve missed bedtime before. At this hour, it's gridlock anyway.
Besides, the kids like to FaceTime.
And I can’t FaceTime while I’m driving.
The time difference is just one more thing for me to hate.
Why couldn’t they be in California and me in New York? It would be simpler that way with the time difference.
Or we could all be in California.
Or we could all be in New York.
I make my way to my trailer, and my stomach drops.
Did I forget to lock it?
No, I never forget.
I glance around the lot. It’s Christmas Eve, and almost no one’s here.
Except me.
And wouldn’t it be nice if I weren’t here?
With a sigh, I step inside.
This trailer’s bigger than the last one. A small sitting area with a sofa that’s never quite broken in. A table cluttered with script changes I should be reviewing. A vanity I don’t need. And a bathroom that’s basically a very clean porta-potty with better lighting.
I pull the door shut behind me.
It clicks closed.
Then I hear it.
A sound from the bathroom.
Water, maybe.
My chest gives a sharp, traitorous flutter.
“Who’s there?” I call out.
And with the smallest, stupidest flicker of hope, I say, “Harrison?”