Chapter 3
THREE
SHANE
The kitchen is now clean-ish, and I didn’t fall asleep facedown in hummus once, so that’s a win.
I still have to Skype my ex-wife and deal with the nanny situation, get in touch with my agent, get groceries, and maybe—maybe—I’ll have time for a grown-up shower and a nap before picking up the kids.
It’s around seven at night in Warsaw, so I might be able to catch Margo.
There was a time in my life, long ago, when I couldn’t wait to Skype with her if we were in different cities.
Right now I’m dreading it. We get along well, but she’s so predictable.
I always know exactly how our conversations are going to play out before I start talking to her.
It’s like that with most of the women I’ve dated, to be honest.
One thing I did not predict from Margo when we were dating—that she’d get pregnant.
We had just found out that our CW show Twice Bitten would not be renewed for a third season, and it was clear—in an unspoken way—that our relationship would end once the show did.
Then one day I was summoned to her trailer, found her sobbing, listened to her explain to me that she had made up her mind and I could be as involved or not involved as I wanted to be, but she would be having this baby.
Then I calmly explained to her that I would be as involved a father as legally possible. That meant marrying her.
Was I just trying to do the right thing?
Yeah. Were we in love with each other? No.
Were we both hoping that at some point maybe we’d both magically fall in love with each other after saying our vows and enduring the trials and tribulations of parenthood?
Probably. But we both hated the dating scene in LA, loved the idea of playing house, and to be honest…
we did not mind that being young married parents would help casting directors to see us as more than just teenage vampires.
Once the babies came, we grew the fuck up almost overnight and not much else mattered. We both fell head over heels in love with these little people we had created, but…it wasn’t enough to keep our marriage together.
We tried.
No breakup is easy when there are kids involved. There’s always guilt. But we really did always want what was best for everyone.
I think people have this idea of child actors growing up wild and spoiled rotten, completely out of touch with reality, in and out of rehab.
Obviously there are a few of those out there, but every single one I’ve known is extremely disciplined and maybe even a little hungrier for a stable life than most people—and protective of what we have once we’ve found some semblance of it.
Which is why my ex and I are on the same page when it comes to raising our kids with as much consistency as possible.
We didn’t get to have a normal childhood, so it’s more important than anything to both of us to give our kids as stable an upbringing as we can.
Not that there’s anything stable about the life of an actor.
Not that there’s anything even remotely sane about the lives of two actors who are co-parenting five-year-old twins.
But we try.
Even when Margo fell in love with a very wealthy producer, we tried “nesting” for a few weeks after deciding to end our marriage.
Margo tossed the words “conscious uncoupling” around like glittering Hollywood confetti.
I lived in the guest room of our former home in the Hollywood Hills, but every time Landon Gold came over when I was there, it was awkward as fuck.
A guy wants to be the king of his castle, and I needed my own castle, no matter how hard it was not seeing the twins every day when I was in town.
But it got easier, eventually. Summer and Lucky were two years old, so I don’t think they even remember what it was like before they split their time between us.
It was never a question that we’d have shared custody.
And the truth is, Landon is a good guy. He’s a much better match for Margo, he’s good enough with the kids, and he isn’t trying to replace me.
So all I’ve had to do was focus on getting my shit together and figure out how to deal with my ex-wife as a parent.
My shit is pretty together, aside from the fact that I’ll probably never sleep or have a significant relationship with a woman again for the rest of my life.
Here’s what I’ve figured out about how to deal with my ex-wife as a parent: I just have to pretend that I don’t think she’s an overly ambitious, mildly self-centered, phony boho-hippie flake, and remind myself that she’s a nice person, a good mother, and even a pretty good friend—in her own way.
But there always comes a point where I need to put my foot down, and this is one of those points. The foot’s coming down.
I find my laptop and try my luck at initiating a video call with Margo. She accepts the call after three rings. The camera of her phone is pointing up at a very high ceiling. I can hear giggling, rustling, and movement.
“I’m here! Hang on!…Owww! You stuck me with the pin that time.
” The phone moves, and when Margo’s hand pulls away, I see that she’s in the middle of a costume fitting.
“Hi. What’s up? We’re almost done here.” She’s wearing a Victorian-era dress and holding her arms up while getting poked with safety pins apparently.
Am I jealous that she’s doing a period film that started getting Oscar buzz before they even began shooting it?
A little. I’ll never get cast in a period film because I have what’s referred to as “a modern face and manner.” Whatever.
The Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences can suck my thoroughly modern balls.
“Do you have a minute? I need to talk to you about something.”
“What’s wrong?”
“They’re fine. I just need to talk to you.”
A middle-aged woman with measuring tape hanging around her neck comes into view for a second. “I’ll pop out for a bit,” she says. “Not to worry.”
Margo’s voice gets deeper as soon as she’s alone. The phone’s propped up against something, and she can barely move with a corset on, but she tries to lean in closer to the camera. “What’s going on? How are they? You look tired.”
“The kids are great.”
“Yeah? They’re doing okay without Paloma?”
“They’re doing just fine without Paloma. They sleep, they get up when they’re supposed to, one of them brushes his teeth all by himself while the other makes a fucking mess in the kitchen, and they magically get to class exactly on time.”
“You still aren’t sleeping?”
“Only from the hours of six thirty to seven thirty in the morning on school days, it turns out.”
“Did you try the valerian root tea?”
“It smells like sweaty socks.”
“You really need to try meditating again, and I mean, if you would just practice yoga even for ten minutes a day, it would change everything.”
“Really? Will it bring Paloma back? Will it change the location of your shoot from Poland to Vancouver, British Columbia? They have mountains there too, and it’s only a three-hour plane ride away.”
“No, but it would change your perspective and your response to these things, because that’s really the only issue here.”
“Is it, though? Is that the only issue?”
“We’ve been over this—it’s not like I love being on the other side of the world from my kids. There weren’t any neo-baroque castles in Vancouver, last time I checked. God, you’re grumpy. I’m going to look up which flower essences would be good for you.”
“Fantastic. While you’re doing that, I’m going to hire a temporary nanny to help me out until you get back.”
“Shane, no.”
“Margo, yes.”
“Did you talk to your housekeeper?”
“Consuelo has two grandkids to look after when she isn’t cleaning houses.”
“Can your mom come stay with you for a bit?”
I knew she’d ask that. My mother is a saint.
She lives in Sedona, Arizona with her boyfriend, but they’re currently driving across the East Coast in their Airstream.
When I was a kid, we lived in Flagstaff.
On the weekends, she’d drive me two and a half hours away to Scottsdale to meet with agents, audition for commercials, shoot commercials.
When I booked the Disney Channel show, she moved with me to Burbank while we shot the episodes, stayed with me during the hiatus when I starred in such stellar straight-to-dvd classics as Spaced Camp and The Santa Blahs.
She continued on with me in LA until I turned nineteen, after my ABC Family show was cancelled, and never blamed me for my dad’s affair with his secretary and the inevitable divorce that ensued.
So as much as I’d love to just call my mom up and whine that I could really use her help over here—I think she’s earned her road trip with a guy named Hank who’s seven years younger than her.
“She’s traveling for at least a month” is all that I say. “What about your parents?”
“They’re both in rehearsals for the Tom Stoppard play. On Broadway. You know that.”
“Which is why I’m going to have to hire someone.”
She tries to angrily cross her arms in front of her chest, but she can barely move them and just ends up in some stubborn Victorian lady Incredible Hulk pose. Do I laugh at her? Yes. Yes, I do.
“It has to be someone we both agree on. You promised.”
“It’s not like I’m going to drag someone in off the street. I’m gonna start making calls. I’ll keep you in the loop. Skype ya later when the kids are home.” I end the call before she can complain.
I’m about to kill two birds with one stone by calling my agent and asking if his wife can recommend someone, when Nico Todd’s annoyingly handsome smirky face shows up on my phone and I realize he’s calling me. “Yo.”
“You on your way?”
“On my way where?”
“To meet me for coffee.”
“Oh yeah.” Shit. I haven’t seen Nico in ages. Between us living on opposite ends of LA, me having kids, my shooting on location in Maine and him being on tour, we’ve only seen each other twice in the past few months. Which is crazy because he’s my best friend.
There goes my grown-up shower and nap.
“Yeah. Leaving now. Where am I meeting you?”
“You totally forgot, didn’t you?”
“Yeah, I’m having sleep issues and I’ve had a shit week. Listen, I need to buy groceries and I have to pick the kids up at three, so can we multi-task?”
“Doesn’t your nanny do that?”
“She did before she quit.”
“Can’t you just order online?”
“Yes, but I’d have to be at home to put the cold stuff away when it’s delivered—just meet me at Erewhon.”
“Which one?”
“On Beverly.” Nico and I always meet up midway between his place and mine because it takes a fucking year to get between the Palisades and downtown.
I know exactly what he’s thinking right now—there are always hot women at Erewhon.
Organic cold-pressed green juices plus overpriced superfoods and gluten-free donuts equals starlets in tight little tank tops and yoga pants. It’s basic LA math.
“Okay, but I’ve got my sister with me.”
“What?”
“My sister. She’s crashing with me.”
“Not willingly!” I hear her mutter in the background.
I get a surprising shiver up and down my spine. I remember Nico’s sister. Quirky. Adorable. So far, she’s still the only person who has ever kissed me on the back of my hand. She was so young, but how could I forget her? “Hey, Willow!”
“It’s Willa. We’ll be there in like twenty minutes.”
“Yeah, I’ll be there in half an hour.”
“Right. See you in forty-five minutes.”
“I’ll be there in half an hour.”
Forty-five minutes later, I’m walking into Erewhon and scanning the café area for Nico, but I catch sight of a world-class ass in a pair of tight faded jeans and I can’t seem to look away.
This girl is in the floral section, sniffing a bouquet of flowers and smiling like she’s being reunited with a long-lost love.
She is stunning. She is surprisingly gorgeous in the way that a sunset is gorgeous.
You just have to stop what you’re doing to marvel at the natural beauty and remember that it’s not your problems and To-Do lists that define you.
It’s the things that take your breath away and give your life back to you by nudging you off track.
Suddenly, I am not so tired.
Suddenly, I feel wide awake, all over.
She turns her head, as if she senses that she’s being stared at.
We lock eyes, and at first, her face lights up. She recognizes me. I’m a man again. There are enough hours in the day. I’m not going to die alone. Everything is going to be okay. I can have it all.
Then, her smile fades, her expression hardens.
And I recognize her.
Same dark hair, same olive skin tone, same golden-brown eyes, same full smirky mouth—as my best friend.
It’s Willa Todd.
The unfuckable sister.
A sunset that I can only catch glimpses of in passing, if I’m lucky.
Fuck.
Fuck this day.