2. Jameson
Jameson
Andy's face won't leave my head. That smile — the one that's not a smile, where her mouth does the right thing but the rest of her face forgets to play along. I know that smile. I've seen it before, usually when someone from the industry asks her what it's like being married to me.
I should have held my ground when Selena cornered me.
I told her I was going with my wife, and then I let her talk me out of it.
Should have taken Andy's hand and walked her to her car.
But the producers were right there, and you can't blow off the people funding your next three movies over a dinner Andy didn't even want to attend.
She hates these things — she's told me that. The small talk with executives who see her as an accessory, the cameras that follow us everywhere, the way people treat our marriage like entertainment. So really, I did her a favor by letting her skip it.
I promised her dinner tomorrow.
She'll love it. We'll sit across from each other without cameras or crews or people who want something from me, and I'll remind her why she fell for a broke handyman who used to practice monologues in our bathroom mirror at two in the morning.
The guilt sits in my chest for exactly thirty seconds before I file it under handled and turn my attention back to the dinner table.
The restaurant is the kind of place that would have intimidated me five years ago — white tablecloths, waiters who appear the second your water glass drops below half full, wine that costs more than I used to make in a week.
Now I sit here cutting the same piece of steak into smaller and smaller squares while Vinny angles his phone toward me and Selena for the hundredth photo of the night.
"The chemistry between you two is going to sell this film," Vinny says, flash going off across the table. He's always angling, always capturing. Every conversation is a photo opportunity, every moment a chance to build the brand.
I push asparagus around my plate and check my phone under the table. No texts from Andy. Good.
If something were really wrong, she'd say something. That's how we work — she tells me when something's off, and I fix it. The fact that she hasn't texted means she went home, probably heated up the leftover Thai food from yesterday, and she's fine.
Selena holds out her fork, loaded with chocolate cheesecake. "You have to try this."
I open my mouth without thinking, the way you'd take a sample from a waiter.
The dessert is rich, probably expensive, but I barely taste it.
My mind keeps drifting to Andy, wondering if she's eating dinner alone at our kitchen island, reading one of those romance novels she devours and then summarizes for me like she's pitching the next Oscar winner.
"So good, right?" Selena laughs and lets her head rest against my shoulder for a second. Actors are physical. We hug, we touch, we exist in each other's space without thinking about it. It's part of the job.
The producer's wife asks about our next projects, and Selena launches into an explanation of her upcoming indie film while showing me something on her phone.
Her hair brushes my arm as she leans in, face inches from mine, talking about followers and engagement rates and how many views the behind-the-scenes content is getting.
I nod and look away. I don't care about any of it.
"The footage from today's wrap is already trending," Vinny adds, typing on his phone while cutting his steak. "Chemistry sells."
Selena's hand lands on my arm as she makes a point to the producer about authenticity in romantic roles. Her touch is casual, repeated, the kind of unconscious contact that happens when people are comfortable around each other. I shift in my seat and take another bite I don't taste.
This used to be my dream — sitting at tables like this with people who could greenlight my next movie, my face on magazine covers, my name above the title. I wanted this so badly I used to work construction during the day and wait tables at night just to afford headshots.
But now I'm here, and all I want is to go home to my wife.
Wanting to go home and going home are different things, though.
I stay because leaving means consequences.
Consequences mean risking the machine that pays for our mortgage, and that mortgage is Andy's security.
I promised her she'd never have to worry about money again, never have to choose between paying rent and buying groceries like we did in that studio apartment where the heat only worked when you kicked the radiator.
I keep my mouth shut when Vinny takes another photo because Vinny keeps the machine running.
I sit through dinners I don't want to attend so my wife can live in a house with five bedrooms and a kitchen that looks like something out of a magazine.
I eat steak I don't taste and shake hands I don't care about because this is what providing looks like in this business.
Andy knows that. She married me knowing that.
Across the table, Jacob sits at his usual spot at the far end, officially here as my security but really just watching everything with that flat expression I've been getting from him since we were sixteen.
He's barely touched his food.
I catch his eye and he looks away, jaw tight.
"We should do this more often," Selena says, leaning back in her chair. "Celebrate the wrap properly. I'm already missing being on set with everyone."
The shoot is done. Wrapped. No more early call times, no more sixteen-hour days, no more kissing scenes. For the first time in months, my schedule is my own until promos start. I should feel relieved, but all I feel is restless, like I'm sitting in the wrong place doing the wrong thing.
"The film's going to be incredible," the producer says, raising his glass. "To the cast and crew who made it happen."
Everyone toasts. I lift my glass and drink wine that tastes like nothing while Vinny captures the moment from three different angles. Selena's shoulder presses against mine as she laughs at something the producer's wife says, and I find myself counting minutes until I can leave.
Andy used to come to these things with me, back when we were first married and everything felt like an adventure.
She'd sit beside me and turn industry small talk into something that made me laugh, asking producers about their kids instead of their box office numbers, making the kind of genuine connections that reminded me why I fell in love with her wit in the first place.
But then Vinny started giving her lists of things she couldn't say, couldn't wear, couldn't do in public, and these dinners became performances instead of conversations.
She told me she hated them. She said it made her feel like she was being graded on how well she could pretend to be someone else.
So really, tonight worked out better for both of us.
She gets to stay home and read her books, and I get through another obligation without worrying about whether she's comfortable.
My phone buzzes. I check it hoping it's Andy, but it's just a text from my publicist about tomorrow's schedule. Still nothing from my wife. Still fine.
"I need to use the restroom," I say, pushing back from the table.
The hallway outside the restrooms is quieter, away from the noise of conversation and the constant click of Vinny's camera. I splash cold water on my face and stare at myself in the mirror.
I step out of the restroom and find Jacob leaning against the wall, arms crossed, wearing the same disapproving look he's been giving me all night.
"Is there something you want to say?"
Jacob doesn't move. He's been my best friend since high school, when we built sets together in the drama department and ran lines after school until the janitor kicked us out.
He was the first person I introduced Andy to when we started dating, and he showed up to our wedding with cheap champagne and a speech that made her cry laughing.
"Go home to your wife."
The words hit me wrong, like criticism I didn't ask for. "Don't start."
"Not starting anything. Just telling you where you should be right now, and it's not here."
I want to argue. Want to explain that Jacob doesn't understand the full picture, that there are obligations and consequences and a whole machine that depends on me showing up and playing the part. But the excuses feel worn, like I've recited them too many times, so I push past him instead.
"This isn't your business, Jacob."
He doesn't follow me, and I don't look back.
At the table, the conversation flows around me, and I participate just enough to avoid drawing attention.
Jacob doesn't say another word when he sits back down, but his silence feels heavier than his advice. He doesn't understand that I can't just walk away from dinners like this. It's not that simple.
The dinner finally, mercifully, comes to an end. Handshakes and promises to stay in touch that we all know are industry pleasantries. Vinny pockets his phone with the satisfied look of someone who got enough content to last a week. The producer and his wife disappear into their car.
"Walk me to my car?" Selena asks.
I should say no. Should make an excuse and head straight to my own car, straight home to my wife who's been waiting all evening. But agreeing is easier than refusing, and I'm too tired to manufacture a reason that won't sound rude.
The parking lot is quiet except for the distant hum of traffic and the click of Selena's heels on asphalt. We walk past rows of expensive cars belonging to people who can afford to eat at restaurants like this without checking their bank accounts first.
Near her car, I hear a sharp click from somewhere behind us. I turn and scan the lot — nothing but parked cars and the gate settling in the evening breeze. Exhaustion making me jumpy, probably. I've been hearing cameras everywhere lately.
"Thank you," Selena says, turning to face me. "For everything. You've been amazing to work with."
Before I can say goodnight, she launches herself forward. Arms around me, face buried against my neck, holding on like we're saying goodbye forever instead of wrapping a three-month shoot. I stand there with my arms at my sides, stiff and uncomfortable, counting the seconds until she lets go.
One. Two. Three.
She pulls back with a smile that's too bright for the parking lot lighting and gets into her car. The engine starts, headlights sweep across the asphalt, and then she's gone, leaving me standing alone wondering what that was about.
Three months of working closely together, and now it's over. I get it. Whatever.
I'm too tired to think about it anymore. I just want to go home.
The drive passes in a blur of empty streets and late-night radio, my mind already shifting to tomorrow — the look on Andy's face when I take her somewhere that's just ours.
Maybe after dinner, I'll suggest she take a trip back home to visit her parents. The shoot is wrapped, so she has the time, and she always comes back from Copper Falls refreshed and happy.
Her mom would love to see her, and Andy could use some time around people who care about her, away from LA and all the noise that comes with my career.
The promos for the film start in a few months.
I'll get through those — a couple of weeks of interviews and appearances and photo shoots — and then after that, I'll take her somewhere.
Just the two of us. No phones, no scripts, no people who need things from me.
Somewhere we can remember who we are when the cameras aren't rolling.
I can see it clearly — the plan, the sequence, the way everything will fall into place once I get through the next few obligations.
The house is dark when I pull into the driveway, except for the hallway light on its timer. Even the house knows I'm coming home late.
There's a plate in the refrigerator with a sticky note in her messy handwriting — the y's too long like always, the words slanted across the paper like she was in a hurry. "Leftover pad thai. Microwave 90 seconds. Don't burn the house down."
I stare at her handwriting longer than I should, at the little smiley face she drew after the warning.
Upstairs, Andy is asleep in our bed, curled on her side with one hand tucked under her cheek. Her hair is a mess, falling across the pillow in waves that catch the light from the hallway.
She looks small, knees drawn up, shoulders turned in like she's trying to take up as little space as possible. Maybe she's cold, or just tired from a long day of waiting for me to come home.
She is the most beautiful woman I've ever seen.
Not as some revelation that hits me in moments like this — it's a constant, the truest thing I know.
Someone once asked me what it's like starring alongside Hollywood's most beautiful women, and I didn't know how to answer because I've only ever had eyes for Andy.
I watch her sleep and plan tomorrow in my head.
After dinner, I'll bring up the trip to see her parents.
She hasn't been back to Copper Falls in months, and I know she misses it.
Her mom keeps sending care packages with local coffee and homemade cookies, and Andy always gets this soft look when she opens them, like she's remembering something good from before all of this got complicated.
The plan feels solid, manageable.
Tonight, I'll let things be. Tomorrow, everything changes.