One More Time Read online

  I shouldn’t be crushed. I know exactly how this business works. I was once the sixteen-year-old that pushed all the other “supers” off the covers of the glossies. I know about the limited shelf-life of a career in this industry. I know. So why do I have this sick feeling over it?

  I guess there’s a difference in knowing “the end is near”, versus “the end already happened and no one bothered to tell you.” I just thought I had more time.

  A little bit more, anyway.

  Acting has been my passion for so long, though I’m well aware it’s not the typical path for ex-models. Some launch cosmetics lines. Others get involved in fashion design or become judges on reality shows. A few shift to being magazine columnists. The majority scout and coach fresh new faces. Only a few lucky ones make the move into acting. The ones who transition earlier have the best chance.

  I regret the jobs I turned down when I was younger now like eating before a bikini shoot. When I was with Tanner, I had frequent opportunities that I didn’t take advantage of for one reason or another. I suppose I took it for granted that those parts would come just as easily later on.

  Now, thanks to TMI, it seems the whole world knows I’m up the second-career creek without a paddle.

  Without acting, I have no fallback. I have a GED, earned backstage at international Fashion Weeks, but no college education. I have no contacts anywhere but with my agency, and the various casting directors who have promised to keep my headshot on file. I know full well that file is a blackhole. And no way am I moving back to Jersey.

  Without acting, my future is a blank space.

  And I don’t just mean because I have no other job prospects. I have no other life prospects. I don’t have a boyfriend-that-could-turn-husband-one-day. I don’t have a volunteer-gig-that-could-turn-into-a-passion-project. I don’t have a pet. I don’t even have a plant. There’s a great big hole of uncertainty waiting for me in the not-so-distant future and that void does nothing to heal the still gaping hole inside me from the past.

  I’m alone and lonely, and I can’t even say I sacrificed love for an amazing career, because my career at the moment is a resume of boob parts and used-to-be-spokeswoman roles. No one would sacrifice shit for that resume.

  I’m over and done.

  But I don’t have to be...

  My mood has gone from “relax and forget” to “screw this and everyone” so fast it has whiplash.

  I step out of the bathtub and slip into my robe without even wiping the lavender-scented bubbles off my soaking wet body. I stomp into the kitchen, open the freezer and grab the ice-cold bottle of vodka I keep on reserve for moments just like this one. I close my eyes and take a giant swig.

  That one’s for bravery. Once I’m sure it’ll stay down, I take another, this one to numb the pain of what I’m about to do. Then I dial Carrie Bonnaview’s cell.

  “Please tell me you’ve come to your senses,” she says without so much as a hello.

  “I want to be very clear that this is going to be a strictly professional situation,” I say. “I will go to work. I will act as Tanner’s love interest. I will go home. No rumor mills buzzing about our reunion. No happy, lovey press shoots. This will be a j-o-b job.”

  “Is that a yes?”

  “Yes?” I say. Then I say it again without the question in my tone. “Yes. It’s a yes.”

  I hear Carrie jumping up and down in her living room. I roll my eyes, but I know she’s right to be excited. I should be, too. This is the break we’ve been waiting for years to materialize. This will be the thing to change my life. Then why does my stomach suddenly feel like it’s tied up in knots?

  I bite my lip hard to keep the tears from welling up again as Carrie rattles off congratulations and a list of what happens next. I know I’ve made the right decision. It’s the only decision if I want my future to be better than what currently seems possible.

  I just wish a better future didn’t depend so completely on the man who destroyed me in the past.

  Tanner

  “All right, Tanner. We’re going to need a few more minutes to re-light before we get the last take here. You can hold out another fifteen minutes before lunch, right?”

  If I had a dime for every time I got asked that question, I could open my own movie studio. It’s not even a question, really. It’s framed like a question to make me feel like I have a choice in the matter. To put me at ease. Really, it’s a not so subtle reminder that if I fuck off to my trailer, people will remember.

  Hurry up and wait.

  Ask anyone in the film biz and they’ll tell you, that’s the phrase that defines set life, if not an actor’s entire life. I spend more time waiting around than I do on camera. What do I really get paid millions of dollars for? Sitting patiently.

  It’s day one, shot one, and we’ve spent the past thirty-five minutes trying to decide if my character should arrive at this fake post office with the sun at his face or his back. The lighting guys are consulting with the camera operators who are talking to the director. It’s a first day conversation. Everyone wants everything just right. There’s a nervous energy on set. People are tiptoeing around me, making sure I’m as happy as possible at every single moment.

  Except, of course, with no option of being happy in my trailer.

  I get it. Doesn’t mean I have to like it. But I put up with it because, even after more than sixteen years in the business, I’m still as in love with this insane industry as I was as a wide-eyed fifteen-year-old full of fake confidence on the set of my very first movie back home in Sydney. Oh man, did I prep for that role. I was Teen Football Player Number Two. I had seven lines across two scenes. I spent all summer lifting in the gym and running dialogue with an acting coach to prepare.

  I smile to myself thinking about how I’ve been working out and meeting with a coach the past few months in prep for this movie, too. Of course, I get paid a lot more to do it these days, an amount that a fifteen year-old me wouldn’t have been able to fathom. But money is not my incentive for wanting to be perfect for this role.

  “Okay, we’re ready. We’re going to roll it one more time,” my director Polly calls out from her spot in Video Village.

  Polly is one of the good ones, and I’m lucky to have her running the show. She started directing almost as young as I started acting, working her way up from short films shot in her parents’ Ohio backyard to a booming career making tent-pole romantic comedies for all the major studios. I respect her hard work, and I appreciate her go-with-the-flow attitude.

  She couldn’t also care less about the fact that I’m famous. She’s made no secret of the fact that she’s here to build up women, not men. She doesn’t put up with my shit. She doesn’t kiss my ass.

  I’ll admit my ego doesn’t always love these facts, but she keeps me on my toes, and my name wouldn’t be on the project as a silent producer if I didn’t think she was the right choice.

  “Are you cool if I riff on the line a little?” I facetiously ask Polly as she settles into her director chair.

  “Perhaps…but the line is ‘thank you.’ Where exactly are you thinking of taking it?”

  “I’ve been workshopping a few options. Thanks. TY. Danke. Spank you.”

  Polly laughs. So far everything I’ve heard about working with her has been true. She’s honest, she’s to the point and she’s all about doing whatever it takes to make her actors comfortable.

  She’s also well aware that the two actors she’s working with on this particular project may need a little time to get comfortable--although she’s not very likely to worry about my comfort as much as my co-star’s.

  Anyone who knows our history would feel the same.

  I had a weird pang of nervousness when the call sheet got e-mailed out last night. Smack dab on the top under REASON TO LOVE was a name I never expected to see beside mine on this kind of document: Jenna Stahl. It didn’t feel real until I saw it in black-and-white, although in some ways, nothing had ever been more real.
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  Once upon a time, Jenna was my reason to love.

  How quickly that once upon a time ended.

  I immediately scrolled down the call sheet to see if we would be shooting together today, and I’d be lying if I said that I wasn’t just a little disappointed to see that we were not. In fact, I haven’t even bumped into her on set yet.

  But that’s about to change.

  This morning we’re shooting the post office scene that only features my character, Bobby. This afternoon they’re shooting her at her character Grace’s house. But from the looks of the schedule our paths will cross right around lunchtime at the craft services tent.

  It’s time for an “accidental” meeting.

  Yes, I’m that mature. But, to be fair, I kind of feel like she’s put me in this position.

  Six months ago, when Jenna signed on to this project, I’d proposed the idea of us getting together for a coffee or something—anything—to talk over our past or the movie or just to break the ice. Whatever she wanted.

  My agent talked to her agent talked to Jenna talked to my agent talked to me. It’s like that Taylor Swift song, complete with informing me that Jenna had no interest. Zip. Nada. Not even in discussing the movie.

  It’s been ten years—you’d think hearing that she doesn’t want to see me would have stopped hurting by now. But Jenna’s a wound that won’t heal.

  Maybe all first loves are. Still, I have a feeling Jenna’s especially hard to get over.

  I blame that on her too. She hates confrontation so much, she acts like she’s allergic to it. For as long as I knew her, she would tie herself into the most complicated knots to avoid it. I’m sure it’s why she never wanted to meet face-to-face before the shoot, but it’s also why I haven’t had closure after all these years. I’d thought when she agreed to the movie deal that it must mean that she was finally ready to talk. Ready to listen.

  But maybe it just means she’s moved on.

  Well, good for her. She’s lucky she could. That makes one of us at least.

  And she—or maybe her agent—made the choice to keep us apart until we absolutely had to meet. Was that smart? I don’t know. Perhaps. The last thing either of us needs is to mess up Polly’s movie with our personal baggage. What if we’d met and fought? Or worse, met and realized that we no longer have an ounce of chemistry, and we were still obliged to fake it for the screen?

  But our personal baggage is what the world wants to see. It’s the story they’re paying for, not the one we’re filming.

  And I can’t imagine a world where Tanner James and Jenna Stahl don’t create fireworks on sight.

  And those extra months without meeting did give me the chance to hit the gym. I’ve gone from muscular to ripped in some kind of attempt to either impress her, or hide my nervousness under layers of biceps. I guess in some ways I’m still that same fifteen-year-old over-prepping for the role. Only on this set, I’m also playing a second role: Jenna Stahl’s ex.

  It’s the one I’ve been playing for ten years. It’s the hardest role I’ve ever played, a role I never deserved to play, though try telling that to anyone else. No one blames her for casting me in it.

  I’ve run this interaction over and over again in my mind, perhaps more so than my actual lines. I’ve decided I’m going to play it calm and cool, but genuine. As though it’s only been a short time since I’ve seen her, as though so much between us hasn’t remained unsaid. I can’t scare her off now that I’m this close.

  First, I need to pull her aside, into a quiet corner. This requires no audience, not even a single girl from Makeup eavesdropping while looking for the vinaigrette. First, I’ll compliment her about something to break the tension.

  That shouldn’t be hard. Jenna has always been the most beautiful girl on earth.

  With any luck, that will disarm her, lead her into a conversation. I have this dumb idea that if I can just be near her long enough, I can remind her of how things were. How we were. Before everything.

  Hey Jenna. Nice to see you. Your hair looks great like that.

  She’ll politely repay the nicety – Jenna is nothing if not polite - and then right after that I’m going to launch into my proposition. This situation is awkward, but I’m excited about seeing her again. I’ll say something like, Let’s have dinner. I think it could help us get our footing, especially with our characters. There are some things we never got to talk through.

  Just thinking about seeing her makes me so nervous my palms start to sweat. It’s a wonder I can concentrate on my lines.

  “Alright. I think we’ve got it!” Polly yells out. “Congrats on not messing up your very first scene, Sir James.”

  “Oh shit,” I call back, “Was I supposed to be wearing pants this whole time?”

  “Very funny.”

  And there’s my first scene, officially wrapped. But the real work is still ahead of me.

  I don’t even change out of wardrobe before starting the walk over from the post office set to where craft services is set up around the corner. I want to make sure I get to Jenna before everyone starts lining up for food. But then I see all the groups of people gathering and chatting, and I realize my whole plan is about to be a bust.

  There is no quiet space to say hello. Cameramen are yelling to grips that are throwing foil-wrapped tacos over the heads of production assistants. It’s a rowdy first-day food fest, and now I have to pull off an awkward interaction in plain view of a hundred people who are fully aware of my past – our past. I need a plan B, quick.

  Or a miracle.

  I’m standing just outside the large tent where food is served trying to come up with a fast fix when I see someone turn the corner from where the trailers are parked and throw a beaming smile right in my direction. It honestly takes me a second to recognize her. I knew she was a knockout. I’ve followed her modeling career. Watched her grow up in front of the camera.

  Just—I didn’t expect her to look so happy.

  I look behind me, there must be someone else she’s throwing these sunbeams at, but no. It’s me. And all the warmth of a summer day surrounds me at the sight of her walking toward me. Her dark hair is long, spilling past her shoulders in waves. Her creamy skin is translucent, her blue eyes bright. My cock jumps in my pants as she brushes a curl back, exposing that swan-like neck I used to love kissing.

  She’s got a look in her eyes that I swear I’ve seen before – the night I met her.

  I was at a JD Hawkins party at the old Spanish mansion he was renting off Mulholland. The pool was jam packed with famous faces and new stars. I was a nineteen-year-old hotshot, not looking for anything but a good time. If the chick in the pink bikini gave me the eye again, I was going to offer her one too.

  But when I locked eyes with Jenna across the pool, all that went out the window. She looked at me with an intensity that no one ever has again. It’s the same intensity I see in her eyes this very moment.

  Shit.

  All of my anxiety about this hello might be for nothing. Am I really the only one of us who is carrying any baggage from our past?

  “Tanner,” Jenna says as she finally reaches me. “Nice to see you.”

  “Yeah. Wow. Hi. How are -” I’m caught off-guard, but I know my lines.

  Before I can get to them, though, she takes over.

  “I’m great. Listen. We’re both adults, and I’m looking forward to getting this job done as professionally as possible. We’ll stick to the script. We’ll interact when we have to. I’ll respect your personal space, and I’m hoping you’re capable of the same. What’s done is done, and I frankly have no interest in rehashing any of it for the benefit of other people. So I’d rather not exchange numbers or spend time reminiscing about the past. We’re here to do a job. And that’s that. Are we good? Good.” Her lips find their way into another radiant smile.

  I’m still trying to process the speech she just delivered when she holds out her hand. In fact, I’m so thrown that I don’t even realize that
she’s reaching out for a handshake. A handshake! Like we’re some kind of former business partners that had a deal go wrong. Like she didn’t spend three years waking up naked in my bed. Like we didn’t have a freaking celebrity gossip pet name.

  I hated that dumb name, but right now what I hate more is the fact that the J-A part of it doesn’t seem to remember that it ever existed. I want to remind her, I want to tell her that I’m not okay with this, that I’m anything but good, but--

  Once again, Jenna walks away from me, trailing orange blossom scent behind her.

  I don’t know how long I stand here, staring after her, before a PA holding a taco comes by and asks if I’m okay.

  “Fuck!” I yell. Immediately, I feel bad for startling him; his food is on the ground and he’s unable to make eye contact. I want to say, No dude, I am not okay. I just met a total stranger that I used to know as well as my own heart. I want to say, I haven’t been okay in ten years. I just want a chance to say I’m sorry, but the person that I need to apologize to won’t stop and listen.

  I run a hand through my hair and try to gather my shit.

  “Look, bloke, I’m sorry,” I say to the poor PA who’s still standing there, his mouth open wide as he stares at me. “I’m hangry. I took it out on you. I’d love a taco.” I don’t fucking want a taco. But he seems happy to be able to help, and at least he’s not staring at me anymore.

  I take a deep breath in and then let it out slowly.

  It takes a lot to shock me, but Jenna just accomplished the task. I can’t remember ever seeing her so certain and strong. And it honestly didn’t even sound like she rehearsed that little speech. She just waltzed right up to me and let it all go. Apparently a person can fundamentally change. I don’t know whether Jenna Stahl went to a therapist or a witch doctor, but someone turned her into a completely different person.

  Maybe it’s a sign that everything I did back then—or didn’t do, rather—was the right thing after all.

  Unfortunately for me, the only thing changed is her personality. Because the rest of her is even more drop-dead gorgeous than she was the day I met her at that pool. And I’m ready to follow her into the deep end all over again.