“No, I’ll go with him!” Greta protested, mud and tears staining her cheeks.
“He doesn’t want to talk to you,” PB said curtly before offering me a more sympathetic glance. “Either of you.”
“Me?!” I felt as if I’d been punched now. “What did I do?”
“He’s just ashamed. Understandably.”
“Zara also wondered if you’d show the PAs which stuff is his, Luke? Legal said he’s not allowed back in the house,” Erika added hesitantly, a new camera materializing to capture me from a wider angle, the better to commemorate my mortification in full frame.
“Like hell I’m packing his bags! He won’t even dignify me with a goodbye.”
Zara’s car drove past, and I caught his sunken face through the window.
“Yeah, run away, you coward!” I yelled, more hurt than I’d ever admit, knowing he could hear me and not caring who else did. PB intervened, flinging his middle fingers in front of my face to ruin the footage on my behalf, but I swiped his hands away. “Fucking immature child!” I shouted after the car.
“Luke, it’s over,” Imogen said wearily, Greta’s sobs as underscore. “Let it be over.”
Despite my pride, the pitiful sight of Erika and two production assistants awkwardly sifting through Shawn’s laundry was enough to make me help, stuffing his bag with sneakers, tank tops, and the bent sunglasses Greta damaged in Italy. That operatic night in Cortona felt like years prior, when our most immediate concern had been an idiotic prank.
As I folded his clothes, I fantasized that I’d met Shawn elsewhere, in some other life. Maybe I’d be finishing my PhD in the English department of some respectable New England college. I’d leave a campus café, grabbing coffee before my seminar on Homoeroticism in 20th Century Fiction (why not?), and we’d collide at the door, books tumbling to the frosty ground. Snow crenellating along his toboggan, he’d hand meThe Mysteries of Pittsburghwhile I retrieved his copy ofMiss Julieand I’d ask what had him reading August Strindberg. He’d tell me he was an actor in the MFA program, where the play was going up that weekend. He’d invite me, and he’d be magnificent. Over drinks afterward, I’d recount the banal saga of my youth, how I thought I’d be a pro football player and even been offered a reality show. Except I’d said no. He’d then confess he’d almost auditioned for one but feared it would jeopardize his acting career, so he’d said no too. There we’d be, two people who said no. And then I felt guilty and stupid for even briefly imagining a life without my kids alongside a man who didn’t exist but who looked identical to a liar I’d barely known a month.
Troy arrived by taxi right as Imogen shepherded Greta into the kitchen for tea. She’d yet to change out of her filthy clothes, staring catatonicallyas Troy gathered us. “Barnes is fine,” he announced. “Nothing broken and cleared to compete. He’s just waiting on some prescriptions with Fortune. Shawn, however, has obviously been removed due to our policy on violence.”
“Physicalviolence,” PB corrected sourly. “Sorry,unsanctionedphysical violence.”
“Not to ask the tacky question, but will this affect the next Trial?” Erika asked.
“Zara and I need to confer, but right now the bigger priority is fixing some narrative holes for the edit, since Shawn’s refusing to do a final confessional.” Troy’s tone implied that of all Shawn’s missteps, this was the most profligate. “We need everybody’s fresh reactions to tell the story. Greta, can you give some play-by-play first?”
We all just gaped at him. “You want to film confessionalsnow?” Imogen glared.
“I… I can’t talk about it today,” Greta stammered. “Plus, I look like a sasquatch.”
“No, you look perfect, exactly the hot take we want—”
“Fuck the condescension, Troy. She doesn’t want to talk. None of us do,” PB snapped.
Troy’s lips pursed, his voice losing its normal pluck. “You all signed contracts that outline fines for impeding filming, and I’ve beenmorethan generous not enforcing those penalties.” He methodically eyed us, one by one. “Until now.”
“You’re threatening us?” I asked, my own temper fraying fast.
“I’m stating facts, and I doubt anybody wants a six-figure fine that would get you banned from this show.” He stared pointedly at Greta. “Or any show.”
Before we could protest, Greta brushed back her crusty bangs. “Okay. You’re the boss.”
“Andthat’swhy you’re a professional.” He gestured for Greta to follow, but I nonetheless stopped her at the door, my concern clearly radiating.
She rolled her eyes. “Stop looking at me like I’m unexploded ammunition. I won’t ruin Shawn’s life any more than I already have. Hell, I’ll probably buy him another five seasons.”
“You really think you’re the best person to do that for him?”
“I’m the only one who can,” she answered emptily. “I’m the professional.”
Troy was still interrogating Greta in the confessional when Zara and Melange returned. I remained at the kitchen island, ostensibly next in line for the executioner, but Melange offered me a reprieve. “Spare yourself. I bought elf ears and a dozen rings at the airport, so I might as well get my Tolkien on while I can,” she sighed.
As she left, Zara grabbed a Diet Coke from the fridge and sat beside me. “Quite a day.”
“I’ve seen better.”
