It really is.
It’s just not the one I would have chosen for myself.
My own secret dreams involve treading boards that my heroes stood on and acting live in front of an audience, not being able to hide behind re-takes. But if I told people I’ve been longing to do Shakespeare on stage, they’d almost definitely laugh themselves sick.The cowboy’s kid doing Hamlet? What’s next, the Prince of Denmark and Laertes have a shootout at the OK Corral?
“You look like a man whose agent won’t return his calls,” comes a familiar voice to my left.
Fallon Montrose. Costume designer forCochise County, former stepmother, and one of the only people in the industry I like and trust without reservation. She’s radiant in black velvet andsilver cuffs, her perennial Yorkshire burr warm as she hands me a glass of amber liquid.
“Scotch?”
“Ginger ale. You don’t need alcohol, you’re already burnt out.”
“Rude,” I say, but it’s affectionate. Fallon always had radar for lost causes and quietly drowning souls. “I’m fine. Just being a spoiled jackass.”
She gives me a hard assessing look over. This woman knows me a lot better than my agent does. “You’ve been running on fumes since the desert shoot. You look knackered.”
My mouth quirks. “Occupational hazard.”
“No, love. That’s calledburnout. Different species entirely.”
She settles beside me, crossing her legs with that calm authority that used to make my father worship and fear her in equal measure. He still loves her, despite everything. He just couldn’t keep his dick in one place, and Fallon, bless her, is not a woman who tolerates disrespect. He’s still reeling from being told,No, I won’t accept that.No, I won’t make allowances just because you’re film industry royalty. Your behavior stinks, and I’m worth more.I’m immature enough to find his wounded shock satisfying. Maybe he’ll learn this time.
For a moment, I nearly tell her everything: the insomnia, the pressure, and how every time someone calls meMac Woodruff’s sonsomething inside me knots tighter. How, when the cameras shut off, I don’t know who I’m supposed to be anymore.
But then the director stands on a chair, slurring a meandering toast, and the moment dissolves under raucous cheers, applause, and clinking glasses.
Fallon sighs. “Three seasons of dust, sweat, and horses prettier than half the cast. Not bad, eh?”
“Not bad at all,” I agree listlessly, though it feels more like I’m praising someone else’s achievements.
She studies me again. “It’s not what you want, though, is it?” Damn, she’s astute.
I pause… then take the risk. “It is, and it isn’t. I’m proud of the show. Iam. But it always feels like I’m Mac: The Sequel. Like nobody sees me as anything but his son, destined to star in the projects he would’ve taken at my age andnothing else.” I sigh. “I know I’m a total nepo baby, and Iamgrateful for the foot in the door. It’s just that there’s a ball and chain that comes with it, and… I dunno, I guess I’m indulging in my own private pity party, rather than doing anything meaningful about it.” My mouth twists. “Complaining’swayeasier, after all.”
“You’re not complaining. You’re telling it like it is.” The squeeze of her hand on my forearm is sympathetic rather than dismissive, and she doesn’t take out the world’s tiniest violin, so for a few seconds I feel less like the most ungrateful shit in Hollywood. Like my feelings aren’t those of an overindulged brat, but may be, dare I say, valid. “You need a break,” she says, squeezing my arm. “Somewhere quiet.”
“Definequiet.”
“Mac’s cabin in Montana.”
I huff. “Dad’s hermit hut? At Christmas?”
Fallon snorts. “It’s not like the Woodruffs ever gather for the holidays. Half your siblings are on different continents. And your father’s probably grooming wife candidate number five.” Idon’t miss the archness in her tone, and she’s not wrong. I’m pretty sure he’s planning to propose to his latest co-star over the holidays, the one who plays his onscreen daughter’s best friend. The gross cliche is lost on him.
The idea sinks in, warm and tempting. Snow and silence. A roaring fire. Space to breathe, to re-evaluate, tothink for myself.
“Tempting,” I admit.
She nudges me gently. “You should go, love. Sleep. Read something that isn’t a script. Remember what your own voice sounds like. It’ll do you a power of good.”
I lean my shoulder into hers. “Feel free to come keep me company?”
Fallon snorts. “Bugger off. There’s only one bed, darling, and I’m not freezing my arse off in Montana. Besides, I’ve got Christmas with my sister in Leeds this year.”
“No Ally?”
I ask it too quickly, too easily for my liking. My stomach drops the way it always does. I haven’t seen Ally in years, a necessary and deliberate move on my part. Because she’s always been much too easy for me to love.
